At Dorking, when the Knights departed, the innkeeper took their place and continues to keep up the old traditions. The White Cross is now the White Horse, though not from any similarity of names but because the Earls of Arundel, and afterwards the Dukes of Norfolk, were lords of the manor. In later life the White Horse was a famous coaching house, and rebuildings have apparently destroyed any feature older than say three centuries. Perhaps it was in the yard of this house, where a noble old vine spreads green fragrance over the great white gables, that Charles Dickens met the individual who sat for the portrait of Tony Weller. Deep underneath the building are a series of vaults cut out of the sandstone—maybe a relic of the Hospitallers. In one of the lowest is a curious old well. Tradition has it that these cellars were used in the smuggling days. To lovers of the road the quaint gables and broad oriels of the White Horse are no mean landmark, for they are the destination of a real old-fashioned coach and four running hither from Charing Cross daily during the summer months.
CHAPTER III
THE HOSPICES
Mention of the Knights Hospitallers brings us by an easy stage to pilgrimages; it was the original purpose of this order to keep open the route to the Holy Places and to assist the sick and needy pilgrims on their journey. Some pious merchants of Amalfi obtained permission to found a refuge for destitute pilgrims to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, about the middle of the eleventh century. At first the brethren of St. John were content with nursing the sick and relieving the hungry in the Jerusalem Hospice, and in this work of mercy earned the toleration of Saladin when he once more captured Jerusalem from the Christians. But at this time they had already taken to the sword and had become very active and trenchant members of the Church Militant.
Rich in glowing romance and stirring adventure is the story of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and the many expeditions to regain possession of the Holy Land. We are more concerned with the ordinary Englishman. While the Crusade ensured the absence for a season of a goodly number of turbulent lords and truculent retainers, he was at liberty to visit the shrines of his own country. At Glastonbury was the chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea and the sacred Thorn, as venerable as anything in Christendom. Hardly less ancient was the shrine of the first martyr, St. Alban; while at Durham he might kneel in reverence before the relics of the great St. Cuthbert and the Venerable Bede. St. Ethelbert of Hereford and St. Edmund at Bury St. Edmunds would equally invite the suffrages of their clients.
Pilgrimages played their part, and a very important one too, in the making of England. They gave the ordinary man an opportunity to travel. A subject race of stolid peasantry, who otherwise would never have left the confines of their lord’s estate, were encouraged to go on a long journey and see what the world outside was like. If any man wished to go on a pilgrimage he needed only a scrip and staff consecrated by his parish priest. So furnished no lord could detain him. By virtue of his pious and meritorious vow he would find friends and assistance everywhere. The most desperate characters would respect the sanctity of his profession; if a robber found that his victim was a pilgrim he restored all that he had taken.[2] During his absence, any monastery was prepared to take charge of his affairs, nor could any legal proceedings be taken against him until his return. Pilgrimages were the thin end of the wedge which was destined to shatter the whole feudal system. They sowed the seeds of the great Revolt of the peasants under Richard II. They instilled into the heart of the people that roving restless spirit that made the Englishman the most successful coloniser the world has ever known.
Under the very curfew the torch of liberty was smouldering. It is significant that nearly all the places of popular pilgrimage established between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries had a political basis. The figure of the last king of the old English stock stood out bright against the darkness of England, trodden under foot by the foreigner. Memories of peace, prosperity, and independence gathered round his name, and while men were clamouring for the good laws of Edward the Confessor, throngs of pilgrims hastened to implore intercession of the Saint; to-day his tomb in the Abbey of Westminster is the most hallowed spot for every true Englishman. A century later the scene of the martyrdom at Canterbury was attracting even vaster crowds, nearly one-tenth of the whole population of the country resorting hither for worship in a single year. We may well believe that they came to reverence St. Thomas of Canterbury, as not merely a devout ascetic, but as the first Commoner of English birth who dared to brave the absolute power of the King.
There were several quite unauthorised pilgrimages of political origin. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, who had headed the barons in their agitation against Edward II and the royal favourites, became, after his execution, a saint in popular estimation; pilgrimages were organised to Pontefract as well as to a picture of the “Saint” set up in St. Paul’s Cathedral in spite of royal protests. By a strange revulsion of sentiment the tomb of Edward II, himself one of the least desirable of kings, became a place of pilgrimage; and a special inn had to be built at Gloucester to accommodate those who wished to make their prayers and vows on his behalf. The good Simon de Montfort, although he died under excommunication, was accounted a saint; and Latin hymns and versicles were composed for his office.[3]