are that the _Pictures of Travel_ were
essentially prosified poems and that the poems were, in their
collected form, versified _Pictures of Travel_; and that both,
moreover, were dominated, as the writings after 1831 were dominated,
by a romantically tinged longing for individual liberty.

The title _Pictures of Travel_, to which Heine gave so definite a
connotation, is not in itself a true index to the multifarious
contents of the series of traveler's notes, any more than the volumes
taken each by itself were units. Pages of verse followed pages of
prose; and in the _Journey to the Hartz_, verse interspersed in prose
emphasizes the lyrical character of the composition. Heine does indeed
give pictures of some of the scenes that he visits; but he also
narrates his passage from point to point; and at every point he sets
forth his recollections, his thoughts, his dreams, his personal
reaction upon any idea that comes into his head; so that the
substance, especially of the _Journey to the Hartz_, is less what was
to be seen in the Hartz than what was suggested to a very lively
imagination; and we admire the agility with which the writer jumps
from place to place quite as much as the suppleness with which he can
at will unconditionally subject himself to the genius of a single
locality. For Heine is capable of writing straightforward descriptive
prose, as well-ordered and as matter-of-fact as a narrative of
Kleist's. But the world of reality, where everything has an assignable
reason for its being and doing, is not the world into which he most
delights to conduct us. This world, on the contrary, is that in which
the water "murmurs and rustles so wonderfully, the birds pour forth
broken love-sick strains, the trees whisper as if with a thousand
maidens' tongues, the odd mountain flowers peep up at us as if with a
thousand maidens' eyes, stretching out to us their curious, broad,
drolly scalloped leaves; the sunrays flash here and there in sport,
the herbs, as though endowed with reason, are telling one another
their green legends, all seems enchanted"--in other words, a
wonderland disturbed by no doubts on the part of a rationalistic
Alice. And a further secret of this fascinating, though in the long
run exasperating style, is the sublime audacity with which Heine
dances now on one foot and now on the other, leaving you at every
moment in amused perplexity, whether you shall next find him standing
firmly on mother earth or b