THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 251
the morning he was as sober as ever. Me. Perhaps he was not dis tracted but drunk, and sleep commonly cures that distemper. Og. Menedemus, since you love to use raillery, take another subject. It is neither pious nor safe to make sport with saints ; nay, the man himself told me that there was a woman appeared to him in his sleep of an incomparable beauty, that held forth a cup to him to drink* Me. Hellebore, I believe. Og. That is uncertain; but this is certain, that the man recovered his reason.
Me. Did you pass by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury? Og. No, I think I did not. It is one of the most religious pilgrimages in the world. Me. I long to hear it, if it will not be too much trouble to you. Og. It is so far from that, that you will oblige me in hearing of it. That part of England that looks towards Flanders and France is called Kent; the metropolis of it is Canterbury. There are two monasteries in it that are almost contiguous, and they are both of Benedictines. That which bears the name of Augustine is the ancienter of the two ; that which is now called by the name of St. Thomas seems to have been the seat of St. Thomas the archbishop, where he had led his life with a few monks whom he chose for his companions, as now-a-days deans have their palaces near the church, though separate from the houses of other canons. For, in old time, both bishops and canons were monks, as appears by the manifest vestigia of things.
But the church that is dedicated to St. Thomas raises itself up to wards heaven with that majesty that it strikes those that behold it at a great distance with an awe of religion, and now with its splendour makes the light of the neighbouring palaces look dim, and as it were obscures the place that was anciently the most celebrated for religion. There are two lofty turrets which stand as it were bidding visitants welcome from afar off, and a ring of bells that make the adjacent country echo far and wide with their rolling sound. In the south porch of the church stand three stone statues of men in armour, who with wicked hands murdered the holy man, with the names of their countries Tusci, Fusci, and Betri. Me. Why have such wicked men so much honour done them? Og. They have the same honour done to them that is done to Judas, Pilate, Caiaphas, and the band of wicked soldiers whose images you may see carved upon stately altars; and their names are added that none after them might arrogate to them selves the glory of the fact. They are set there in open sight to be a warning to wicked courtiers, that no one may hereafter presume to lay his hand on either bishops or the possessions of the church. For these three ruffians ran mad with horror of the fact they had committed ; nor had they come to themselves again, had not holy Thomas been implored in favour of them. Me. Oh, the perpetual clemency of martyrs!
Og. When you are entered in, a certain spacious majesty of place opens itself to you, which is free to every one. Me. Is there nothing to be seen there? Og. Nothing but the bulk of the structure, and some books chained to the pillars, containing the gospel of Nicodemus and the sepulchre of I cannot tell who. Me. And what else ? Og. Iron grates enclose the place called the choir, so that there is no en trance, but so that the view is still open from one end of the church to the other. You ascend to this by a great many steps, under which there is a certain vault that opens a passage to the north side. There
