had a President who governed the country nearly by anecdotes.  The result of this universal demand for fiction is necessarily an enormous supply, and as everybody writes, without reference to gifts, the product is mainly trash, and trash of a deleterious sort; for bad art in literature is bad morals.  I am not sure but the so-called domestic, the diluted, the “goody,” namby-pamby, unrobust stories, which are so largely read by school-girls, young ladies, and women, do more harm than the “knowing,” audacious, wicked ones,—­also, it is reported, read by them, and written largely by their own sex.  For minds enfeebled and relaxed by stories lacking even intellectual fibre are in a poor condition to meet the perils of life.  This is not the place for discussing the stories written for the young and for the Sunday-school.  It seems impossible to check the flow of them, now that so much capital is invested in this industry; but I think that healthy public sentiment is beginning to recognize the truth that the excessive reading of this class of literature by the young is weakening to the mind, besides being a serious hindrance to study and to attention to the literature that has substance.

In his account of the Romantic School in Germany, Heine says, “In the breast of a nation’s authors there always lies the image of its future, and the critic who, with a knife of sufficient keenness, dissects a new poet can easily prophesy, as from the entrails of a sacrificial animal, what shape matters will assume in Germany.”  Now if all the poets and novelists of England and America today were cut up into little pieces (and we might sacrifice a few for the sake of the experiment), there is no inspecting augur who could divine therefrom our literary future.  The diverse indications would puzzle the most acute dissector.  Lost in the variety, the multiplicity of minute details, the refinements of analysis and introspection, he would miss any leading indications.  For with all its variety, it seems to me that one characteristic of recent fiction is its narrowness—­narrowness of vision and of treatment.  It deals with lives rather than with life.  Lacking ideality, it fails of broad perception.  We are accustomed to think that with the advent of the genuine novel of society, in the first part of this century, a great step forward was taken in fiction.  And so there was.  If the artist did not use a big canvas, he adopted a broad treatment.  But the tendency now is to push analysis of individual peculiarities to an extreme, and to substitute a study of traits for a representation of human life.