blunderbusses of the pre-Napoleonic era--were of the same pattern.
I remember the fright that seized our worthy rector when the German
army was approaching in the winter of 1863, and the haste they
made to pack them all up in a box and send them out to be sunk
in the deep, lest they fall into the hands of the enemy; and the
consternation that sat upon their faces when they saw the Prussian
needle-guns.

The watchmen still cried the hour at night They do, for that matter,
yet. The railroad came to town and the march of improvement struck
it, after I had gone away. Century-old institutions were ruthlessly
upset. The police force, which in my boyhood consisted of a man and
a half--that is, one with a wooden leg--was increased and uniformed,
and the night watchmen's chant was stopped. But there are limits
to everything. The town that had been waked every hour of the night
since the early Middle Ages to be told that it slept soundly, could
not possibly take a night's rest without it. It lay awake dreading
all sorts of unknown disasters. Universal insomnia threatened
it; and within a month, on petition of the entire community, the
council restored the songsters, and they squeak to this day. This
may sound like exaggeration; but it is not. It is a faithful record
of what took place and stands so upon the official minutes of the
municipality.

[Illustration: The Deserted Quay.]

When I was in Denmark last year, I looked over some of those old
reports, and had more than one melancholy laugh at the account
of measures taken for the defence of Ribe at the first assault of
the Germans in 1849. That was the year I was born. Ribe, being a