These Manors as enumerated in the schedule were fifty-three in number, lying in nineteen counties, of which "total sum valoris, £1084 1s. 9d." And he further adds,—

"Nay, an author of that time reports (Chron. MS. Joh. Rous in bibl. Cotton. p. 269.) that he (Richard) gave him all his riches, so that he then made his boast that "he had as many liveries of Stafford Knots, as Richard Nevill the late great Earle of Warwick had of Ragged Staves."

As we before observed, to attempt to explain or speculate upon the motives that actuated Buckingham in his extraordinary career, would be alike both useless and fruitless. His eagerness and zeal displayed to place Richard on the throne, his consent to, and consequent complicity in the cold-blooded executions of his wife's brothers and their associate at Pontefract, and also of Hastings, together with other heinous transactions, to the prejudice and discomfiture of the nearer tie of his wife's defenceless nephews, appear to have had no very definite purpose as regarded himself, but only exhibited the actions of an unscrupulous partisan and tool for others, the attributes of a weak, contemptible mind. Was he aware of, and did he also assent to, the last and most atrocious of Richard's crimes, the murder of the Princes in the Tower, toward both of whom, the poor boys stood nearly in the same relationship? If so, he was even more vile than Richard, for he had an excuse, ambition, albeit of the most loathsome kind, to offer,—which Buckingham had not, nor indeed any that can be imagined.

This question has, we believe, never been definitely answered, and so we prefer to give Buckingham the benefit of the doubt, and to hope that he did not do so. Although he appears to have excessively disliked the Queen-Mother and her family, and was the chief promoter of the movement to rob her sons of their royal heritage, still there does not appear to be any direct evidence to incriminate him as consenting to their deaths, after circumstances point to the contrary, and he is said to have made use of their inhuman fate, as one of the principal reasons for his desire to dethrone Richard.

The complete confirmation, however, of his weak, unsettled, poorly-ambitious mind, which led to his final defection and action against Richard, was doubtless due to the persuasive powers of his prisoner-guest, the wary, far-seeing, intellectual Morton, in whose hands, with plans carefully prepared, and subtle knowledge of the world and human life, Buckingham would be little more than a child. There is not however much to admire in this ecclesiastic's furtive flight from the custody of his host,—for his enforced sojourn at Brecknock Castle could be called in its conditions but little otherwise than that of a visitor. Then speedily placing himself in a position of safety, he left the seeds of disaffection he found sown in the mind of Buckingham, and which he had carefully nurtured, to ripen into foolish, hasty, miscalculated action, which revealed to Richard truly enough the character of the movement, that was destined in the end to deprive him of his kingdom and his life, but enabled him, as it turned out, easily to send this its first pioneer to the scaffold.

Sufficient stress does not appear to have been laid on this incident, and the influence it probably exercised, connected with the fate of Buckingham. His wretched downfall and unenviable character have consigned him to unpitying oblivion—the fate of many a better, but unsuccessful man,—while the brilliantly fortunate career of his quondam prisoner, has caused this circumstance to be forgotten, or passed over in silence. It is not inferred that Morton originally unsettled Buckingham's mind,—that had taken place before,—but the fact remains he confirmed that unsettledness, pointed out the way in which he could be useful by hostile movement in the western counties, and then took speedy flight beyond seas to Richmond, where he remained in safety from the wrath of Richard, until after the battle of Bosworth.

Buckingham naturally did not want to part with his genial strong-minded prisoner and adviser,—but some excuse must nevertheless be allowed Morton for his hasty exit. He well knew the suspicion Richard had of him, and that king's jealousy of the strength of his ability and influence, which he believed was not loyal toward him, and the Bishop consequently being remitted to the custody of Buckingham. After Morton had tampered with Buckingham, completed his other traitorous negociations against Richard, and when circumstances were rapidly shaping themselves, if not with very defined and concentrated purpose, yet sufficiently large and apparent, as to render a hostile movement against Richard's authority an event of the shortest notice; and having also made full estimate of Buckingham's unreliable character and incapacity, and that no mercy would be meted out to him in such company, should an unsuccessful storm break forth and he fall into the hands of his victor,—which was just what did happen in Buckingham's case,—the first law of nature persuaded him, and he made for a place of safety under the shadow of his idol, there to wait further opportunity to aid, when the course of events afforded it.

