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 “Jardin des Plantes.”  Having gone thus far, I turned and retraced my steps.

Every city has its fashionable quarter—­new, expensive, handsome—­of which the citizens are proud, and through which the guide leads you with much complacency.  The streets are broad and regular, and cut one another at right angles; there are sidewalks of granite, brick, or bitumen; there are lamp-posts in every direction.  The houses are like palaces; their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers and every lover of progress.  The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full of light and air, and resembles Paris or London.  There is the Exchange!  It is superb—­as fine as the Bourse in Paris!  I grant it; and, besides, you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority.

Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land.  Doubtless that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury and comfort.  You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing less than a millionaire.  Permit me, however, to love better the old house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations.  To be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a sense, of having received from man a soul.  What makes these magnificent streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not yet impregnated with human vitality.