tion; and it would not be particularly amusing if I
should transcribe from the railway guide the names of all the stations
between Berlin and Hamburg.

It is 7 a.m., and here we are in the good Hanse town of Hamburg; the
city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While
they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom
is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown.

The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the
Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further
resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster
basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment
planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the
fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these
quays, a cafe painted green and built on piles, makes out into the
water, like that cafe of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many
chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this
basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed
to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory;
could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all
these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first
time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some
photograph?

While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the
unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all
became clear. The great poet had often spoken to me of Hamburg, in those
plastic words he so well knew how to use--words that were equivalent to
realities. In his "Reisebilder," he describes the scene--cafe basin,
swans, and townsfolk upon the quays--Heaven knows what portraits he
makes of them! He returns to it again in his poem, "Germania," and there
is so much life to the picture, such distinctness, such relief, that
sight itself teaches you nothing more.

I made the circuit of the basin, graciously accompanied by a snow-white
swan, handsome enough to make one think it might be Jupiter in disguise,
seeking some Hamburg Leda, and, the better to carry out the deception,
snapping at the bread-crumbs offered him by the traveler. On the farther
side of the basin, at the right, is a sort of garden or public
promenade, having an artificial hillock, like that in the labyrinth in
the "Jard