THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Canterbury pilgrimage
 
 This work is Copyright in England 
 and America.
 
 iRitJtien 
 
 toritten, anH illustrate!) ftp 3fosep6 ana 
 iRotiins 
 
 HonUon : 
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 ann Company, 
 Street.
 
 Dt\ 
 
 TO 
 
 , iaoiert 3Toui Stfebenson, 
 
 /F<?, w&<? are unknown to him, 
 dedicate this record of one of our sbort 
 
 journeys en a Tricycle, 
 
 in gratitude fcr the happy hours we have spent 
 travelling with him and his Donkey.
 
 WE do not think our book needs an apology, 
 explanation, or preface; nor does it seem to 
 us worth while to give our route-form, since the 
 road from London to Canterbury is almost as well 
 known to cyclers as the Strand, or the Lancaster 
 Pike ; nor to record our time, since we were pil- 
 grims and not scorchers. And as for non-cyclers, 
 who as yet know nothing of time and roads, we 
 would rather show them how pleasant it is to go 
 on pilgrimage than weary them with cycling facts. 
 
 JOSEPH PENNELL. 
 ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL. 
 
 36 BEDFORD PLACE, 
 
 May 14/77, 1885.
 
 first 
 
 jfolfc too p on 
 
 tljrougf)
 
 CANTERBURY PILGRIMAGE 
 
 It 
 
 of 
 
 1 r Y was towards the end of 
 August, when a hot sun was 
 softening the asphalt in the 
 dusty streets of London, and 
 ripening the hops in the pleasant 
 land of Kent, that we went on 
 pilgrimage to Canterbury. Ours 
 
 \\as no ordinary journey by rail, which is the way 
 latter-day pilgrims mostly travel. No. What we 
 wanted was in all reverence to follow, as far as 
 was possible, the road taken by the famous company 
 bygone days, setting out from the hostelrie where these
 
 12 
 
 tjolli Counsel together. 
 
 lordings lay one night and held counsel, making stations by 
 the way at the few places they mention by name, and ending 
 
 Our only Race. ..,.. -.--' 
 
 it, as they did, at the shrine of the 4 holy, blissful martyr,' in 
 the Canterbury Cathedral. How better could this be done
 
 EiDetx fcirrf) tljeic &ttap, 13 
 
 than by riding over the ground made sacred by them on 
 our tricycle ? 
 
 And so it came to pass that one close, foggy morning, 
 we strapped our bags to our machine and wheeled out of 
 Russell Square before any one was stirring but the policeman, 
 making his last rounds and trying door after door. Down 
 Holborn and past Staples' Inn, very grey and venerable in 
 the pale light, and where the facetious driver of a donkey-cart 
 tried to race us ; past the now silent and deserted cloisters of 
 Christ's Hospital, and under Bow Bells in Cheapside ; past 
 the Monument of the famous fire, and over London Bridge, 
 where the mist was heavy on the river and the barges showed 
 spectre-like through it, and where hucksters greeted us after 
 their fashion, one crying, Go in, hind one ! I bet on you. 
 You'll catch up if you try hard enough ! ' and another, ' How 
 are you there, up in the second story ? ' A short way up the 
 Borough High Street, from which we had a glimpse of the 
 old red roof and balustraded galleries of the { White Hart ; ' 
 and then we were at the corner where the c Tabard ' ought to 
 be. This was to have been our starting-point ; but how, it 
 suddenly occurred to us for the first time, could we start from 
 nothing ? If ours had no beginning, would it be a genuine 
 pilgrimage ? This was a serious difficulty at the very outset.
 
 14 *3lo ; SDepeforfc, anti it ig fjal^Voap prime*' 
 
 But our enthusiasm was fresh. We looked up at the old sign 
 of ' Te Old TabardJ hanging from the third story of the tall 
 brick building which has replaced Chaucer's Inn. Here, at 
 least, was something substantial. And we rode on with what 
 good cheer we could. 
 
 Then we went for some distance over the Old Kent Road, 
 which is laid with Belgian paving invented, I think, for the 
 confusion of cyclers, and where in one place a Hansom cab 
 blocked the way. Jn endeavouring to pass around it our 
 big wheel ran into the groove of the track, and we had to 
 dismount and lift it out. The driver sat scowling as he 
 looked on. If he had his way, he said, he would burn all 
 them things. We came to Deptford, or West Greenwich, 
 at half-past seven, the very hour when mine host and his 
 fellows passed. So, in remembrance of them, we stopped 
 a few minutes opposite a little street full of old two-storied 
 houses, with tiled roofs and clustered chimney-pots and 
 casement windows, overtopped by a distant church steeple, 
 its outline softened in the silvery mist, for the fog was 
 growing less as we journeyed onwards. At the corner was 
 an Inn called the ' Fountain,' and as a man who talked with 
 us while we rested there said that an old fountain had stood 
 in the open space near by, it pleased us to think that here
 
 *(Hnto tfje (Hllatering: of &aint tCfcomag.' 17 
 
 had been one of the Waterings of 3aint Thomas where pil- 
 grims to the shrine made short halts, and that perhaps it was 
 at this very spot that Davy Copperfield, a modern pilgrim 
 who travelled the same road, had come to a stop in his flight 
 from the young man with a donkey-cart. A little way out 
 of Deptford we came to Blackheath, where sheep were peace- 
 fully grazing, rooks cawing overhead, and two or three 
 bicyclers racing, and where a woman stopped us to say that 
 f That's the 'ouse of Prince Harthur yander, and onst the 
 Princess Sophia stayed in it on her way to Woolwich,' and 
 she pointed to the handsome brick house to our left. 
 
 After Blackheath the mist vanished, and the sun, gladdened 
 
 by the sweet airj shone on the 
 fields and woods, and the 
 ugly barracks and pretty cot- 
 tages by which we wheeled. 
 
 Pilgrims! are 
 Red- coated soldiers turned to look and dogs ran out to bark 
 
 at us. In the meadows men and women leaned on their hoes 
 
 B
 
 1 8 ^e plfftfmg ^arrp atofjile* 
 
 and rakes to stare. From tiny gardens, overflowing with roses 
 and sunflowers, children waved their delight. London was 
 many miles behind when, at a few minutes before nine, we 
 drew up on the bridge at Crayford. 
 
