VOL. XXXI.

No. 125.

TANDING before an old ruin, be it a grim grey castle keep or the beautiful forsaken tracery of some splendid abbey, I am always conscious of a charm greater than that of the masonry, beautiful or terrible as it may be, and greater than the charm of situation or the surrounding scenery. This superior attraction is the embodiment of an idea presented by the ruin. Where there is decay there has been life and growth. It is the special function of the mouldering stones to carry the mind back to beginnings, development, and splendid maturity. The grey ruin suggests and links together the scattered incidents in a long career, presenting them to the mind as a connected whole, inspired by the idea of continuity or unity.

Districts or stretches of country may in like manner recall or present in a notably conspicuous way some great historical idea or such a wealth of varied associations as confer upon the neighbourhood a special significance and a commanding claim on our attention.

There is a district in England to-day whose memories serve to recall times and scenes full of interest. A stretch of country hundred and twenty miles long forms he theatre in which is presented the power and splendour of a dominant idea. Behind the towns and hamlets along this stretch of country lies written the story of the past. The whole district is like a palimpsest-writing upon writing.

The writing of to-day-modern architecture and present forms-is superimposed upon the writing of the past.

The district of which I speak is a narrow strip of country just below the steep escarpment of the North Downsthe old highway still known in parts as the Pilgrims' Road, or the Pilgrims' Way,

the road by which pilgrims from the West and from the Continent made their way from Winchester to Canterbury, there to pay homage at the shrine of Becket, the masterful prelate who defied his king and paid for his defiance with life itself.

The endurance of highways is one of the commonplaces, as it is one of the most marvellous features, of history. The Pilgrims' Way probably boasts an antiquity greater even than the Roman domination of Britain. In the early days of the Christian era the valley between the North and South Downs was covered by the impenetrable forest of Andredeswald. The South Downs and the dense woods behind barred the progress of the Saxons from the south. The invaders made their way inland either by the Thames valley or up Southampton Water

they could not pierce the swampy recesses of that awful forest. Yet the carriers of the tin from Devon and Cornwall for Gaul had to reach the east coast, and cross the counties of Surrey and Kent. What more natural than that they should find their only possible way along the foot of the steep escarpment of the chalk

that rises sheer above the stretches of the Weald ?

Later the Romans used the same track. In the course of excavations near to Godstone along the lane that still bears the ancient name, the well-known masonry of Roman causeway work was reached far below the present surface-strong proof that the highway has a history only less. enduring than the hills themselves.

But our interest now with this old track lies in its connection with the great pilgrimages to Becket's shrine at Canterbury. There is a weird sense of identity with an obscure past in the thought that ancient Britons carried on their commerce and that Roman legions tramped along this very way; there is a far more vital interest in the knowledge that all the pomp and paraphernalia of great ecclesiastical processions rolled along this way in the later centuries when record and history were accomplished facts.

Becket was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral at the close of a December day in 1170. Immediately there gathered round the scene of his death the atmosphere of the supernatural and the miraculous. To the superstitious mind of that day miracles were easily credible. Many stories of marvel and portent grew and were believed. Becket was murdered, too, as the direct consequence of the quarrel in which, like Hildebrand, he had stood for the unassailable supremacy of the Church. For these reasons combined he was canonised by Pope Alexander three years after his death. Enrolled in the list of the saints, a man with whose commanding personality all England had become acquainted, it was not surprising that his shrine became a favourite object of pilgrimage in penance or performance of vows.

First to make the pilgrimage was our own Plantagenet King whose intemperate words had sent the murderous knights from Normandy on their errand of vengeance. Henry II. had battled long with Becket, but in the end he bowed before the terrible power of the Church. The powerful monarch submitted to a humiliation reserved for kings, since the offences of meaner men could more safely be pardoned. In the summer of 1174 he returned from Normandy to quell the gathering rebellion, but before proceeding to London he had to make his peace with the Church. With his train

attendant of nobles, knights, and soldiers, Henry passed along the way so many

to follow, presenting offerings to the churches that he passed. It was the beginning of a custom that was to last for centuries. When he reached Harbledown, overlooking the towers of Canterbury, he alighted and went on foot to the city wall. From the west gate, clad in a hair shirt and a rough pilgrim's cloak, with bare and bleeding feet, the great Lord of England, Ireland, Normandy and Anjou walked through the stony streets to the cathedral. Amid a throng of clerics and soldiers, with tears and silent prayer, with penance and many gifts, Henry confessed his share in the occasion of the murder. Scourged in turn by every bishop, abbot and monk, and spending the summer night in silent sleepless vigil by the tomb, Henry made peace with his conscience and with the Church. The event was an imposing testimony to the terrible might of the Church, an exercise of the power that could "put down the mighty from their seat."

From that time onward for centuries the pilgrimages thus begun continued. Kings, queens, princes, nobles, archbishops and bishops, monks and friars, powerful barons and their serfs, lordly abbots and begging pilgrims, from the most exalted to the poorest, made the long journey to kneel in reverence at the shrine. On special occasions the numbers were amazing. In 1220 the remains of the murdered archbishop were removed, and the date was afterwards fixed as the Feast of the Translation of St. Thomas. On that day another King, Henry III., headed the procession through Canterbury streets. Every year great crowds wended thither for the anniversary, and at the jubilees the enormous gatherings must have taxed to the utmost the resources of the country and the city.

More than two hundred years after the pilgrimage was a common thing—an outstanding feature of our national life, since Chaucer seized upon it as the machinery for his "Canterbury Tales." In that early poem he told how

When that Aprille with his showers sweete The drought of Marche had pierced to the

roote.

from every shire's ende Of Engeland, to Canterbury they wende, The holy blissful martyr for to seeke.