John Morton was a west-country man, having been born about 1420, at Bere-Regis, a small market town in central Dorset, where his family had for some time been settled, and were of good standing. He was educated in the Abbey of Cerne, and then entered Balliol College, Oxford, where his proficiency attracted the notice of Cardinal Bourchier. He was successively Rector of St. Dunstan's, London, Prebendary of Wells, Bishop of Ely 1478, Archbishop of Canterbury 1486, Lord-Chancellor 1487, Cardinal of St. Anastasia 1493, and Chancellor of Oxford. But he was much more than this, he was the friend, counsellor, and financier—the last no easy position—to Henry VII., the chief personage both in Church and State, at once Primate and Premier, and the cementer of the union of the rival houses of the Red and White Rose.

The merest glance at Morton's life would involve reference to the principal events of the age in which he lived, and he has been perhaps correctly designated as the foremost Englishman of his time. In their way both Morton and Buckingham were the setters up of kings. Probably the real prompting motive that lay at the bottom of both their minds, and gave force to their action, was much the same,—the consequent advancement, if their efforts succeeded, of their own station and interests. Buckingham accomplished his object, but was disappointed at the result. Then his thoughts turned to substitute another ruler, and by strange circumstance he was thrown into counsel with an individual bent on the same errand, but an infinitely abler and far-seeing man. In this his second design, Buckingham led the forlorn hope and perished; Morton entered the breach with the reserve, after the fortress had been stormed and had capitulated. The motives that actuated these henchmen of kings, as we have said, were doubtless alike, whether fortune led the one to the scaffold, and gave the other the delegated authority of the throne. The White Rose was good enough for Morton until the White Boar became its representative. Then his mind and energies turned to the Red Rose,—the triumph came,—with consummate wisdom he wedded their rival pretensions and extinguished the internecine strife. All now bade for peace, the path of the highest distinction lay before him, he traversed it with the greatest ability and success, and when he died had reached its most exalted eminence, and the dream of his life had been fulfilled.

His death occurred, says Hutchins,—

The memorial to Cardinal Morton consists of a low altar-tomb on which is his effigy robed in full pontificalibus. Six monks, or weepers, three on each side, kneel beside the body. The arch of the canopy above is ornamented on the inner soffit with the rose crowned, cardinal's hat, portcullis, and his rebus, a hawk or mort, on a tun, alternate; on the outer side with figures in niches. A lily in a pot, between what remains of two figures probably representing the Annunciation, is sculptured in the panel above the feet. The whole, composed of a soft white stone, is in a state of considerable decay, much mutilated, and begrimed with dust and dirt to a sooty hue.

How strange the metamorphosis death often assigns to the claims of fame or station, especially to the memorials set up to them; of this, the tomb and effigy before us furnishes notable example. Here, enveloped in the dark shadows of this crypt, and scarcely discernible, where, unless guided, human foot would scarcely dream of taking its way in search of reminiscence to one so memorable, is the monument of the principal Englishman of his era, who held the highest position in the kingdom ecclesiastically and civilly, a statesman also of the first order, the value of whose influence in settling the great quarrel that had so long distracted his native land, and bringing it peace, can now hardly be estimated.