 It seemed at first a sleepy little village. The only signs 
 of life were on the bridge. Here about a dozen men were 
 smoking their morning pipes, and as many boys were leaning 
 over the wall, lazily staring into the river below, or at the 
 cool stretches of woodland and shady orchards on the hillside 
 beyond. But presently, as we waited, the village clock struck 
 nine, and at once the loud bell in the factory on the other 
 side of the little river Cray began to ring. One by one the 
 older loungers knocked the ashes from their pipes and passed 
 through the gate. The boys lingered. But their evil genius, 
 in the shape of an old man in a tall white cap, came out, and 
 at his bidding they left the sunshine and the river and hurried 
 to work. A man with a cart full of shining onions went by, 
 and we followed him up a hilly street, where the gabled and 
 timbered cottages seemed to be trying to climb one over the 
 other to reach a terrace of shining white houses at the top. 
 The first of these was but one-storied, and its tall chimney-pot 
 threw a soft blue shadow on the higher wall of the house next 
 to it. On a short strip of ground which stretched along the
 
 tor? atofjile. 
 
 19 
 
 terrace patches of cabbages alternated with luxuriant crops of 
 weeds. In one place there were stalks of pink hollyhock and 
 poles covered with vines, and in the windows above were 
 scarlet geraniums. About them all there was a feeling of 
 warmth and light, more like Italy than England. J. took 
 
 out his sketch-book. Several women, startled by the novelty of 
 strangers passing by, had come out and were standing in their 
 small gardens. When they saw the sketch-book they posed 
 as if for a photographer all except one old woman, who 
 hobbled down the street, talking glibly. Perhaps it was as 
 well we did not hear what she said, for I think she was cursing
 
 20 tirijep Qfytn otljec plgrtmg bp tlje 
 
 us. When she was close at our side and turned, waving her 
 hands to the other women, she looked like a great bird of 
 ill-omen. { Go in ! go in!' she croaked: 'he's takin' of yere 
 likenesses. That's wot he's arter ! ' Her wrath still fell upon 
 us as we wheeled out of Crayford. 
 
 There were many pilgrims on the road ; a tew, like us, 
 were on machines, but the greater number were on foot. As 
 in Chaucer's day, both rich and poor go upon pilgrimage 
 through Kent ; but, whereas in his time there were monasteries 
 and hospitals by the way where the latter were taken in 
 at night, now they must find shelter under hedges or in 
 dingles. Their lot, however, did not seem hard. It is sweet 
 to lie beneath the sky now as it was when Daphnis sang. And 
 the pilgrims whom we saw looked as if soft turf was luxury 
 compared to the beds they had just left, for they belonged to 
 the large army of hop-pickers who, every autumn, come from 
 London to make the Kentish roads unsafe after dark and the 
 householder doubly watchful. Whitechapel and other low 
 quarters are nearly emptied at this season. It is pleasant to 
 know that at least once a-year these people escape from their 
 smoky, squalid streets, into green places where they can 
 breathe pure air, but their coming is not welcomed in the 
 country. Many poor, honest women in towns and villages
 
 ?p 9eet ot^ec ^ftgrim? bp tfje &llap. 21 
 
 thereabouts will rather lose a few shillings than let their 
 children go to the hop-fields during the picking season, lest 
 they should come away but too much wiser than they went. 
 As we rode further the number of tramps increased ; all the 
 morning we passed and overtook them. There were grey- 
 haired, decrepit men and women, who hobbled painfully along, 
 and could scarcely keep 
 pace with their more stal- 
 wart sons and daughters ; 
 there were children by 
 the score, some of whom 
 ran gaily on, forgetting 
 fatigue for joy of the 
 sunshine ; others lagged 
 behind, whimpering and 
 weary ; and still others 
 were borne in their 
 mothers' arms. Almost 
 
 all these people were 
 
 An Enterprising Pilgrim. 
 
 laden with their household goods and gods. They carried 
 heavy bags thrown over their shoulders, or else baskets and 
 bundles slung on their arms, and pots and kettles and all 
 manner of household furniture. One man, more enterprising
 
 22 
 
 otljec p 
 
 lip tlje 
 
 than the others, had brought a push-cart ; when we saw it, 
 two babies, almost hidden in a confused mass of clothing 
 and pots and pans, were sleeping in it, and one clasped a 
 kitten in her arms. Now, with a sharp bend in the road, 
 
 we came suddenly upon a man sitting 
 under a tree, who, though we rang 
 our bell right in his ear, never raised 
 his eyes from a hole in an old silk 
 handkerchief he was holding ; and 
 now we came to a man and woman 
 resting on a pile of stones by 
 the roadside, who sat upright 
 at the tinkling of our bell. I 
 shall never forget the red and 
 swarthy face of the woman as 
 she turned and looked at us, 
 her black hair, coarse and 
 straight as an Indian's, hang- 
 ing about her shoulders and 
 over her eyes: she was unmistakably young in years but 
 old in vice, and ignorant of all save evil compared to hers 
 an idiot's face would have been intelligent, a brute's refined. 
 I could now understand why honest countrywomen kept their 
 
 An Indifferent Pilgrim.
 
 Street ortjec 
 
 tip tlje 
 
 children from the hop-fields. As a rule, the tramps were as 
 careless and jolly as Beranger's Bohemians, and laughed and 
 made merry as if the world and its hardships were but jests. 
 We, as figures in the farce, came in for a share of their mirth. 
 ' That's right ! ladies fust!' one old tattered and torn man called 
 
 Unwelcome Pilgrims. 
 
 after us, gaily ; c that's the principle on which I allus hacts ! ' 
 Which, I suppose, is a rough way of saying 'Place aux dames' 
 A very little joke went a great way with them. ' Clear 
 the path ! ' another man cried to the women walking with 
 him, as we coasted down the hill outside of Dartford : c ere's
 
 24 Wp B,i&e into &Dartfortu 
 
 a. lady and gen'leman on a happaratus a-runnin' over us ! 
 ( They're only a 'enjoyin' of 'emselves,' an old hag of the 
 party added; c so let luck go wi' 'em!' Then she laughed 
 loud and long, and the others joined with her, and the 
 sound of their laughter still reached our ears as we came 
 into the village. 
 
 Dartford, from a cycler's point of view, is a long narrow 
 street between two hills, one of which is good to coast, the 
 other hard to climb. The place, as we saw it, was full 
 of hucksters and waggons, and footmen and carriages, and 
 we passed on without stopping, save by the river that runs 
 near a church, with a tower and an unconventional clock 
 looking out from one side instead of from the centre, which 
 is the proper place for clocks. 
 
