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clamorously called for. The waiters look tired and fagged:
as for the citizens, they go to bed, I should imagine,
never; and we ourselves walked till we could walk no
more; and then gazing from our saloon windows on this
spectacle, to which we had paid no entrance-fee, felt
half-inclined to follow their example. Old Hamburg,
what remains of it, Dutch-like and dirty though it be,
merits well a visit; its very filth adds to its
picturesqueness. The shipping bristles to the canal’s edge;
the lofty, half-tumbledown, high-gabled houses, consist
three-fourths at least of windows, with little hanging
turrets and excrescences sticking out from here, there,
and everywhere—oratories once, no doubt—now used,
according to convenience, for any purpose or none. In
the narrowest lanes grow tall wych elms, and hornbeams
trimmed into mop-heads; and then, among stink and
dirt, you stumble on an open balcony, with double
oleanders, flower-pots, and ropes of onions or a vine
daintily trailed to the very house-top; and later an
ancient mansion, so dark, so gloomy, all deserted save
one window, around which an ivy is trained
garlandwise, a China aster in a bow-pot, a canary in its
cage, telling plainly of woman’s occupation and
refinement; and your mind runs off to Mieris and Gerard
Dow, and pictures in old, long, half-forgotten galleries.
The narrow canals are muddy and pestiferous; barges
float along their dirty waters, and stop under queer old
cranes, to receive from the warehouses above their
cargoes of bales or packages. The barge floats on, the
crane is drawn up, and, your reverie over, you find the
smells unpleasant. It is a guerre à outrance—a war to
the knife of Nose versus Eyes. You begin to fear you
have strayed from your right path; nothing appears
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