h "to crack
the satyric thong." Mere exaggeration maybe mere nonsense, and very dull
nonsense. The scene is at the hotel at Terracina, so well known by all
travellers.

"The cracking of whips re-echoed from the wall of rocks; a carriage
with four horses rolled up to the hotel. Armed servants sat on the
seat at the back of the carriage; a pale thin gentleman, wrapped in
a large bright-coloured dressing-gown, stretched himself within it.
The postilion dismounted and cracked his long whip several times,
whilst fresh horses were put to. The stranger wished to proceed,
but as he desired to have an escort over the mountains where Fra
Diavolo and Cesari had bold descendants, he was obliged to wait a
quarter of an hour, and now scolded, half in English and half in
Italian, at the people's laziness, and at the torments and
sufferings which travellers had to endure; and at length knotted up
his pocket-handkerchief into a night-cap, which he drew on his
head, and then, throwing himself into a corner of the carriage,
closed his eyes, and seemed to resign himself to his fate.

"I perceived that it was all Englishman, who already, in ten days,
had travelled through the north and the middle of Italy, and in
that time had made himself acquainted with this country; had seen
Rome in one day, and was now going to Naples to ascend Vesuvius,
and then by the steam-vessel to Marseilles, to gain a knowledge
also of the south of France, which he hoped to do in a still
shorter time. At length eight well-armed horsemen arrived, the
postilion cracked his whip, and the carriage and the out-riders
vanished through the gate between the tall yellow rocks."--(Vol.
ii. p. 6.)

"_Only a Fiddler_" proceeds, in part, on the same plan as "The
Improvisatore." Here, too, the author has drawn from his own early
experience; here, too, we have a poor lad of genius, who will "go
through an immense deal of adversity and then become famous;" here too
we have the little ugly duck, who, however, was born in a swan's egg.
The commencement of the novel is pretty, where it treats of the
childhood of the hero; but Christian (such is his name) does not win
upon our sympathy, and still less upon our respect. We are led to
suspect that Christian Andersen himself, is naturally deficient in
certain elements of character, or he would have better upheld the