 From Dartford to Gravesend the road became more 
 pleasant every minute. Here and there were brown fields, 
 where men were ploughing, or perhaps burning heaps of 
 stubble, and sending pale grey clouds of smoke heavenwards ; 
 here and there were golden meadows where gleaners were 
 busy, and then, perhaps, a row of tall, dark poplars, or a 
 patch of brilliant cabbages. To the south, broad plains, where 
 lazy, ease-loving cattle were grazing, stretched as far as the 
 eye could see. To the north, every now and then, as the
 
 Kibe rijrougf) fair Country* 
 
 27 
 
 road turned, we saw the river, where ships were at anchor, 
 and steamers were steaming up to London, and black barges, 
 with dark-red sails, were floating down with the tide. The 
 water was blue as the sky, and the hills in the distance seemed 
 to melt into a soft purple mist hanging over them. By the 
 road and by the river were many deep deserted quarries, 
 
 Burning Stubble near Grave send, 
 
 whose white chalk cliffs could be seen from afar, while they 
 brought out in strong contrast the red roofs of the cottages 
 built at their feet. We came to one or two small villages 
 and another church, with its tower and a clock awry, so that 
 we wondered whether this was a fashion in Kent. And all 
 along the hedges were white and pink with open morning-
 
 28 TOe 3&et at an 
 
 glories, and the trees threw soft shadows over the white road, 
 and everywhere the air was sweet with the scent of clematis. 
 Gravesend is not a very striking place as you enter it 
 from the road. It was to us remarkable chiefly for the 
 Rosherville Gardens, which hitherto we had known only in 
 our Dickens. But we found a pleasant 'ale-stake' by the river, 
 where we rested to c both drinke and biten on a cake;' or, rather, 
 on substantial beefsteak and vegetables. There was no one 
 else in the coffee-room, but one or two dogs strayed in from 
 the private bar, and seeing we were at dinner became very 
 sociable. The maid who waited on us was friendly too, and 
 while J. was busy putting away the tricycle she was even 
 moved to confide in me. She was the only maid in the 
 house, she said. There had been another, but she had gone 
 some time ago ; ' and there's a jolly hard lot of work for one 
 woman to do, ma'am,' she went on. ' I'm not used to it, and 
 I can't stand it much longer. I've always been in a private 
 before. It's easy enough to go from a private to a public, 
 but to get from a public to a private again is another thing. 
 Onst in a public is always in a public, ma'am ! ' Then 
 some one called her. I was glad to have her go, for her way 
 of telling her trouble had in it something of the Greek 
 doctrine of fate, and so long as her eye was upon me I had
 
 out into tlje 
 
 29 
 
 an uncomfortable feeling, as if I were one of the instruments 
 decreed from all time to work out her cheerless destiny. It 
 was more agreeable to look out of the window on the little 
 lawn in front, where two comfortable matrons were drinking 
 beer, and a Blue-coat boy, home for the holidays, was running 
 
 By the River at Graves end. 
 
 around, showing his orange legs to the best advantage. It 
 was quiet on the river. Large steamers, small steam-tugs 
 and row-boats, were lying at anchor. An old coastguard 
 hulk was moored opposite, and an officer walked solemnly 
 up and down the deck, every now and then halting to look
 
 30 WQZ? IcUfce fortf) once more* 
 
 through a spyglass for suspicious craft. But as we stood on 
 the pier, after we had dined, the tide turned, and swiftly and 
 silently all the boats turned with it. Tugs gave shrill whistles 
 in warning of their speedy departure. Sail-boats unfurled 
 their sails. Sailors came down the watersteps, leading from 
 the houses built on high walls at the water's edge, and 
 rowed quickly to the coastguard boat, saluted the solitary 
 officer, and disappeared below. In the large P. and O. 
 steamer, anchored at some distance from the pier, we could 
 see the red turbans and white tunics of Lascars moving to 
 and fro on the decks. The river was now as lively as it 
 had before been quiet. But it monopolised the activity of 
 the place, for when we went back for our tricycle we met 
 only one or two seamen and a handful of children. 
 
 When we set forth again the air was warm and sleep- 
 inspiring. This, together with the consciousness of having 
 well dined, it must be confessed, made us return to the 
 pedals unwillingly. Not even the fact that a whole Sunday 
 school, off for a picnic, waited to look at us, could stimulate 
 us into speed. A sun-dial on a church tower just outside 
 of Gravesend seemed to take us to task for our indolence. 
 In large black letters on its white face it said 
 
 * Be quick : your time's short ! '
 
 'fallen tioton, for lepe/ 
 
 But we knew better. Rochester was but seven miles off, 
 and in Rochester we had made up our minds to sleep that 
 night. The tramps had grown as lazy as we, but they did 
 not even pretend to struggle with their laziness. All along 
 the road we saw them lying under the hedges and in shady 
 places. Some were asleep, others day-dreaming. Three 
 
 Afternoon lea. 
 
 women had roused themselves somewhat, and were making 
 preparations for afternoon tea. They had kindled a fire by 
 the wayside, and hung their kettle over it. A little further 
 on, a mother and her children were just coming to the road 
 from the deep, sweet shade of a dingle. On the hill beyond
 
 32 SL C^iin mafcett tfjem 
 
 was a grey church, with a graveyard whose graves straggled 
 down the hillside, and next to it a large farmhouse, with 
 red roof and walls, whose colour was softened and harmonised 
 by time. When the children saw we had stopped the machine 
 they ran up at once to beg us to buy queer little round 
 calico-balls, which they called pin-cushions. One had bright 
 black eyes, and, not in the least discomfited by our refusal 
 of the balls, danced merrily around the tricycle. Then she 
 peered into J.'s sketch-book. 
 
 f He's drawrin ! ' she called to her mother, in a loud 
 stage whisper. 
 
 The latter bade her mind her manners. But she still 
 continued her observations. 
 
 * Oh, mother, it's the church ! ' was her next cry. 
 
 4 Which, I'm sure, it's a werry decent church,' the mother 
 declared, as if to encourage us with her approval ; and then 
 they went their way. 
 
 Later, when, as we were coasting down a hill, we over- 
 took the party, the same child jumped and clapped her 
 hands, 'It's goin' all by its lone self!' she screamed; but her 
 sister trudged stolidly on, and spake never a word. 
 
