The year '35, rich as may be its promise of social and political good, has so far done little for the cause of letters. The seductions of political distinction, or the more substantial attractions of the lucrative professions, have turned from the paths of literature all whom genius and education have fitted to attain a high degree of intellectual rank; while in the peculiar department of romance, the master spirits, those who ruled the realms of fiction with undisputed sway, have retired from the scenes of their glory, and left their neglected wands to be played with by the puny arms of dwarfish successors. COOPER[1] has sheltered himself from the furious storm, which an injudicious and silly political pamphlet raised about his head, in some quiet nook in his own native state; while IRVING, the elegant, but over-nice, the gentle but languid IRVING, has abandoned romance for reality, to favor the world with sketches of Indian manners and scenery. PAULDING and Miss SEDGEWICK have ceased for a time, to inflict their stories of humor and love, upon the proprietors of circulating libraries, and provincial book-sellers. But the press has not ceased: others have been found to succeed to, if not to fill the places of those, whose genius the sanction of the world had approved, and whose names ranked high in our infant literature. Who are the new comers? Do they write as men having authority--the authority of heaven-stamped genius, to claim to be heard for themselves, and their cause?--or are they but raw, brawling braggarts, who have broken into the sacred circle, rioting like buffoons, disgracing what they could not honor? Are they menials of the mind, underlings of the intellect, who have filled the rich banqueting hall just abandoned by their superiors, sitting in squalid rags on the splendid seats of genius, and gulping down the dregs of the deserted wine, and the scraps of the half consumed feast--boors rioting in the sumptuous apartments of their lords? Are they men, who, by a vigorous and educated intellect, and the patient study of the works of the great writers of romance, have fitted themselves to pour forth words of burning eloquence, of bitter satire, of side-shaking humor, and irresistible pathos? Are they artists, who, by the curious and intricate construction of their fable, know how to excite and sustain the deepest interest, ever urging upon the heart some tender affection, some exalted feeling of honor and chivalry? [Footnote 1: Since this sentence was penned, we have noticed the advertisement of a new (satirical?) novel, (The Mannikins,) from the pen of this gentleman, to be published during the summer.]