Broken, tattered, despoiled,—gradually crumbling and decaying,—covered also with the dust and neglect of ages, lies what is left of the outward and visible semblance of John Morton, Prince of the Church, Metropolitan of England, and Lord Chancellor to her King. But a close scrutiny through the gloom shews us the stately lines of his vestments, his broken mitre, his shattered staff, and on them the traces of that sparing but rich ornament, that asserts at once the erstwhile dignity of their wearer when in the flesh,—and typifies with true presentment, the glimpses of his grand character, that now comes back to us so vividly, through depth and dimness of the Past. Even his very dust, carried away piecemeal by the thoughtless wayfarer, adds significant tribute to the greatness of his memory; but the six monks, headless and handless, still remain and kneel by his side, patiently waiting amid the desolation and obscurity for the eternal dawn.

EFFIGY OF JOHN MORTON, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY AND CARDINAL
Cathedral—A.D. 1500
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Our steps finally take us back to Britford church, and a last look at the cenotaph of the restless, unscrupulous, short-sighted, ill-fated Buckingham. At the end of the tomb the decaying angels still support the proud escutcheons of Stafford and Widville, names here, in the funeral pomp of the grave, linked in the closest and most loving tie of human relationship, but in the olden life precedent, opposed to each other with a bitterness that death alone could appease. Time has now gathered themselves and all their actions into his lap, the fierceness of their strife is hushed into silence, and all the suspense and agony that haunted their lives and tracked them to its last resting-place, is over; and the wayfarer who contemplates their sadly-incidented story, and seeks to identify the few wrecks left to perpetuate their memory, as he turns away, mutters to himself the prayerful entreaty doubtless once inscribed over their dust, "cujus anime propicietur Deus, Amen."

We linger a moment to catch a glance at the remarkable Saxon doorways still preserved in the nave,—relics coeval with the age when Old Sarum was in its best estate, and centuries before the glorious fane that adorns its new namesake was born or thought of,—and then emerge into the pleasant evening sunlight. How delightfully-reviving the communion with the purity of Nature, after our thoughts have been saddened by a contemplation of the self-sought miseries of her children. We saunter quietly along under the fine trees that overhang our path, loiter awhile to survey an old moated house, and then pass on by a winding path through mead and lane to Salisbury. Before us is the bright, busy little city, and above it is upreared the remarkable feature that has made its reputation world-wide, the glorious spire of its Cathedral. Higher and still more heavenward, its faultless proportion rises at every step, until standing within its shadow, our thoughts are lost in admiration of those men, who, when they had built an earthly home "to the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity," reared this shaft of beauty from its midst, in testimony that their aspirations were not satisfied until they had placed its top-stone as near His heavenly home as human hands could raise it.

SALISBURY SPIRE.

UNHORSED AT BOSWORTH.

The "silent finger that points to heaven" has, beyond all comparison, its finest exemplar at Salisbury, and this record, although common as a household word, is, notwithstanding, none the less true and impressive, and ever returns with Tithonic vigour at each renewed contemplation. Graceful in the happiest degree in proportion, its great altitude gives a power to its slender beauty of form, altogether beyond the rivalry of its sister spires that spring with humbler charms from this land of ours. Thus it stands in grand isolated dignity, amid the long-swelling undulations of the Wiltshire hills, with base trending earth-ward, yet lost before touching the ground amid the blue mist that creeps with shrouding haze along the wolds,—but its fine-drawn point pierces with no uncertain intention the quiet amber of the evening sky.

It would be perhaps difficult to find any where, taken in sympathy with its peculiar associations, a picture more impressive and delightful. The purpose of its builders,—the object of its dedication,—its majesty of size and height, lifting itself as it were far from the busy haunts and homes of those, who living, nestle at its feet, or in death are laid beneath its protective shadow,—its dark-tinted, yet well-defined, heaven-ward rising, beautiful outline,—so suggestive in its form of the design of this life, scarce rooted in the earth, yet with apex cleaving the sky, and tinctured too akin with the gloomy tints of human uncertainty, summon a host of thoughts from the inner recesses of the soul, and bids the gazer on its fair proportion and upward glance ask himself as he views it, how far the resemblance reflects his own condition, what he was designed for, what he has made himself.

