ll-directed dawdling of two years, at last ended in his death at Buonconvento (August 24, 1313; Carlyle says wrongly September); poisoned, it was said, in the sacramental bread, by a Dominican friar, bribed thereto by Florence.
See Carlyle's Frederic, Vol.
I. p. 147. The story is doubtful, the more as Dante nowhere alludes to it, as he certainly would have done had he heard of it. Accordingat was in books, may be justly suspected of not going further, though with Carey to help him. Mr. Carlyle, who has said admirable things of Dante the man, was very imperfectly read in Dante the authorts answer to each other, because pleasure results from their harmony.
(Convito, Tr. I. c. 5.) Carlyle says that he knew too, partly, that his work was great, the greatest a man could do.
He knew i we pass to another better life after this (Convito, Tr. II.
c. 9). It is a fine divination of Carlyle from the Non han speranza di morte that one day it had risen sternly benign in the scathed hear
A very improbable story of Coleridge's in the Biographia Literania represents the two friends as having incurred a suspicion of treasonable dealings with the French enemy by their constant references to a certain Spy Nosey.
The story at least seems to show how they pronounced the name, which was exactly in accordance with the usage of the last generation in New England. When Emerson visited him in 1833, he spoke with loathing of Wilhelm Meister, a part of which he had read in Carlyle's translation apparently.
There was some affectation in this, it should seem, for he had read Smollett.
On the whole, it may be fairly concluded that the help of Germany in the development of his genius may be reckoned as very small, though there is certainly a marked resemblance both in form and sentiment between some of his earlier lyrics and those of Goethe.
His poem of the Thorn, though vastly more imaginative, may have been suggested by Burger's Pfarrer's Tochter von Taubenhain. The
great masters of the picturesque, lets us into the secret of his art when he tells us how, in that wonderful scene of the death of Monseigneur, he saw du premier coup d'oeil vivement porte, tout ce qui leur échappoit et tout ce qui les accableroit.
It is the gift of producing this reality that almost makes us blush, as if we had been caught peeping through a keyhole, and had surprised secrets to which we had no right,— it is this only that can justify the pictorial method of narration.
Mr. Carlyle has this power of contemporizing himself with bygone times, he cheats us to
Play with our fancies and believe we see; but we find the tableaux vivants of the apprentices who deal in his command without his power, and who compel us to work very hard indeed with our fancies, rather wearisome.
The effort of weaker arms to shoot with his mighty bow has filled the air of recent literature with more than enough fruitless twanging.
Mr. Masson's style, at best cumbrous, becomes intolerabl