"at Knole in Kent, 16. cal. Oct. 1500, as the Canterbury
Obituary, or 15. Sep. as the Register, aged 90. By his will dated
16 June, and proved 22 Oct. 1500, he _ordered 1000 marks to be
given in alms at his funeral; his best gilt cross and mitre to
the Church of Ely; to King Henry his best portiforium; to Queen
Elizabeth his best psalter; to Lady Margaret the King's mother, a
round image of the Blessed Virgin of Gold; to Lady Margaret his
god-daughter, and the King's eldest daughter, a cup of gold, &c.,
&c._
"He was buried in the Cathedral of Canterbury, in the crypt,
before the image of the Virgin Mary, called our Lady Under-Croft,
agreeable to his will. Over his stone coffin, which was first
deposited in the ground, was laid a marble, even with the surface
of the pavement, which being broken, several parts of his body
wrapt in cere-cloth, were taken away. At length the head only
remained, which in 1670, Ralph Sheldon of Beoly, Co. Worcester,
begged of Archbishop Sheldon, and at his death in 1684 left it to
his niece. Near his grave, on the south side of the chapel was a
goodly tomb erected to his memory, without any inscription."
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.
[Illustration: EFFIGY OF JOHN MORTON, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
AND CARDINAL
CATHEDRAL--A.D. 1500]
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.