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. [Illustration: 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.