In that seething time, the lighter literature took a sentimental tone,
and either spread itself in manufactured fine writing, or lapsed into a
reminiscent and melting mood. In a pretty affectation, we were asked to
meditate upon the old garret, the deserted hearth, the old letters, the
old well-sweep, the dead baby, the little shoes; we were put into a mood
in which we were defenseless against the lukewarm flood of the Tupperean
Philosophy. Even the newspapers caught the bathetic tone. Every "local"
editor breathed his woe over the incidents of the police court, the
falling leaf, the tragedies of the boarding-house, in the most
lachrymose periods he could command, and let us never lack fine writing,
whatever might be the dearth of news. I need not say how suddenly and
completely this affectation was laughed out of sight by the coming of
the "humorous" writer, whose existence is justified by the excellent
service he performed in clearing the tearful atmosphere. His keen and
mocking method, which is quite distinct from the humor of Goldsmith and
Irving, and differs, in degree at least, from the comic almanac
exaggeration and coarseness which preceded it, puts its foot on every
bud of sentiment, holds few things sacred, and refuses to regard
anything in life seriously. But it has no mercy for any sham.

I refer to this sentimental era--remembering that its literary
manifestation was only a surface disease, and recognizing fully the
value of the great moral movement in purifying the national
life--because many regard its literary weakness as a legitimate
outgrowth of the Knickerbocker School, and hold Irving in a manner
responsible for it. But I find nothing in the manly sentiment and true
tenderness of Irving to warrant the sentimental gush of his followers,
who missed his corrective humor as completely as they failed to catch
his literary art. Whatever note of localism there was in the
Knickerbocker School, however _dilettante_ and unfruitful it was, it was