Of reconstruction of the past there is no end, because something new, which was also old, is continually turning up. See, for instance, the cart covered with a black cloth on which is a white cross, slowly passing down the street. The horse carries a bell which tolls mournfully, the cart is led by a man in the livery of the Carthusian Brothers; it contains the body of one who has died a violent death, killed in a brawl by some rioter unknown, killed in a mad fight over a woman—who knows? They will take the cart to Pardon Churchyard where lie buried so many victims of the Black Death; the poor wretch will be laid, at least, in sacred soil. Or there is the procession of the sanctuary-man who has abjured the Kingdom; he is bare-headed and bare-footed; he carries a wooden cross; he is led to the Bridge Gate by the serjeants of his Ward; he has three days in which to reach Dover and to get across the seas. And after? History knows no more. Here is a crowd gathered round the woman set up in the shameful thew. Why is she set there? For tampering with her measures and defrauding her customers. The interests of beer are concerned. The crowd is justly indignant, words of reproach and contumely greet the culprit; she hides her face in terror and in shame. It seems a light thing to stand up for an hour or two before the people. It is anything but light, it is grievous, it is a lifelong disgrace; women have been known to fall down dead in such a case, overwhelmed and heartbroken with the public exposure. Here comes one, a City officer, clad in a tunic ornamented with death’s heads. The grinning skulls proclaim his office. He is the Death Crier. In his hand he carries a bell, which he rings as he walks along the streets; at night he carries a lantern; he might walk through the streets at any time of the day or night, for he announces the death of some great man. “Good people,” he cries, “of your charity pray for the soul of our dear brother ——, who departed this life at such or such an hour.” As he passes, perhaps in the dead of night, his voice awakens those who sleep. They arise, they open their windows, they put out their heads, and murmur a prayer. When the King died, it was the custom for the Death Crier to march through the streets escorted by the Guild of Allhallows carrying crosses. Other duties were imposed upon the officers in order to find work enough for them to do. There was one, it seems, for every ward. They inspected taverns and reported to the Alderman on their conduct and management, they also watched for, and reported, houses of ill-fame, and places which harboured disorderly persons.