And now the attraction of its wonderful presence has drawn us nearer, and we are sitting contemplatively under one of the large elms in the Close where the grand proportions of the fine cathedral are before us. Almost oppressive for a while, is the realization of its great size, and the glance upward from the spirelets of the west front to the apex of the glorious spire, vanishing in the blue ether. But the eye must not dally with, nor dwell too lovingly on the delicate interlacery it is arrayed in, for however beautiful in itself, or when viewed alone, its decoration scarcely harmonizes with the bolder and more largely-defined ornamental details of the structure below; and the comparison at once assures us that this splendid addition was the offspring of a somewhat later age, but redolent of the truest and purest perception of architectural beauty, and was placed there with feeling akin to the tasteful hand that completes the cluster of gathered flowers with a tall spikelet of harmonious form, but of otherwise almost imperceptible contrasting beauty.

EFFIGY OF LORD CHENEY, SALISBURY CATHEDRAL
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What words may appropriately describe this almost unrivalled picture? Two lines from one of our greatest bards suggest themselves,—

"Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime—
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!"

to which may be added that rare impression of unbroken harmony, and the pleasant satisfaction of this feeling clothes gratefully every aspect presented.

Singularly pleasant to the eye, also, and giving a sense of stability to this fine building, is the noble base-line of strong moulding that follows every length, angle, and recess, and adds the finish of completeness from spire to basement.

We enter, and within as without all is pure, severe, and uniform, the offspring of an age before men's minds and hands were wooed of their strength by the blandishments of ornament, and while yet they relied on the rare and noble simplicity of perfected outline, ever the most difficult of achievement, and, consequently when attained, ever the more enduring of pleasure. Those dark, slender shafts, with their deep-cut capitals, stand with airy but decided purpose from jutting quoin, or flank the strong arches, perfectly harmonizing with the contour of all about them; and while they relieve the monotony or severity of their surroundings, do not intrude on the eye, nor distract the attention further, but quietly and unobtrusively fill the true subsidiary position that should ever be assigned to ornament, and nothing beyond.

Were it possible to take a stranger into the cathedral, and, ignorant of its existence, place him under the spire, the wildest flight of imagination could not conjure within his mind the possibility of the existence of the noble finial that rises above his head. The piers of the arches on which it rests afford no clue, and although somewhat larger than those near them, are nevertheless so comparatively slender that they would attract no notice unless carefully pointed out, and then a glance outside, and another survey within would startle him into an almost awe-struck realization of the consummate boldness that planned, and ability that carried to completion, this wonderful afterthought, and impress him that there were indeed giants in architectural resource, even in those "dark days," as we are sometimes pleased to call them.

Another and most distinguished charm too, finds striking witness at Salisbury. Its chaste and simple grandeur has fairly put to the rout the modern decorator, with his paint-pots and gold leaf,—that sturdy and well-patronized defacer of the real, with the garniture of the cheat. No room for him here, or but scant and in soberest guise, and his meretricious attractions are met everywhere with the declaration mirrored in the gleaming Purbeck, or nestling in the ghost-like shadows that haunt the deep-cut foliage that crowns it,—there is no beauty like reality.

Thus much for our short survey of the stately fabric. Our next inquiry is, what is the special purpose of our visit to-day—where is the object we are in search of? It is for the memorial of one of those half-courtier, half-soldier chieftains, so many of whom threw their fortune in with his, and afterward found distinguished place and occupation at the Court and government of the first Tudor king. Where shall we find it? With a sort of shudder we take a survey of the assemblage of monuments lying so regularly and suspiciously disposed, in lines under the arches of the nave. In the long array we note effigies of templars, bishops, and knights—interposed here and there with brassless stones—reclining for the most part on nondescript-looking tombs, composed of heterogeneous and patchwork materials, having little or no relationship apparently to the figures they support. Instantly we apprehend in its fullest sense, the sacrilegious barbarism of Wyatt, who removed almost the whole of them from their original places in other parts of the edifice, to their present incongruous positions, making up the tombs piecemeal from such fragments out of the general destruction, as happened to fit, or be available,—probably the most deplorable desecration of its kind to be found in the annals of archæological record, and which we wish we could not further think of.

