hurried record. Time has dealt gently with it and careful repair and
restoration have arrested its decay. It stands today, though subdued and
stained by time, as proudly as it did when a monarch, bare-footed,
walked through the roughly paved streets to do penance at the tomb of
its martyred archbishop. It escaped lightly during the Reformation and
civil war, though Becket's shrine was despoiled as savoring of idolatry
and Cromwell's men desecrated its sanctity by stabling their horses in
the great church.

The next day being Sunday, we were privileged to attend services at the
cathedral, an opportunity we were always glad to have at any of the
cathedrals despite the monotony of the Church of England service, for
the music of the superb organs, the mellowed light from the stained
windows, and the associations of the place were far more to us than
litany or sermon. The archbishop was present at the service in state
that fitted his exalted place as Primate of all England and his rank,
which, as actual head of the church, is next to the king, nominally head
of the church as well as of the state. He did not preach the sermon but
officiated in the ordination of several priests, a service full of
solemn and picturesque interest. The archbishop was attired in his
crimson robe of state, the long train of which was carried by young boys
in white robes, and he proceeded to his throne with all the pomp and
ceremony that so delights the soul of the Englishman. He was preceded by
several black-robed officials bearing the insignia of their offices, and
when he took his throne, he became apparently closely absorbed in the
sermon, which was preached by a Cambridge professor.

We were later astonished to learn that the archbishop's salary amounts
to $75,000 per year, or half as much more than that of the President of
the United States, and we were still more surprised to hear that the