A few months later (August 4th) he
died at the villa Rolighed, near Copenhagen. His life was indeed as
marvellous as any of his tales. A gleam of light from the wonderland in
which he dwelt seems to have fallen upon his cradle and to have
illuminated his whole career. It was certainly in this illumination
that he himself saw it, as the opening sentence of his autobiography
proves: "My life is a lovely fairy-tale, happy and full of incidents."
The softness, the sweetness, the juvenile innocence of Danish
romanticism found their happiest expression in him; but also the
superficiality, the lack of steel in the will, the lyrical vagueness and
irresponsibility. If he did not invent a new literary form he at all
events enriched and dignified an old one, and revealed in it a world of
unsuspected beauty. He was great in little things, and little in great
things. He had a heart of gold, a silver tongue, and the spine of a
mollusk. Like a flaw in a diamond, a curious plebeian streak cut
straight across his nature.
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