Singularly, almost uniquely rich was this cathedral in tombs of every age, before this ruthless resurrectionist and invader of sepulchres was let loose therein, toward the close of the last century to wreak his fury. Dowsing was almost a hero in desecration, compared with the callous and equally destructive energies of Wyatt, for while the fanatic iconoclast had that fiercest of all flames, ignorant bigotry, to urge him on, it was left to the 'cultivated' imagination of one, who aspired to be thought an architect and man of taste, to set himself up as a rival in the detestable business of spoliation, and scarce any escaped him from the Founder downward, for Bishop Poore was meted out the same fate, impartially as others.

Emerging from under the modern brass screen that separates the choir from the nave, slowly we pass down the south aisle. There, is the beautiful effigy of William Longspée, the first Earl of Sarum, son of Henry II. and fair Rosamond, reclining on his glorious tomb, once covered with exquisite mosaic work, the embossed lions on his enamelled shield, chafing at the indignity of their master having been ousted from his olden station of honour in the Lady Chapel,—Bishop de la Wyle the founder of St. Edmund's Collegiate Church in this city at the close of the thirteenth century,—the tomb of the unfortunate Lord Stourton of murderer's fame and silken halter,—the martial proportions of the second Lord Hungerford, brought hither from the demolished Chantry erected by his wife the last Bottreaux, on the north side of the retro-choir,—next, the tomb of Bishop Beauchamp, the "Wykeham of his age" (for he superintended the building of St. George's Chapel at Windsor Castle), taken from his beautiful Chantry, that once had place opposite to Lady Hungerford's; and following him, the interesting effigies of two other early and distinguished Bishops, Roger, and Joceline, A.D. 1184, and brought from old Sarum! The face of Bishop Joceline, although so old and denuded, still exhibits the marvellous placidity of sleep, all the more so from the partial effacement of the features, but displaying an effect no modern sculpture could imitate.

But he whom we seek is not found among this long succession of departed greatness, and we carefully proceed with our investigation up the north aisle.

Here the first we meet with, is the unique and mysterious "Boy Bishop,"—lying at length and much denuded beneath his protective iron grating. Then we pass two "unappropriated" tombs, and next a mail-clad effigy said to be William Longspée, second Earl of Salisbury, son of the William on the other side,—then a fine figure of a knight in bascinet and surcoat, John de Montacute, with fortunately a considerable portion of the original tomb below him. Whom does this desolate-looking pair of brassless stones, side by side record, with indent of man and wife still apparent on them? Ah! the emblem powdered on the stone,—the harvest sickle,—unravels their story, and a feeling of sadness pervades us, as we recognize in them the memorials that once covered the dust of Walter, the first Lord Hungerford—father of Robert on the opposite side—and Katharine Peverel his wife, shifted here about a century since, as an inscription on them informs us, "by Jacob C. Radnor," when he removed the beautiful iron-work Chantry in which they originally had appropriate place, and carried it away to the east end of the choir to do duty as a 'family pew.'

There is but one more effigy, you say,—as we turn from this last memorial of the long sequence of departed and 'translated' worthies—and that must be him whom we seek. A glance at the tall armoured figure immediately assures us that he is found, Sir John Cheney, Baron of that name; and a stout adherent of the first Tudor sovereign, Henry VII.

The family of Cheney, as we have previously noted,[26] was a wide spreading one in the south of England, and, according to Burke, derived their descent from a common ancestor, Ralph de Caineto, who came to England with the Conqueror.

Sir John, of the monument before us, was of Kentish extraction. William, the son of Sir Alexander Cheney, married Margaret, daughter and heir of Sir Robert de Shurland, of Shurland in the parish of Eastchurch, in the Isle of Sheppey. He died 8 Edward III., 1333, leaving issue Robert, who left issue Sir Richard of Shurland, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Robert Cralle, of Cralle, Sussex, by whom he left two sons, William of Shurland, and Richard of Cralle.

