there is left a few fragments of walling, of St
Augustine's tomb, nothing whatsoever.

Less still remains to us of the smaller religious houses that abounded
in Canterbury. Of the Austin Canons, the Priory of St Gregory founded
by Lanfranc in 1084 near St John's Hospital, also a foundation of
Lanfranc, in Northgate Street, really nothing, a fragment of old
wall; of the Nunnery of St Sepulchre, a Benedictine house, nothing at
all. As for the Friars' houses scarcely more remains. Of the earliest,
the Dominican house, only the scantiest ruins of the convent, the
refectory, however, once in the hands of the Anabaptists, is now a
Unitarian chapel. Of the White Friars, nothing. Of the Franciscan
house, the charming thirteenth century ruin that stands over the river
to the south of St Peter's Street. That is all.

The Canterbury of St Thomas is no more, it perished with his shrine
and his religion. Even the hospital he is said to have founded, which
at any rate was dedicated in his honour, was suppressed by Edward VI.;
it is, however, still worth a visit, if only for the sake of the wall
painting recovered in 1879, in which we see the Martyrdom, and the
penance of the King.

But in Canterbury to-day St Thomas is really a stranger, no relic,
scarcely a remembrance of him remains; yet he was the soul of the
city, he is named in the calendar of his Church St Thomas of
Canterbury.

No relic do I say? I am wrong. Let all the pilgrims of the past come
in at the four gates in their thousands and their thousands; let the
great processions form as though this were a year of jubilee, they
shall not be disappointed. Yet it is not to the Cathedral they shall
go, but to an ugly little church (alas!), in a back street, where over
the last altar upon the Epistle side there is a shrine and in the
shrine a relic--the Soutan of St Thomas. The place is humble and meek
enough to escape the notice of all but the pilgrims who sought and
seek Canterbury only for St Thomas.

Musing there in the late spring sunshine, for the church is open and
quiet, and within there is always a Guest, I fell asleep; and in my
sleep that Guest came to me and I spoke with Him. It seemed to me that
I was walking in early morning--all in the England of my heart--across
meadows through which flowed a clear translucent stream, and the
meadows were a mass of flowers, narcissus, jonquil, violet, for it was
spring. And beyond the meadows was a fair wood all newly dress