The old town

by Jacob A. Riis

The head of the house sat in state with a plate full of silver coins beside him on the day these callers made their rounds, and responded to each salutation in kind; said “Thank you, same to you,” and handed the caller his coin. He twirled his cap, spat on the silver for good luck, put it in his pocket, scraped out, and made room for the next comer. If it was the night-watchman, he had perhaps a word about the wind being in the northwest, “blowing up to a storm,” or about the marten that ate the last batch of squabs. The marten lived in the attic under the roof beams, where it had its young in peace. It was not disturbed, though it made an occasional raid on the hen roost or the pigeon coop; but that was to be guarded against. To make up for it, it ate the rats that infested the old houses, and for this service it was let alone. We saw it sometimes on moonlight nights, a black shadow up among the pointed gables, big as a cat, it seemed to me, and with a cat’s long tail. The watchman knew all its haunts, being a night prowler himself, and could tell when it was “getting too many” for the peace of the hen roost. Then shot-guns came out, and after some still-hunting by moonlight things were evened up again and put upon a peace basis.

As pater familias sat awaiting his New Year’s callers, he had the advantage always of knowing who was in the offing making for his door, and could arrange his contribution accordingly. That was because of the universal use of window reflectors, two mirrors set at an angle and fixed on the outside of the window. Sitting in your chair by it, you could tell who was coming from either side, half a block away. I often wonder why they are not more used on this side of the ocean. I should think they would be a great convenience if one did not wish to be “at home” for undesirable callers. Perhaps that was how the Bishop’s wife escaped meeting the Burgomaster’s lady they used to tell of in Copenhagen. They were not exactly friends, but their position required them to be agreeable before the world. So they exchanged visits, and upon one of these occasions the Burgomasterinde found the Bishop’s Manse deserted, with evidences of hasty flight. Now the good Bishop’s wife was not noted nearly as much for tidiness as for her sharp wit, and the Burgomasterinde took a long chance when, seeing the mahogany table covered with a thick layer of dust, she wrote on it “P-i-g.” But she felt better, no doubt, and went on her way rejoicing.

Some days later the two ladies met on the street. “Oh!” said the Burgomaster’s wife, “I called at your house last week, but you were not in.”

“Yes, I am so sorry,” from the other, sweetly, “I found your card on the table.”

They played the Old Town a trick once, those reflectors, that is hard to forgive. It was when the burghers who dwelt in the Main Street insisted upon the town removing the North Gate that obstructed their view. They “could not see past it.” No more they could, for it fairly blocked the way. But it was the last remnant of the old walls, which, imperfect as they were, for they never reached around, had borne the brunt of many an assault, and it was over this the iron hand was fixed in the days of rigorous Ribe justice. It was a wretched fate that sacrificed it to the whim of a lot of curious women who wanted to spy on their neighbors. However, they got their deserts. They had forgotten that the street turned just beyond the gate, and when it was down and out of the way, behold! they could see no farther than before. I do not know what they did. I know what sensible people said about it twenty years after. But I suppose the gate would have gone anyway, so it’s no use grieving.

The North Gate.

Speaking of women’s ways, a fashion grew up three hundred years ago of wearing their cloaks or petticoats over their heads instead of on their shoulders, in the street and to church, where, so shrouded, they slumbered peacefully through the sermon and, say the contemporary accounts, even slept at the altar-rail through the communion service. Talk about women wearing hats in church! Those cloaks became such a nuisance to the clergy that the practice was sternly forbidden in town council under penalty of a fine. Widows and mourners were excepted, but the latter only for six months. There is no mention of a petticoat revenue, so probably the practice ceased of itself.

A custom that made a deep impression on us children was the semi-annual “offering” in the Domkirke. Part of the revenues of priest and deacon was derived from free gifts of the people at Easter and Christmas—free, that is, to all appearances; but custom prescribed the exact amount of what was really a tax upon every householder. On these Sundays, when the last hymn had been sung and the sexton’s purse on its long pole had been poked into the farthest pew, the Dean put on his crimson robe with the big white cross down the back that made him look as if he were clad in the national flag, and took his place at the altar. The organist pulled a stop that set a little bell tinkling and started a silver star spinning in the organ loft. That was the signal for all the men to rise, and with the Amtmand, the Rector, and the Burgomaster leading on, they marched up to the altar and laid their gifts there in two piles, one for the priest, the other for the clerk, always silver, which made quite a heap before the last coin had clinked upon it. The organist always played the hymn with the longest and slowest metre while the procession was passing, to give it time, I suppose, and the order of procedure was rigidly maintained. For a boss carpenter, for instance, to have gone before a teacher in the Latin School, even though his offerings had been twice the size of the other’s, would not have done at all. They kept step very well to the music, going and coming back, though I fancied their march was a little brisker on the return, as if they were glad it was over. Odd what impressions children get and keep. To me, looking back, it seems the one really great religious ceremony in the Domkirke I remember, always excepting the time the King came and one other. That was when the Austrian soldiers, during the occupation in ’63-’64, celebrated the birthday of their Emperor with a high mass. There had not been a Catholic service in the cathedral since the Reformation, and there has not been one since. Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was the whole setting of august ceremonial and warmth and color that were foreign there; the uniforms, the bugles, the incense, with the strange tongue and the evident devotion of the soldiers who knelt on the marble floor—it all left an impression on my mind and heart that has never faded. It is rank heresy, of course, and I would never subscribe to it in cold blood, but it did seem somehow as if the old House of God came to its rights once more. Saints of old whose knees, bent in worship, had hallowed those ancient stones, walked again in the vaulted aisles, and the image of the martyred Bishop Leofdag in the wall outside seemed to nod as with understanding as we went by. I saw the lights go out with regret. Perhaps, unknown to myself, it had something to do with my desire in years long after to put a couple of stained-glass windows in the chancel that looks so white and cold. But they did not want them. They were not in the style, they said. Perhaps they were right. But oh! for a little warmth in our worship now and then, even at the sacrifice of being right in the matter of style.