es which had
rendered the town unhealthy, but now that modern enterprise had drained
the fenlands, Beorminster was as salubrious a town as could be found in
England. The rich, black mud of the former bogs now yielded luxuriant
harvests, and in autumn the city, with its mass of red-roofed houses
climbing upward to the cathedral, was islanded in a golden ocean of
wheat and rye and bearded barley. For the purposes of defence, the town
had been built originally on the slopes of the hill, under the very
shadow of the minster, and round its base the massive old walls yet
remained, which had squeezed the city into a huddled mass of
uncomfortable dwellings within its narrow girdle. But now oppidan life
extended beyond these walls; and houses, streets, villas and gardens
spread into the plain on all sides. Broad, white roads ran to Southberry
Junction, ten miles away; to manufacturing Irongrip, the smoke of whose
furnaces could be seen on the horizon; and to many a tiny hamlet and
sleepy town buried amid the rich meadowlands and golden cornfields. And
high above all lorded the stately cathedral, with its trio of mighty
towers, whence, morning and evening, melodious bells pealed through the
peaceful lands.

Beyond the walls the modern town was made up of broad streets and
handsome shops. On its outskirts appeared comfortable villas and stately
manors, gardens and woody parks, in which dwelt the aristocracy of
Beorminster. But the old town, with its tall houses and narrow lanes,
was given over to the plebeians, save in the Cathedral Close, where
dwelt the canons, the dean, the archdeacon, and a few old-fashioned folk
who remained by preference in their ancestral dwellings. From this
close, which surrounded the open space, wherein the cathedral was built,
narrow streets trickled down to the walls, and here was the Seven Dials,
the Whitechapel, the very worst corner of Beorminster. The Beorminster
police declared that this network of lanes and alleys and malodorous
_cul-de-sacs_ was as dangerous a neighbourhood as any London slum, and
they were particularly emphatic in denouncing the public-house known as
The Derby Winner, and kept by a certain William Mosk, who was a sporting
scoundrel and a horsey scamp. This ill-famed hostel was placed at the
foot of the hill, in what had once been the main street, and being near
the Eastgate, caught in its web most of the thirsty passers-by who
entered the city proper, either for sight-seeing or