 Of the many places on the road to Canterbury, made 
 famous by latter-day pilgrims, few are better known and
 
 'Ho, Kottctjegtec >tonuert) fcece faste &P/ 33 
 
 loved than Gad's Hill, where honest Jack FalstafF performed 
 his deeds of valour, and where Charles Dickens spent the 
 last years of his life. We had counted upon making it, too, 
 a station by the way. But whether it was that we were just 
 then drifting along in lotus-eaters' fashion, our feet moving 
 mechanically, or whether the prospect of another long coast 
 made us forgetful of all else, certain it is that, with a glance 
 of admiration at the dark spreading cedars, and another at 
 the inn and its sign, adorned with the picture of Falstaff, 
 we went by without a thought as to where we were. At the 
 foot of the hill a baker told us that up yonder was the 
 house where Mr. Dickens had lived. Were we already in 
 danger of forgetting the aim of our pilgrimage ? Would we 
 sacrifice our great end for what we had intended to be but 
 a means to it ? c Let us,' I said humbly, ( try to keep 
 our wits from wool-gathering again, lest we ride through 
 Rochester and Canterbury without knowing it !' We collected 
 our thoughts in good time ; for, lo ! as mine host said to 
 the monk, Rochester stands there hard by. Before many 
 minutes we saw in the distance the town of Strood, and 
 beyond it the broad Medway and Rochester, its castle and 
 cathedral towering above the houses clustering about them. 
 We stayed all night in Rochester. The early pilgrims
 
 34 tC&ep aliffljt at a 
 
 went to the f Crown.' But the c Crown,' alas ! stands no longer, 
 and so we slept at the c Queen's Head,' the C. T. C. head- 
 quarters. There is, somewhere in the city, the chapel where 
 pious travellers of old stopped to pray, but we could not 
 find it. The further we went the more it seemed as if 
 we were in pursuit of a shadow. And, indeed, it was here 
 that we discovered that even the road we had ridden over 
 was not that along which mine host and his company had 
 passed as they told their tales. There was no use, however, 
 in our going back to London and starting out again, so as 
 to take the right road ; for, alas ! it that is, as far as 
 Rochester has gone the way of the Tabard and Crown. Only 
 the yew-trees, planted at intervals along its course, survive 
 to show where it once ran. 
 
 After we had had our tea, we walked out in the twilight. 
 The town deserves the name of Dulborough, given it by 
 Dickens ; and so, indeed, our little maid at the inn thought. 
 There was nothing to do to amuse one's self, she said. She 
 had been up to London for a month in the spring, and since 
 then she couldn't abide Rochester. 
 
 Having produced a Castle and ruined it, and a Cathedral 
 and restored it, it has ever since rested on its laurels. We 
 wandered a little way through the narrow twisting street,
 
 4 Co Ee0te toentien ecjje on.' 35 
 
 meeting only soldiers and a few young girls and men, and 
 through the gabled gatehouse, where opium-eating Jasper 
 lived ; past the wonderful Norman doorway of the Cathedral 
 and then to the Castle, where we rested awhile in the public 
 garden the city has made around it. The pigeons had gone 
 to roost, two or three women sat silently on the benches, a 
 group of children played a singing game in the Pavilion. 
 Away in the west, beyond the river, we could see the green 
 and yellow fields and the poplars, radiant in the light of 
 the afterglow ; on the horizon, a dark windmill rose above 
 the hillside like a sentinel on duty, and its long arms moved 
 slowly around. It was even more peaceful down by the river : 
 two men were pulling a long outrigger against the tide; 
 a few heavy-laden barges floated up the stream with it. 
 The figures of the men on board were silhouetted in black 
 against the now fading western light. The red sails were 
 furled and the masts slowly fell as the barges neared the 
 bridge ; noiselessly and swiftly they disappeared under the 
 black arches. They seemed to carry with them all the sounds 
 of the day; the silence of night came over the place, our 
 voices sank lower, and we walked quietly back to the lonely 
 street and to the Inn.
 
 ttonfi 
 
 , tojiat a jfaU !
 
 pilgrim^ arigte tofjcn tljc 2Dap beerfng to sfpn'ntr. 39 
 
 ^T^HERE was a little more stir in the 
 * place the next morning, but it was 
 because it was filled with tramps, who were 
 wisely taking advantage of the early cool- 
 ness and hurrying on their way. But when 
 we turned off the High Street the town 
 was as still in the glare of day as it had been in the 
 late twilight. The high brick walls of the private gardens 
 might have enclosed dwelling - places of the dead rather 
 than of the living, for not a sound came over them. The 
 little pointed houses might have been sepulchres for all the 
 signs of life they gave. The whole town, instead of one 
 little street, should be called Tranquil Place. It seemed very 
 characteristic that the Cathedral should be closed, and this 
 at the season when the tourist is abroad in the land. It was 
 being cleaned, an old man told us. We looked through the 
 iron railing of the door into the nave, and at the marble floor, 
 and the tall, white, rounded arches. ' It's like looking down 
 the throat of Old Time ! ' Mr. Grewgious thought when he
 
 40 >','. 'flTljep receilie 
 
 stood there. At the farther end by the chancel steps a char- 
 woman was at work on bended knees. By her side was one 
 small bucket. Here, truly, was a Liliputian set to do the 
 work of Brobdignag. At that rate it is probable visitors were 
 shut out for many months. 
 
 After we had looked at the l Bull,' which still reminds the 
 public by a sign of the good beds enjoyed by Mr. Pickwick 
 and his friends, at the Town Hall where Pip was apprenticed, 
 at the many-gabled, lattice-windowed house in which Rosa 
 Bud bloomed into young ladyhood, and were standing in front 
 of the Six Poor Travellers" lodging-place, reading the 
 inscription over the door, and wondering who were the 
 proctors classed with rogues who could not rest within, a 
 benevolent Englishman passing that way fell upon us. He 
 was a worthy fellow- citizen of Richard Watts. Seeing we 
 were strangers, he, without waiting to be asked, bestowed 
 upon us the charity of information. 
 
 'Do you know what a Proctor is, Sir?' he asked, addressing 
 himself to J., who meekly, as befits one receiving alms, 
 said that he did not. c No ! Well, then, I will tell you. It 
 is a proc-u-ra-tor, one who collects Peter's pence for the 
 Pope, Sir. Richard Watts 'lived in the sixteenth century, when 
 Protestantism made people feel bitterly, Sir, and he would
 
 41 
 
 have no friends of the Pope beneath his roof. Proc u-ra-tor I 
 That's what a Proctor is, Sir.', 
 
 He had disappeared around the curve of the street before 
 we. had finished thanking him.. As the- information was nevy 
 to us, I, with the common belief that others must be as 
 ignorant as myself, now imitate his benevolence, and here 
 bestow it in alms upon whoever may be in need of it. 
 
