erwards wandered almost as
wild and as solitary in the streets of Copenhagen--who was next
imprisoned in a school with dictionary and grammar--is now free
again--may wander with wider range of vision--is a traveller--and in
Italy! But the sensitive temper of Andersen, we are afraid, hardly
permitted him to enjoy, as he might have done, his full cup of
happiness. Vanity is an unquiet companion; he should have left it behind
him at home; then the little piece of malice which he records of one of
his friends would not have disturbed him as it appears to have done.

"During my journey to Paris, and the whole month that I spent there, I
heard not a single word from home. Could it be that my friends had
nothing agreeable to tell me? At length, however, a letter arrived; a
large letter, which cost a large sum in postage. My heart beat with joy,
and yearning impatience; it was indeed my first letter. I opened it, but
I discovered not a single written word--nothing but a Copenhagen
newspaper, _containing a lampoon upon me_, and that was sent to me all
that distance with postage unpaid, probably by the anonymous writer
himself. This abominable malice wounded me deeply. I have never
discovered who the author was; perhaps he was one of those who
afterwards called me friend, and pressed my hand. Some men have base
thoughts; I also have mine."

Poor Andersen has all his life long been sorely plagued by his critics.
Those who peruse his Autobiography to the close, and every part of it is
worth reading, will find him in violent ill humour with the theatrical
public, whom he describes as taking a malicious and diabolical pleasure
in damning plays. To hiss down a piece, he declares, is one of the chief
amusements that fill the house. "Five minutes is the usual time, and the
whistles resound, and the lovely women smile and felicitate themselves
like the Spanish ladies at their bloody bull-fights." His second journey
into Italy seems to have been in part occasioned by some quarrel with
the theatre. "If I would represent this portion of my life more clearly
and reflectively, it would require me to penetrate into the mysteries of
the theatre, to analyse our aesthetic cliques, and to drag into
conspicuous notice many individuals who do not belong to publicity; many
persons in my place would, like me, have fallen ill, or would have
resented it vehemently. Perhaps the latter would have been the most
sensible."

Oh, no! Hans Christian--by no