Sir William Cheney of Shurland, Sheriff of Kent, 13 Henry IV., 1412,—1 Henry V., 1414,—2 Henry VI., 1424, Knight of the Shire for Kent, 3 Henry V., 1418, died 21 Henry VI., 1443, and was buried with Margaret his wife in St. Benet's church, Paul's Wharf, London.

He was succeeded by his son Sir John, Knight of the Shire for Kent, 27 Henry VI., 1449, and Sheriff 33 Henry VI., 1455. He married Eleanor, daughter and coheiress of Sir Robert de Shottisbroke, knt., and sister to Margaret, Duchess of Somerset. There were two sons, John and William.

Sir William, second son, was Sheriff of Kent 7 Edward IV., 1467, and I Henry VII., 1486, was appointed Constable of Queenborough Castle, the same year. He was twice married; by his first wife had one son, Sir Francis Cheney, who succeeded his father as Constable of Queenborough Castle, and died without issue; and by his second wife one son, Thomas, who became his uncle John's heir. (Hasted.)

Sir John Cheney, the eldest son, of Shurland, is the subject of our narrative. He appears to be the first of this numerous and influential race that reached the honour of the peerage.[27]

We first hear of him in 1465, when he was one of the Commissioners sent to treat with the King of Denmark, accompanied by Dr. Goldwell, Dean of Salisbury. He is here called "strenuus miles," probably from his great stature and strength.

In 1475, where he is termed Esquire of the King's body, with a retinue of seven men at arms, including himself, he accompanied the English army to Calais, in the expedition to France by Edward IV., when that king was first deceived and then out-manœuvred by the Dukes of Brittany and Burgundy, and afterward bought off from all his martial intentions by the French king Louis XI., promising to pay him seventy-two thousand crowns down, and a yearly pension of fifty thousand crowns for life,—marry his son the Dauphin to Edward's daughter Elizabeth (afterward wife to Henry VII.), and a further sum of fifty thousand crowns as a ransom for the release of the widowed Queen Margaret. Louis, remembering Crecy and Agincourt, was exceedingly anxious to see the backs of the English turned on France, and besides all this money, or the promise of it, sent to Edward "three hundred waggon loads of wine," and further cartloads for the use of his army; and "at length the French king's fears vanished with the departure of the English, who went away extremely pleased with the French gold and wine, while the pensions assigned to Edward's principal courtiers amounted to sixteen thousand crowns a year."

Among the "principal courtiers" who were recipients of this inglorious spoil, Sir John Cheney's name is given as one, and associated with him were John Grey, Marquis of Dorset, William, Lord Hastings, his wife's father-in-law, the King's Chamberlain, and Dr. Thomas Morton, born at Bere-Regis, in Dorset,—then Master of the Rolls, and afterward Cardinal and Archbishop of Canterbury; all west-country names of great interest connected with our little annals. It was however stipulated by his French majesty, after seeing Edward, and swearing the treaty, that John, Lord Howard, and Sir John Cheney, Master of the Horse, should be left as hostages, until the King of England (after receiving the seventy-two thousand crowns) had passed the seas with his army. Edward, after receiving the money, embarked his forces with all expedition, and Howard and Cheney remained until his arrival in England, during which interval they were entertained "very nobly" by the French king.

We do not find him further mentioned during the reign of Edward IV., or the short rule of his unfortunate son, but soon after the usurpation of Richard III., he was among those who gave his adhesion to the Countess of Richmond (mother of Henry VII.) being won over to the interest of her son by her trusty envoy, Sir Reginald Braye, and with him was Sir Giles Daubeney, and other influential men.