 It was one o'clock when we mounted our tricycle and 
 set out once more for Canterbury. The sky was still un- 
 clouded and the day warm, but a good breeze was blowing, 
 and we were fresh for our ride. The streets of Chatham were 
 as busy as those of Rochester were idle, and blocked with 
 waggons, so that we had to fall in line and go at snail's pace. 
 Once, with a sudden halt, we were brought so near a horse 
 just in front, that my foot knocked against his leg ; but he 
 bore the blow stoically, as if he were used to Chatham streets. 
 An American circus was about to start out on its grand street 
 parade, and children hung about corners and out of windows. 
 At the foot of the hill outside the town, and marked 
 f Dangerous ' by the National Cyclists' Union, for the benefit 
 of cyclers, two very small boys offered to f Push it "up, Sir! ' 
 but as it looked as if // would push them down, we declined. 
 At the top we met a cycler on his way from Canterbury, and
 
 ace dftreeteti bp a 
 
 he gave us evil tidings of the road. It became worse with 
 every mile, he said, and it was heavy and hilly, and the 
 dust was enough to stifle one. To this last statement his ap- 
 pearance bore good testimony. 
 
 But at first we found it fair enough. From Chatham to 
 Sittingbourne our journey was one of unmixed pleasure. The 
 
 The Mantes. 
 
 wheels went easily, and the wind blew on our backs. Now 
 we passed on our right a vast treeless expanse, divided into 
 squares of green, and golden, and brown, all shining softly 
 in the sunlight, with here and there a windmill ; but to the 
 left we could see far below us the white line of the river
 
 are S^errp ana (Blali of Cljece* 43 
 
 winding between the flat grey marshes, where in Pip's day 
 the escaped convicts prowled. Again we wheeled through 
 small, sleepy villages, with church and tower half hidden in 
 clumps of trees, and with red oasts, whose crooked cowls 
 loomed up over the chimney- pots of the low cottages : for 
 we had come to the hop country, and at every step the land 
 of Kent grew fairer. Beyond Rainham the road lay between 
 hop-gardens, as they are appropriately called, and cherry- 
 orchards. In places the vines formed tall, shady hedges ; in 
 others the gardens were shut in by bare poles hung with 
 coarse brown cloth, to defy the wind and the depredations 
 of small boys, and other destructive animals : but the prettiest 
 fields were those which were in no way hedged about, so 
 that we could look down the long, narrow, green aisles, which 
 seemed to lead to fields of light beyond. The vines twisted 
 lovingly up the poles, which in many places bent beneath 
 masses of green fruit, or else the topmost shoots crossed and 
 intertwined from one pole to another, and the whole field 
 was woven into a large arbour. Where the sunlight fell 
 upon the green clusters it turned them to pure gold, and the 
 leaves, blowing gently to and fro, seemed to rejoice in their 
 great beauty. The cherry-orchards were so pretty and trim 
 that I wondered if, like the hop-fields, they were not sometimes
 
 44 
 
 ace 9errp ana (Blali of Cljece. 
 
 called gardens. The trees had been long stripped of their 
 fruit, but their branches were well covered with cool green 
 leaves, and their shadows met on the grass beneath. There 
 
 A Cherry Orchard. 
 
 was one in particular, before which we rested. Sheep were 
 browsing placidly on the downy turf, and when we looked 
 low down between the trees we could see the shining white
 
 Ee0t by tlje 
 
 45 
 
 river far in the distance. I half expected to hear a new 
 Daphnis and Menalcas singing their pastorals in gentle 
 rivalry. 
 
 We met few people. The tramps who come down to 
 Kent for the hop-picking turn off from Rochester to go to 
 Maidstone, where the largest hop-fields are, and where there 
 is more chance for them to be hired ; but a comparatively 
 small number go on to Canterbury. Some cyclers were 
 making the most of the fine day. As 
 we sat idly between the hop-gardens 
 three passed us. Two rode a tandem; 
 the third, a bicycle ; but they were 
 of the time-making species, for whom 
 the only beauty of a ride is that of 
 speed. Looking at them, and then 
 at the sheep in a field beyond, I 
 
 - y y V.'v % : ' 
 
 ' 
 
 a fcetttHrtj pastoral. 
 thought the latter were having the best of it. A little further 
 on we met a party of three Frenchmen. One rode ahead on a 
 bicycle, the two others followed on a tandem like ours. 
 One of the latter, when he saw us, called out to the bicycler, 
 * Cest bon d'aller ccmme fa ! ' I suppose he thought we 
 should not understand him, and if we did well, ought not 
 a Frenchman always to be gallant?
 
 46 'flrijep come unto another 
 
 We rode on with light hearts. An eternity of wheeling 
 through such perfect country and in such soft sunshine 
 would, we thought, be the true earthly paradise. We were 
 at peace with ourselves and with all mankind, and J. 
 even went so far as to tell me I had never ridden so well I 
 
 It was, then, in a happy frame of mind, that we reached 
 the inn at Sittingbourne. It was an unassuming place, but 
 quiet and clean ; the bar was on one side of the hall, the 
 coffee-room on the other. The latter was empty, and the 
 landlady, after laying the cloth for our bread and cheese 
 and shandy-gaff of all drinks the most refreshing to the 
 cycler left us alone to study this printed notice, which 
 hung in a frame over the door: 
 
 ' Call frequently, 
 Drink moderately, 
 Pay honourably, 
 Be good company, 
 Part friendly, 
 Go home quietly.' 
 
 We soon had the opportunity of putting into practice one 
 clause of this advice, for the door was suddenly burst open, 
 and a short man with a bald head, who wore the Cyclists' 
 Touring Club uniform, rushed in.
 
 fe- 
 
 \ i JiMuife
 
 tlTalc of tlje S^eccljann 49 
 
 'Are you the lady and gentleman that came on the 
 tandem ? ' he asked, before he was quite in the room. 
 
