The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him," &c. Simplicity,
indeed, of a marvellous sort which could show itself by so
extraordinary a piece of acting as this! Is there any critic who
candidly thinks it natural--I do not mean in the sense of mere
every-day probability, but of conformity to the laws of human
character? Is it true that in any country, among any people, however
emotional, grief--real, unaffected, un-selfconscious grief--ever did
or ever could display itself by such a trick as that of laying a piece
of bread on the bit of a dead ass's bridle? Do we not feel that if we
had been on the point of offering comfort or alms to the mourner, and
saw him go through this extraordinary piece of pantomime, we should
have buttoned up our hearts and pockets forthwith? Sentiment,
again, sails very near the wind of the ludicrous in the reply to the
Traveller's remark that the mourner had been a merciful master to the
dead ass. "Alas!" the latter says, "I thought so when he was alive,
but now that he is dead I think otherwise. I fear the weight of
_myself and my afflictions_ have been too much for him." And the scene
ends flatly enough with the scrap of morality: "'Shame on the world!'
said I to myself.
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