Ever since our merchants have beaten a peaceful and free uninterrupted trade into this town and elsewhere within and without the Sound, with their manufactures of wool, and found the way also to the White Sea to Archangel and Moscow.  Insomuch that the premises being well considered, it was a happy thing for England that that clashing fell out betwixt her and the Hans, for it may be said to have been the chief ground of that shipping and merchandising, which she is now come to, and wherewith she hath flourished ever since.  But one thing is observable, that as that imperial or committal ban, pronounced in the Diet at Ratisbon against our merchants and manufactures of wool, incited them more to industry.  So our proclamation upon Alderman Cockein’s project of transporting no white cloths but dyed, and in their full manufacture, did cause both Dutch and Germans to turn necessity to a virtue, and made them far more ingenious to find ways, not only to dye but to make cloth, which hath much impaired our markets ever since.  For there hath not been the third part of our cloth sold since, either here or in Holland.

[Footnote A:  From “Familiar Letters.”  “Montaigne and ’Howell’s Letters’,” says Thackeray, in one of the “Roundabout Papers,” “are my bedside books.”  Howell wrote this letter in Hamburg in October, 1632.]

HAMBURG[A]

BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER

To describe a night journey by rail is a difficult matter; you go like an arrow whistling through a cloud; it is traveling in the abstract.  You cross provinces, kingdoms even, unawares.  From time to time during the night, I saw through the window the comet, rushing down upon the earth, with lowered head and hair streaming far behind; suddenly glares of gaslight dazzled my eyes, sanded with the goldust of sleep; or the pale bluish radiance of the moon gave an air of fairy-land to scenes doubtless poor enough by day.  Conscientiously, this is all I can say from personal observation; 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