or both
together, which, in our days, is very possible. If he imitates other
writers, it is always their worst manner that he contrives to seize; if
he adopts the worn-out resources of preceding novelists, it is always
(and in this he may be doing good service) to render them still more
palpably absurd and ridiculous than they were before. He has dreams in
plenty--his heroes are always dreaming; he has fevered descriptions of
the over-excited imagination--a very favourite resource of modern
novelists; he has his moral enigmas; and of course he has a witch
(Fulvia) who tells fortunes and reads futurity, and reads it correctly,
let philosophy or common sense say what it will. His Fulvia affords his
readers one gratification; they find her fairly hanged at the end of the
book.

We are far enough from attempting to give an outline of the story of
this or any other novel--such skeletons are not attractive; but the
extracts, and the observations we have to make, will best be understood
by entering a few steps into the narrative.

Antonio, the Improvisatore, is born in Rome of poor parents. He is
introduced to us as a child, living with his fond mother, his only
surviving parent, in a room, or rather a loft, in the roof of a house.
She is accidentally run over and killed by a nobleman's carriage. A
certain uncle Peppo, a cripple and a beggar, claims guardianship of the
orphan. Of this Peppo we have a most unamiable portrait. His withered
legs are fastened to a board, and he shuffles himself along with his
hands, which were armed with a pair of wooden hand clogs. He used to sit
upon the steps of the Piazza de Spagna. "Once I was witness," says the
Improvisatore, who tells his own story, "of a scene which awoke in me
fear of him, and also exhibited his own disposition. Upon one of the
lowest flights of stairs sat an old blind beggar, and rattled with his
little leaden box that people might drop a _bajocco_ therein. Many
people passed by my uncle without noticing his crafty smile and the
waivings of his hat; the blind man gained more by his silence--they gave
to him. Three had gone by, and now came the fourth, and threw him a
small coin. Peppo could no longer contain himself: I saw how he crept
down like a snake, and struck the blind man in his face, so that he lost
both money and stick. 'Thou thief!' cried my uncle, 'wilt thou steal
money from me--thou who art not even a regular cripple--cannot see--that
is all! And so he will