 We said we were. 
 
 f I don't like tandems, do you ? ' he continued, fiercely, as if 
 he were daring us to differ from him. He seemed to think 
 we had come there that he might tell us his grievances; 
 which he did, with much elaboration, while we ate our lunch. 
 He and his wife had been down to Margate from London, 
 and were now on their way back, he said. They had made 
 the trip on a tandem ; it was the first time he had ridden 
 one, and it would be the last, for he didn't like tandems they 
 were horrid things ! Did we like tandems ? To avoid repe- 
 tition, I may here mention that this expression of dislike, 
 together with the query as to our opinion, was the refrain 
 to everything he said. It was always given with the same 
 interest and emphasis as if it were an entirely original remark. 
 The only variation he made was by sometimes beginning 
 with the statement, and at others with the question. He 
 explained the reasons for his dislike. The principal was, 
 that the people one met on the roads always insulted riders 
 on a tandem. Why, he had been off his machine a dozen 
 times that morning, fighting men who had been chaffing 
 him ! I thought, with a shudder, of the crowd of hucksters
 
 50 ^fje tCale of tfje 
 
 J. would have had to fight by London Bridge, had he 
 been of the same mind. Then, the next objection was, that 
 he had to sit behind his wife she had to steer, and he 
 would not be surprised if he were seriously injured, or even 
 killed, before he got back to London. Women were heedless 
 things, and easily frightened. His wife, who had joined us a 
 few minutes before, here grew angry, and a slight skirmish 
 of words followed between them : she reminded him of the 
 dangers they had escaped through her nerve and skill ; he 
 recalled the dangers into which they had run owing to her 
 thoughtlessness and timidity. But, just at this point of the 
 discussion J. took out his watch. At sight of it the 
 little man forgot his anger to pounce upon it, with never as 
 much as c An it please you!' Then, looking up in triumph, 
 he exclaimed, 'I knew it ! it's an American watch ! They know 
 how to make watches over there, but they're ruining our 
 trade.' Then he explained that he was a London watchmaker, 
 and he pulled out of his pocket a large substantial specimen 
 of his workmanship. 
 
 The talk now turning upon America, we told him, in 
 answer to his inquiries, that we were Americans. 
 
 1 From Canada ? ' his wife asked. 
 
 f Oh, no !' I answered; f from Philadelphia.'
 
 o tlje 9erc|jann 51 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' the watchmaker said ; f then you're real 
 Americans ! But you speak English very well ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' J. admitted, modestly. f But then, you know, 
 English is sometimes spoken in our part of the world ! ' 
 
 All this made the fierce little cycler very friendly, and 
 he next wanted to know where we were going. 
 
 ' To Canterbury,' we said. 
 
 c To Canterbury ! ' he cried ; and then, to give greater 
 force to his words, he came and stood directly in front of us 
 on the other side of the table. f To Canterbury ! Well, 
 then, my advice to you is, if you have no other object than 
 pleasure, don't go ! No, don't you go ! I've been there, and 
 I know what I say. It's a rotten place. There's nothing in it 
 but an old cathedral and a lot of old houses and churches, 
 and they charged me sixpence for keeping my tandem one 
 night. I don't like tandems horrid things! Do you like 
 tandems ? Yes, it's a rotten place, and if I had my way 
 I'd raze it to the ground ! ' 
 
 I now understand why it is that Mr. Matthew Arnold 
 thinks the average Briton so very terrible. 
 
 By this time we had finished our lunch, and were ready 
 .to start. The watchmaker and his wife had engaged in 
 another battle. She did not agree with him in his opinion
 
 52 'flTfje TOe of ttje 
 
 ot Canterbury. Indeed I believe they did not agree upon 
 any one subject, and the tandem had tried their tempers. 
 They had both said they wanted to see us off, and to 
 compare machines ; but we, being modest people, thought 
 we would as lieve escape without their comments and 
 farewells. This seemed a favourable opportunity. In the 
 heat of the argument we left the room and paid our bill, 
 without their noticing our retreat ; but just as we had 
 mounted our tricycle, and were wheeling softly away, we 
 heard a voice calling, f Oh, I say now ! do come back a 
 minute: I want to show you my machine!" It would have 
 been more than uncivil to have refused, so we sat patiently 
 while the much-abused tandem was brought out. The owner, 
 in his pride, rode out on it, pedalled by us, and then wheeled 
 round and faced us with an abruptness that fairly took away 
 our breath. It was the shortest turn I have ever seen, and I 
 waited for the end with the same uncertainty with which one 
 watches a trapeze performance. Then there was some little 
 talk about bells and brakes, and tyres and saddles. In the 
 meantime the landlady, with two or three of her friends, had 
 come out, and was staring at us with a curiosity for which I 
 could not account. But presently she said, 'Are you going 
 back soon?' And then I knew she had heard we were
 
 jfalte on tfje pilgrim^ 53 
 
 Americans, and had come to have a look at these strange 
 people who had sailed across the sea, apparently for no other 
 reason than to test the cycling properties of the roads of 
 Kent. After this exhibition was over we said good-bye very 
 pleasantly, and rode off, followed by their wishes for our good 
 luck, while the watchmaker called out encouragingly, * You 
 Americans ride pretty well ; but I don't like tandems. Horrid 
 things ! Do you like tandems ? ' 
 
 But their wishes were the only good luck we met with. 
 We had not gone far from Sittingbourne, when we admitted 
 that the pilgrim we had met just outside of Chatham was no 
 false prophet after all ; for the road now began to be heavy 
 with sand and rough with flints. And oh, the hills ! They 
 were not very steep, but I was a novice in cycling. No sooner 
 were we on up-grades than I exhausted myself by my 
 vigorous back-pedalling. I have heard the uninitiated say 
 that tricycling must be so easy, just like working the 
 velocipedes of our childhood. But let them try ! The 
 country had lost none of its beauty. Fields were as green 
 and golden, orchards as shady, and sheep as peaceful, as those 
 we had seen before lunch. There were little churches on hill- 
 tops and pretty dingles by the wayside; handsome country- 
 houses with well-kept lawns, and fields where cricketers were
 
 54 
 
 %trine0e jfallg on tlje 
 
 playing, and young girls in gay-coloured dresses were ap- 
 plauding ; and there were old-fashioned farm-houses and 
 
 
 
 Farmhouse near Rochester. 
 
 quaint inn-yards. We passed through villages by which little 
 
 quiet rivers ran, some with 
 boats lying by the shore, and 
 others, as at Ospringe, where 
 horses and waggons were calmly 
 driven through the water. But 
 the heaviness had spread from 
 \ the road to my heart, and 
 all joyousness had gone from 
 me. 
 
 The worst of it was, that as 
 
 A Little River. the road here woun d Ji tt ] ej we 
 
 could see it miles ahead a white perpendicular line on the
 
 Bougljtoiuin&eC'tilce/ 
 
 55 
 
 purple hill which bounded the horizon. We knew this must 
 
 be Boughton Hill, the fame of whose steepness has gone 
 
 abroad in the cycling world. With the knowledge of what 
 
 was to come ever before me, I began to pedal so badly that 
 
 J. told me so very plainly, and said, moreover, that I 
 
 was more of a hindrance than a help to him. For some 
 
 time we rode on very silently. 
 
