Thus ends our visit to what was once the grand earthly home and possessions of 'the extravagant Lord Cheney'—one more strange, but not altogether uncommon phase of human life. How many of these historic apparitions have crossed the path of our desultory wanderings over the west-country, flashing like meteors through the gloom of the past, when summoned by the wizard hand of research, and as quickly fading and disappearing when its sympathetic power is withdrawn. In the glance of their happier, or more fortunate, transitory radiance, may shine the pre-eminent glory of the crown, the mild lustre of the mitre, the bold glow of the rod of office, or brilliant flash of the sword; yet thickly interspersed albeit with the lurid gleam of the axe, and perchance, as to-day, with the pitiful, hasty flicker of the spendthrift.

So do the glimpses of these noted actors on the passing stage of human existence, and the memories of their short but eventful careers, come back to us, with intensely interesting, because real power, alongside which the strongest flight of Romance is as a phantom. He who affects to contemn such investigations, and lives only in and for the present,—ignorant, careless, or indifferent as to the past, and bent on enjoying, as it is termed, the passing hour,—little wots of the care, the pain, and the strife, through which those who have gone before, have fought and toiled and suffered;—lives but half a life, in itself barren and ephemeral, as it is disassociated from all that has preceded it and built the foundations of that life up. Whether for good or for evil, matters not, the continuity of influence cannot be dissevered, for

"In to-day already walks to-morrow."

From Toddington and our musing over his collateral descendants, our story finally leads us back to the giant Knight himself, and the solemn grandeur of Salisbury Cathedral. We take a final look at the armoured form of this son of Anak, and as we glance at the lines of recumbent forms,—ecclesiastics,—statesmen,—soldiers, and others, that held high place during their lives in the government of their native land, for the five or six eventful centuries, in which, through much contention, that government was slowly determining and settling,—the thought arises, how comprehensively this grand building, as a sheep-fold, whose door is the Gate of Death, hath silently and surely gathered together here these erstwhile great ones of the earth at last,—even all sorts and conditions of men,—the consecrated, the peaceful, the devoted, rest side by side with the ambitious, the restless, the proud,—

"They live with God, their homes are dust;
But here their children pray."

To the assing wayfarer the glowing desires and anxious longings, that animated their lives, are now well-nigh forgotten or unknown, and have vanished in the past as a tale that is told,—"in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die, but they are in peace," even the peace that passeth all understanding.

BOSWORTH FIELD.

But one chance left—'mid these misfortunes vast,
Looming like avalanche upon their prey,—
"Treason!" he cried, "the White Rose die is cast,"
And like an unchained eagle spurred away,—
"The fiery Dragon to the heart I'll wound,
And him that with it seeks to snatch my crown,—
Swift! follow me! see Brandon bites the ground,
The giant Cheney from his horse is down,—
Fortune attend! my steed, a few strides more,
And the Red Rose shall doubly-dyed appear—
Can I but reach him—steeped in its own gore,
Or Death, come thou as foe I never fear,—
Traitors make way!"—but they in vengeful ring
Closed, and 'neath blows relentless fell the King!

INDENT OF THE BRASS OF ARCHBISHOP STAFFORD.
Canterbury Cathedral
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