LIFE IN AN ISLAND. 103 



another and another boat ; and again we make our 

 obeisances, and steal out like banished souls into the 

 garish sunshine and the unveiled day. 



One of the scenes in Hans Christian Andersen's 

 novel of the ' Improvisatore,' a book in which the 

 Swedish sentimentalist has made use of his travels, is 

 laid in this Blue Grotto ; and it is, if we recollect 

 rightly, a scene of mystery and passion, in which the 

 hero has a tantalising glimpse of the heroine, and 

 everything ends in throbbing pulses, breaking hearts, 

 and a climax of vague and Avordy excitation. But 

 anything less like passion or excitement of any kind 

 than this vault of misty azure can scarcely be con- 

 ceived. He would be a bold man, and yet a foolish 

 one, who would try love-making in such a scene, 

 much less flirtation. The only feeling in the least 

 like its effect which we can remember, is that sense of 

 subdued sensation, if one might use such an expres- 

 sion, the tranquillising awe that steals over a mind 

 subject to such influences in a Gothic crypt, more 

 especially one from which all the worship and the 

 decoration has departed. If the Catholic Church, 

 always so ready to note and profit by the accidental 

 sanctities of locality, had consecrated the Grotto 

 Azzurro, no one could have been surprised. Stoop 

 down and hold your breath, as we shoot again all 

 darkling through the arch which hangs heavy with 

 salt sea-dew. "It is not true it is not real it is a 

 dream," says some one, and Feliciello opens his brown 