 Earlier in the afternoon we 
 
 had been passed by a man 
 
 driving an empty carriage, of 
 
 whom we had asked one or 
 
 two questions. He had stopped 
 
 to watch the cricket-match, 
 
 but he now overtook us, and, 
 
 to add to my misery, asked 
 
 me if I would not like him 
 
 to drive me into Canterbury, 
 
 All this was hard to bear. 
 
 Finally, we came to Boughton, a small village with ivy- 
 grown houses and a squirrel and a dolphin staring at each 
 other amicably from rival inns. It is right at the foot of 
 Boughton Hill. Now that we were near it, the white line 
 we had seen for so long widened into a broad road, but it
 
 56 tiTfjep amount Bou01)ton 
 
 looked no less perpendicular. It was here that Chaucer s 
 
 pilgrims 
 
 4 gan atake 
 
 A man that clothed was in clothes blake, 
 And undernethe he wered a white surplis.' 
 
 There is no record that mine host and the Chanones 
 Yeman dismounted and walked to rest their horses. But 
 all the many waggons and carriages and cycles we saw above 
 us on the modern road were being led, not driven. Half- 
 way up was an old lumbering stage, with boxes piled on the 
 top, and big baskets and bundles swinging underneath. The 
 driver was walking ; but a tramp, who had made believe to 
 push when on level ground, now sat comfortably on the back- 
 seat, taking his ease. A little lower was the friendly driver 
 with his empty carriage, for he had rested at the * Squirrel,' 
 and so we had caught up to him again. At the top we looked 
 back to see that the West was a broad sea of shining light. A 
 yellow mist hung over the plain, softening and blending its 
 many colours. Far off to the north the river glittered and 
 sparkled, and a warm glow spread over the green of the near 
 hillsides. The way in front of us was grey and colourless by 
 comparison. It was almost all down-hill after this. Did I 
 want to be driven into Canterbury, indeed ? My benevolent
 
 Bob Qptanfefeotttu 57 
 
 friend might now have asked us to pull him in. The stage 
 made a show of racing us, but we gave it only a minute's 
 chance. An officer in braided coat driving a drag passed us 
 triumphantly while we were on our up-grade ; but when we 
 came again to a level we left him far behind. 
 
 c Wete ye not wher stondeth a litel toun, 
 Which that ycleped is Bob up-and-doun, 
 Under the blee in Canterbury way ? ' 
 
 It is better known now as Harbledown. A little of our 
 trouble here came back, for the road leading to that part of it 
 ' ycleped Bob-up,' was steep and heavy, and we had to walk. 
 To our right were the old red-brick almshouses and the little 
 church of St. Michael, one of the many oldest churches in 
 Kent, and of which all we could see was the ivy-covered tower. 
 It was here that Henry, when on his way to the holy shrine, 
 dismounted, that, as became his humble calling of pilgrim, 
 he might walk into Canterbury. And it was here, too, that 
 the Person began his long-winded discourse. But we, less 
 reverent than King Henry, now mounted again ; and, less 
 phlegmatic than the Person, we held our peace. For as we 
 rode further up we heard far-away chimes, just as Erasmus did 
 when he went from Harbledown ; and there gradually rose
 
 feee tljc CatljeDral 
 
 before us a. tall, grey tower, then two more, and at last, as we 
 reached the top of the hill, we saw in the plain below the great 
 Cathedral itself, standing up far above the low red roofs of 
 Canterbury. We were almost at our goal. 
 
 A little further on we passed a hop-field, where the picking 
 
 had already begun. In one part the poles were stripped of 
 their vines, so that it looked as if the farmer had reaped for
 
 dfrmc at tfje Coton'0 dfrttie, 61 
 
 his sowing a. crop of dead sticks. Jn the other the poles 
 were still green, but the day's work was just over. Women 
 were packing up kettles and pans, jugs and bottles, and 
 stowing babies and bundles into perambulators, while two or 
 three men were going the rounds with bag and basket, 
 measuring the day's picking, and marking off the account of 
 each picker by notching short, flat pieces of wood held up 
 for the purpose. In the road beyond a large cart, packed 
 with well-filled bags, was being drawn homewards by three 
 horses, while a young man rode up and down the green 
 aisles. <I beg your pardon, Sir,' a farm hand said to J., 
 who had been sketching, f but you've been takin' some of 
 our people, and now you nought to take our Guvnor on 
 his 'oss;' and he pointed to the young man. All the way 
 into the town we passed groups of pickers : women with 
 large families of children, small boys with jugs and coats 
 hung over their shoulders, and young girls with garlands 
 of hops twisted about their hats, and all were as merry as 
 if they had been on a picnic. We saw them still before 
 us, even after we had turned into Saint Dunstan's Street, 
 from which the gold of the afterglow was fast fading, and 
 were riding between the quaint, gabled houses, through whose
 
 62 TOej? ^afce ttjeic Jnn* 
 
 diamond-paned windows lights were beginning to appear. 
 Before us was the old, grey-towered city gate, through which 
 royal and ecclesiastical processions and knights and nobles 
 once passed, but where we now saw only the tramps who 
 had arrived at the eleventh hour sitting at its foot with their 
 bags and baggage. 
 
 We ' toke ' our inn at the sign of the c Falstaff,' without 
 the gate. Honest Jack, in buff doublet and red hose, hanging 
 between the projecting windows and far out over the pave- 
 ment by a wonderful piece of wrought-iron work, gave us 
 welcome, and within we found rest and good cheer for weary 
 pilgrims. Then we c ordeyned ' our dinner wisely, but it was 
 too late to go to the Cathedral that same evening, as we should 
 have liked to have done, and we were forced to wait for 
 the morrow. After we had come downstairs from our 
 dimity-curtained bed-chamber, had dined, and were sitting 
 over our tea in a little, low-ceilinged room, from whose 
 window we looked into a pretty garden of roses and grape- 
 vines, a stranger sent us greeting, and asked if he might come 
 and sit with us. He was a priest, also making pilgrimage, 
 who had ridden from Rochester on a machine like ours ; so 
 that we became friendly forthwith, and, like the pilgrims who
 
 \
 
 9afce fimlp Cfctre, 65 
 
 rested at the c Chequers of the Hope,' every man of our party 
 
 ' in his wyse made hertly chere, 
 Telling his felowe of sportys and of chere, 
 And of other mirthis that fellen by the way, 
 As custom is of pilgrims and hath been many a day.' 
 
 And just before we parted for the night we held counsel 
 together and agreed that, in the morning, we would in 
 company visit the holy shrine.
 
