'In the spring of the year previous to this, or to be exact, in April, 1843, I found myself at Berlin. My friend, Mr. CARLYLE, of London, had given me a letter to THEODORE MUNDT, and I had learned soon after my arrival that this distinguished man was in town. I had consequently looked over my letters, after dinner, and had selected the one addressed to MUNDT, and laid it under a little plaster bust of SCHILLER that stood just over the stove, in the room where I dined. In the evening I walked into the _Ermschlagg Buchzimmer_.[2] Several students were making annotations from huge volumes, and many grave, pale gentlemen were turning over the reviews and periodicals of the day. Among these I recognized an Englishman whom I had fallen in with at Cologne but parted with at Heidelberg. He had been in Berlin three days before me, and I was truly glad to meet with an acquaintance even of so recent a date, to whom I could apply for information or advice as to the best way of seeing the lions. While I was whispering to him, a grim-visaged old Teuton looked up at us with a stern frown, and my friend observed, 'We must retire into the _Sprechensaale_, or conversation-room.' As soon as we had entered this adjoining apartment, to the evident satisfaction of the aforesaid grim Teuton, I observed a tall, thin man, of angular and wiry aspect, see-sawing his body in front of the stove, toward which he had turned his back, as he stood in apparently deep cogitation. 'You don't know who that is,' quoth my friend; 'there is _one_ of the lions, to begin with. I found out his name this morning: that is THEODORE MUNDT.' Struck as I was with the stranger's aspect, which appeared to me altogether American, I stared at him till he suddenly raised his dark eyes, and fixed them on mine. To disembarrass myself from my seeming rudeness as politely as possible, I bowed to his gaze, and said inquiringly: 'I have the honor to address Mr. MUNDT?' [2] A new public library and reading-room in Berlin. ''You have the _luck_,' he said, 'but the honor is _his_.' ''Honors are even, then,' said I, as brusquely as I dared; and of all animals a traveller is the most impudent. 'I have in my pocket,' I continued, 'a letter for you from my friend CARLYLE.' At the name of CARLYLE he raised his hands in surprise, then rubbed them with delight, and began to eulogise his friend.