The thief, if I remember rightly, was never caught, but the event proved that the departure from the ancient landmarks was too radical. Thief or no thief, the town could by no possibility sleep without being awakened hourly by the cry of the watchmen; or if it did go to sleep it didn’t know it, which was almost, if not quite, as bad. Universal insomnia threatened to wreck its peace. Within a month the entire community, headed by the councilmen themselves, petitioned the municipality to unloose again the watchmen’s tongues. A compromise was made upon the basis of the boots, and was religiously kept till within a year, when, I am told, the crying of the hour finally ceased.
I am sorry it did, for it was a picturesque relic of its mediæval past, which after all is the real setting of the Old Town. It was not a mere cry, or senseless shout. In its mournful melody, that took kindly to the cracked and weather-beaten voices of the singers, I live over again those long and lonesome nights when I lay awake, listening to the buffeting of the winds, and followed the ships on their course over the sea where it swept unchecked, wondering what the great world in which they moved might be like. People went to bed early in those days, and the watchman raised his voice at eight o’clock. From that hour until four in the morning he sang his song, every hour a new verse, supposed to have special reference to the time of night. The curious commingling of pious exhortation with homely advice on the everyday affairs of domestic life was characteristic of the time and of the people. At ten o’clock he put in a pointed reminder to the laggard that it was time to turn in, thus:
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Ho, watchman! heard ye the clock strike ten?
This hour is worth the knowing
Ye house-holds high and low,
The time is here and going
When ye to bed should go;
Ask God to guard, and say Amen!