quite tender, and with a very piquante sauce. But tears, and fine
feelings, and a white pocket-handkerchief, and a funeral sermon, and
horses and feathers, and a procession of mutes, and a hearse with
a dead donkey inside! Psha! Mountebank! I'll not give thee one
penny-piece for that trick, donkey and all." That is vigorous
ridicule, and not wholly undeserved; but, on the other hand, not
entirely deserved. There is less of artistic trick, it seems to me,
and more of natural foible, about Sterne's literary sentiment than
Thackeray was ever willing to believe; and I can find nothing worse,
though nothing better, in the dead ass of Nampont than in Maria of
Moulines. I do not think there is any conscious simulation of
feeling in this Nampont scene; it is that the feeling itself is
overstrained--that Sterne, hugging, as usual, his own sensibilities,
mistook their value in expression for the purposes of art. The
Sentimental Traveller does not obtrude himself to the same extent as
in the scene at Moulines; but a little consideration of the scene will
show how much Sterne relied on the mere presentment of the fact that
here was an unfortunate peasant who had lost his dumb companion, and
here a tender-hearted gentleman looking on and pitying him. As for
any attempts to bring out, by objective dramatic touches, either the
grievousness of the bereavement or the grief of the mourner, such
attempts as are made to do this are either commonplace or "one step
in advance" of the sublime. Take this, for instance: "The mourner was
sitting upon a stone bench at the door, with his ass's pannel and its
bridle on one side, which he took up from time to time, then laid them
down, looked at them, and shook his head. He then took the crust of
bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it; held it some time
in his hand, then laid it upon the bit of his ass's bridle--looked
wistfully at the little arrangement he had made--and then gave a sigh.
The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him," &c. Simplicity,