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: [Music: 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! Be quick and bright, Watch fire and light, Our clock just now struck ten.] At one o’clock he sang: Ho, watchman! Our clock is striking one. Oh, Jesus, wise and holy, Help us our cross to bear. There is no one too lowly To be beneath thy care. Our clock strikes one; in darkest night Oh, helpful friend, Thy comfort send, Then grows the burden light. The Old Town was the county-seat, and the county was large, but I do not remember that there were at any time more than two lawyers. One was good, the other bad. By bad I mean not that he was a bad lawyer, but reputed to be tricky, whereas the other was known to be honor itself. It is therefore perhaps the best character I can give my people when I record the fact--it was so stated, and I have not the least doubt that it was true--that when two farmers quarrelled, each sure that he was right, they made haste to hitch up to get first to the honest lawyer, and usually that was the end of the quarrel; for the last in the race was willing to make peace. They used to tell of two well-to-do neighbors who had fallen out over a line fence and started simultaneously for town. Both had good teams, and they were well matched in the race. For half an hour they drove silently alongside of one another, each on his own side of the road, grimly urging on their horses, but neither gaining a length. At last, as the lights of the town came into sight, for it was evening, a trace broke on one of the rigs and the horses stopped. The other team was whirled away in a cloud of dust. “Hans!” the beaten one called after him, and he halted and looked back. “Are you going after Lawyer ----?” naming the square one. “I am that,” came back.