Each word is a key which unlocks a store of imprisoned
emotions. The very word Italy has a magic which imparts to it a charm
even in the geography. And Bergsoee, though he works, without suspicion
of its decrepitude, the ancient machinery of Italian romance, is
unaffectedly eloquent and unsophistically entertaining. The historic
whisperings which he catches from the names, the ruins, the facial
types, and the very trees and grass of Genazzano invest his letters from
that picturesque neighborhood with a certain beautiful glow of color and
a dusky richness of decay. The autobiographical form imposes, to be
sure, an increasing strain on the reader's credulity, as the plot
thickens, and we find ourselves, half-unexpectedly, involved in a lurid
tale of monks, priests, disguised revolutionists, cruel, mercenary
fathers, etc., and the Danish author playing his favorite _role_ of
_deus ex machina_. Still more incredible is the part of benevolent
Providence which he assigns to himself in "The Bride of Roervig," where
he saves the heroine's life by restoring to her a ring given to her
lover, and thus assuring her that he is alive when she believes him
dead.
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