 Si TOe of t$e Merger,
 
 ZITfjey Cagt on feeder (fcotong to (Lfllalk in tfje 'ftotom 69 
 
 CijtrD 
 
 TT 7E rose early the next day, and, that 
 we might be in all possible things like 
 the men in whose steps we were walking, we 
 { cast on fresher gowns ' before we started to 
 walk through the town. Then, after we had 
 breakfasted, we set out with our new friend 
 for the Cathedral. Our way led through the 
 gate, on which the sun shone brightly, and 
 where tramps were still waiting to be hired ; and 
 then through the High Street, rilled with other pilgrims, who 
 spake divers tongues, who wore not sandal, but canvas shoon, 
 and who had their 'signys' in their hands and upon their 
 * capps/ for many had puggarees about their hats, and still 
 more carried red guide-books. The air was warm, but 
 fresh and pure as if the sea-breeze had touched it; and the 
 gables and carvings of the old houses were glowing with 
 sunlight. The reflection of the red roofs and of geraniums 
 and hollyhocks in gardens by the way made bright bits of 
 colour in among the tall reeds of the little river Stour, and
 
 70 tlT&ep Ijoto gootilp i3Dtecoui#e. 
 
 as we went slowly along we talked, as befitted the occasion, of 
 bygone times, for at every step we were reminded of those 
 earlier travellers whose humble followers we were. Here 
 
 Waiting to be Hired. 
 
 we came to the Hospital of St. Thomas, now an almshouse, 
 of old the place where poor pilgrims found shelter ; and 
 here, in the ground-floor of a haberdasher's shop, we saw a
 
 Si fl&ile of tlje ^n'egr* 73 
 
 few arches of what was once the f Chequers of the Hope,' 
 where the rich were lodged ; and so, when in Mercery Lane, 
 where the houses almost met above in a friendly, confidential 
 way, we saw a man in cocked-hat and knee-breeches and much 
 gold lace, it seemed as if he, like everything else in Canterbury, 
 must be a relic of the olden time. 
 
 * I must know who that fellow is ! ' the priest exclaimed ; 
 and, without more ado, walked up to him and boldly addressed 
 him thus : c Ahem ! I say now who are you, any way ? ' 
 
 And the man, in his wonder, forgot to take offence, and 
 answered, ' Why I, Sir, am the town crier ! ' 
 
 Talk of Yankee cheek indeed ! 
 
 Then we went on down the lane, past the round market- 
 place, where women were selling sweets, and under the stone 
 gateway with its time-worn tracery, to the south porch of the 
 Cathedral, where a tricycle was standing. As the pilgrims 
 had to pray before they could approach the sacred tomb, so 
 we, after we had entered the nave, had to wait and listen to 
 morning service. Then we were told that no one could go 
 to the shrine unless led thither by the verger. There was 
 nothing to do but to fall into the ranks of a detachment of 
 tourists on their way to it. With them we were marshalled 
 through the iron gate, separating the choir from the chapels, by
 
 74 & We of t&e 
 
 a grey-bearded, grey-haired man, who kept his eye sternly 
 upon us as we deposited our sixpences, our modest offerings 
 in place of f silver broch and ryngis.' 
 
 1 Where is the shrine ? ' we asked, as soon as we were on 
 the other side of the gate. 
 
 ' The shrine which it lies but a few steps further on,' the 
 verger answered; c and you will come to it in good time.' 
 
 Then he showed us the 'horgan and its pipes, which 
 they lie in the triforium,' and the f Norman Chapel of Saint 
 Hanselm, which it is the holdest part of the building,' and 
 about all of which he had much to say. But we interrupted 
 him quickly, c Take us to the shrine,' we commanded. But 
 just then another tourist, eager for information, began to ask 
 questions not only about the Cathedral, but about the whole city. 
 Before we knew where we were, she had carried us all out to 
 Harbledown, and then, without stopping, whisked us off to Saint 
 Martin's-on-the-Hill. This was too much. We started to find 
 the shrine for ourselves, but our friend the priest ran after us. 
 
 ' You must wait for the verger,' he said. c I hope you don't 
 mind my telling you; but then, you know, you're Americans, 
 and I thought you mightn't understand.' 
 
 His interest by degrees extended from us to the rest of 
 the party. By some peculiar method of reasoning he had
 
 . - 
 
 m s* 
 
 J 
 
 II W : 
 
 *4&n\ '/ \ 
 
 . H I-M' ' \
 
 ^ale of tfje prfegt, 77 
 
 concluded that, because we were Americans, all who were 
 following the verger, except himself, must be so likewise. 
 Every now and then he would dart from our side to ask 
 each one in turn, in a gentle whisper, c You' re an American, 
 are you not ? ' The results were not always satisfactory. 
 I saw one Englishman, with John Bull written in every 
 feature, glare at him in suppressed rage; while a lady, after 
 saying, rather savagely, ' Well, is there any harm in being 
 one ? ' dismissed him abruptly, as if to remind him that not 
 she, but the Cathedral, was the show. 
 
 The verger lingered on the broad stairway, f which the 
 pilgrims they mounted it on their knees, as is seen by the 
 two deep grooves in the stone steps.' He stood long by 
 the tomb of Prince Hedward, the Black Prince, and when 
 we came to the stone chair used only when archbishops are 
 consecrated, he deliberately stopped, to suggest that some lady 
 might like to sit in it, ' though which it won't make her a 
 harchbishop,' he added. Then at last he led us to the chapel 
 just beyond, and close to the choir. He waited until we had 
 all followed and formed a semicircle around him, then he 
 pointed to the pavement, 
 
 c Which now,' he said, solemnly, f you have come to the 
 shrine of the saintly Thomas.'
 
 78 ^ej Keacf) tljelc d5oaU 
 
 We had reached our goal. We stood in the holy place 
 for which Monk and Knight, Nun and Wife of Bath, had 
 left husbands and nunnery, castle and monastery, and for 
 which we had braved the jests and jeers of London roughs, 
 and had toiled over the hills and struggled through the sands 
 of Kent. Even the verger seemed to sympathise with our 
 feelings. For a few moments he was silent; presently he 
 continued 
 
 * 'Enery the Heighth, when he was in Canterbury, took 
 the bones, which they was laid beneath, out on the green, and 
 had them burned. With them he took the 'oly shrine, which it 
 and bones is here no longer ! ' 
 
 Shrine and Tabard, Chapels and Inns by the way, all have 
 gone with the pilgrims of yester-year. 
 
 Ltndon : Piinttd by STRANGEWAYS & SONS, Tower Street, Uffer St. Martin's Lane.
 
 'ff
 
 Quarter Loan D*o 
 SEP 3 01993 
 
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