first impressions are not always the most faithful after all.

"Now, Tom, is the boat ready?"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

We scramble down the sides of the British schooner, the "Glory," and seat
ourselves along with Tom. What a confusion of boats, long-pointed
barges, and small sailing vessels!

"Mind how you go, Tom."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replies Tom, contemptuously shifting his quid.

These small sailing vessels we see are from the Hanoverian and Danish
coasts. Their cargoes consist principally of wood, and whole stacks of
vegetables, the latter ridiculously small. Those long-pointed barges are
for canal navigation, and are admirably adapted to Hamburg, threaded as
it is by canals in every direction.

Steady! Do you see that curious, turret-looking building, old and
time-worn, guarded by a sentinel?--it is the fort to protect the
water-gate through which we are now passing. It is also occasionally
used as a prison. On the opposite side is a poor, dilapidated, wooden
building, erected on a barge, where permits are obtained for spirits and
tobacco--a diminutive custom-house indeed. There being no one to
question or molest us, we pass on, and in a few moments are at our
landing-place, a short flight of stone steps leading to the Vorsetzen or
quay.

Tom moors his boat with a grave celerity, leads the way up the stone
steps on to the quay, and as speedily disappears down a sort of trap
which gapes in the open street, in the immediate vicinity of the
landing-place. Let him alone; Tom knows the way. We follow him down an
almost perpendicular flight of stairs into a spirit kellar, and gratify
Tom's little propensity for ardent liquors.

Tom has disappeared, and is now paddling his way back to the "Glory," and
we stand upon the humble water-terrace, the Vorsetzen, looking out upon
the shipping. It is a still, bright, Sunday afternoon in September.
There is no broiling sun to weary us; the sky is clear, and the air soft
and cheering, like the breath of a spring morning. We will turn our
backs upon the river and proceed up Neuerweg.

We cannot walk upon the narrow strip of footpath, for, besides that there
is very little of it, our course would become a sort of serpentine as we
wound about the fresh young trees which skirt the edge of it at regular
intervals. But are they not pleasant to look upon, those leafy
sentinels, standing by the stone steps of the houses, shaking their green
tops in happy contrast to the whitene