This being so, in due time, which occurred almost immediately, in 1483 he joined in the movement—so unfortunate as it turned out—of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, and was associated with the Courtenays, the Marquis of Dorset, and others forming the western contingent, being in arms against the king, near Salisbury. On the dispersion of Buckingham's followers through the Severn inundation, Sir John Cheney and his companions made their escape safely across to France, where they joined the Earl of Richmond. His name was included in the Proclamation issued against the insurgent fugitives by Richard, with rewards offered therein proportionate to their station, on apprehension.

It is probable Sir John remained with, or near Richmond, in France, until his final expedition to England, in which he doubtless accompanied him, and on landing, proceeded with the Earl's army on their march through Wales to Bosworth.[28]

This memorable engagement which took place on the 22nd of August 1484, has been ably described by many pens, and its incidents, beyond those having reference directly to our story, need not be

In addition to the stream of deserters from his own army to that of his rivals, which met Richard's eyes on that eventful day, the defection of Lord Stanley, a misfortune of the first magnitude, assured Richard that no time was to be lost, if he hoped to save his crown. So, gathering a muster of as many as remained true to him, he made a direct and magnificent charge into the centre of his foes' line, striving gallantly to recover his fortune. Leading them in person, he fought his way directly to his adversary's standard, and "in his furie he manfully overthrew Sir William Brandon, the Earle's Standard-bearer, and Sir John Cheney, both men of mightie force and knowne valiancie," and he nearly reached Richmond himself. Hollingshed thus describes it,—

The old chronicler, as a matter of course, pays Richmond the compliment of his "keeping him at the sword's point without advantage," but other accounts relate that the Earl was in no hurry to cross weapons with his redoubtable and now desperate antagonist, and was doubtless greatly "recomforted" at Stanley's opportune defection, with his "soccour of three thousand tall men."

That Richmond had a narrow escape is evident, Sir William Brandon his Standard-Bearer, was killed, and Sir John Cheney, giant in stature as he was, was unhorsed—"manfully overthrown"—by the comparatively diminutive, deformed King himself. Then a swarm of assailants closed round Richard, and he was hurled to the earth, and remorselessly despatched with many wounds.

Whatever may be said of Richard as to the degrading characteristics of his previous career, one thing stands out in strong relief, his undoubted courage, which on this decisive occasion was of the highest order, and claims its full meed of admiration, especially considering the disadvantages of his person, and he closed his life with the fate of a hero.

Simultaneously with Richard's death, if it was not its actual cause, Sir William Stanley following the example of his brother, just at that juncture crossed over with his forces to Richmond's side, which virtually decided the combat, and the battle was ended. The grateful Henry requited Stanley's inestimable service, thus so opportunely given, by putting him to death a few years later, on a very questionable and frivolous charge.

The naked, bloody, dirt-begrimed corpse of the last King of the White Rose, having been picked out from amongst the slain, was thrown contemptuously over the back of a horse,—"like a calf,"—head hanging down on one side and legs on the other, behind a pursuivant of arms called Blanc Sanglier, being the officer called after Richard's own badge, the White Boar, or Boar argent, doubtless so done in derision, and sent off to Leicester, and the battered, blood-stained helmet-crown of the Plantagenet usurper was lifted from the mud and placed upon the head of the Tudor invader.

But had fortune favoured Richard a little further, so that he could have got within weapon's length of his adversary, the untoward fate that befell him, may have been Richmond's instead, and a different chapter altogether substituted as to the future sovereignty of England.

In common with the associates of conquerors, the adherents of the first Tudor king got their due proportion of rewards and honours at his hands, and Sir John Cheney was not forgotten.

The first distinction he received was conferred a short time before Henry's coronation, which took place in October, 1485. Three of the king's highest adherents received patents of nobility, and twelve others were created Knights-Banneret; among these Sir John Cheney stood second on the list. He was also soon after created a Knight of the Garter, being the two hundred and thirty-seventh in the succession, and Dodsworth says, "it was on St. George's Day preceding the coronation, and that he sat at the first table in the right aisle of St. George's Hall, Windsor." At the end of the first Parliament, toward the end of the year, the king called him to his Privy Council.

