and
a few belles-lettres writers, whose novels and stories mark a distinct
literary transition since the War of the Rebellion. In the period from
1845 to 1860, there was a singular development of sentimentalism; it had
been, growing before, it did not altogether disappear at the time named,
and it was so conspicuous that this may properly be called the
sentimental era in our literature. The causes of it, and its relation to
our changing national character, are worthy the study of the historian.
In politics, the discussion of constitutional questions, of tariffs and
finance, had given way to moral agitations. Every political movement was
determined by its relation to slavery. Eccentricities of all sorts were
developed. It was the era of "transcendentalism" in New England, of
"come-outers" there and elsewhere, of communistic experiments, of reform
notions about marriage, about woman's dress, about diet; through the open
door of abolitionism women appeared upon its platform, demanding a
various emancipation; the agitation for total abstinence from
intoxicating drinks got under full headway, urged on moral rather than on
the statistical and scientific grounds of to-day; reformed drunkards went
about from town to town depicting to applauding audiences the horrors of
delirium tremens,--one of these peripatetics led about with him a goat,
perhaps as a scapegoat and sin-offering; tobacco was as odious as rum;
and I remember that George Thompson, the eloquent apostle of
emancipation, during his tour in this country, when on one occasion he
was the cynosure of a protracted anti-slavery meeting at Peterboro, the
home of Gerrit Smith, deeply offended some of his co-workers, and lost
the admiration of many of his admirers, the maiden devotees of green tea,
by his use of snuff. To "lift up the voice" and wear long hair were
signs of devotion to a purpose.

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, t