But the most considerable honour yet awaited him, which took place in 1487, when by writ of summons dated the first of September in that year he was raised to the dignity of a Baron, and summoned to Parliament as such from that period to the 14 October, 1495. He held the office also of Royal Standard-Bearer to Henry VII.

In 1487, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, "a man of talents and enterprise, nephew to Edward IV., Richard III., and Margaret, widow of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy," Henry's uncompromising and implacable enemy, accompanied by Francis, Viscount Lovel (who had been Lord Chamberlain to Richard III.) Fitz-Gerald, Earl of Kildare, the redoubtable Martin Swartz, with a large contingent of veteran Germans, and Irish, having crossed over from Ireland, landed on the fourth of June at Fourdrey in Furness in Lancashire. There they were joined by Sir Thomas Broughton, and the English adherents, and with this motley army was Lambert Simnel, and his tutor Richard Simons the Oxford priest; they marched into Yorkshire, and thence bent southward to Newark. Henry had assembled as numerous an army as he could muster and marched to Nottingham, but was not in sufficient force to give his antagonists battle. There he was reinforced by the Earl of Derby and a body of troops, and also by Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Strange, Sir John Cheney, "and other knights and gentlemen at least three score," bringing with them large additional forces. The king succeeded in occupying Newark before the Earl of Lincoln could reach it, and advanced to East-Stoke, about three miles south of Newark. Here the determined battle of Stoke took place on the sixteenth of June; the Germans fought with great determination, but the Earl's forces were totally routed and all their leaders, except Lord Lovel, slain, fighting to the last sword in hand.

Lord Lovel is reported to have escaped, and his fate has been enshrined in a halo of romance. By some he is said to have been killed in the battle, by others "that he fled and swam over the Trent on horseback, but could not recover on account of the steepness of the bank, and so was drowned in the river." But there is also this remarkable story of his disappearance,—

Previous to the battle another honour was conferred on him,—for among the "Banerettes made by the Kinge at the batell of Stoke besydes Newarke-upon-Trent the IX. day of June Anno Sec'do, whereof the first three wer made before the batell,"—the second name occurring is that of Sir John Cheney. (Metcalfe.)

In 1488 Sir John "received orders with other persons in Hampshire to levy archers for the relief of Brittany then threatened by the French," and in 1492 appears to have accompanied Henry's grand expedition to France, the flotilla being under the command of Lord Willoughby de Broke, as Admiral of the Fleet, and with Lord Daubeney as one of the principal commanders and ambassadors.

Here again money, and not the sword, decided the fortune of war, and it is curious, that one of the articles of this treaty of Etaples should be, that "the king of France (Charles VIII.) should pay the king of England the arrears of the yearly pension of fifty thousand crowns paid by Louis XI. to Edward IV., amounting in all to one hundred and twenty-five thousand crowns, which is twenty-five thousand pounds sterling."

This was the payment of the old debt contracted by the French king in 1475, to Edward IV., who was also to have the English king's daughter Elizabeth for his wife. Now, however, Henry was married to the lady instead, but he did not forget, when opportunity offered, to press for the arrears of the pension, due to her late father. Sir John Cheney was credited with getting a little plunder out of the first transaction in 1475, and it is probable that he did not come empty-handed out of this, the second, although he does not seem to have been one of the English ambassadors chosen to meet the astute Marshal d'Esquerdes.

No further record appears of Lord Cheney's services, and he died without issue in 1496, when the title became extinct. He devised his estates to his nephew Sir Thomas Cheney, of Toddington, Bedfordshire.

Lord Cheney "was the friend, if not the relation of Bishop Beauchamp, for he was appointed one of his executors, and was buried in the Chapel erected by that prelate, in Salisbury Cathedral" (Dodsworth). He now lies under the first arch from the choir, in the north aisle of the nave. The Chapel of this prelate as it appeared before its destruction by Wyatt is thus described in Sir R. C. Hoare's Modern Wiltshire,—