Suf. Thus droops this lofty pine, and hangs

his sprays;

Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest days. York. Lords, let him go:-Please it your majesty,

This is the day appointed for the combat;
And ready are the appellant and defendant,
The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,
So please your highness to behold the fight.

Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord; for purposely
therefore

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.

K. Hen. O' God's name, see the lists and all things fit;

Here let them end it, and God defend the right! York. I never saw a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The servant of this armourer, my lords. Enter, on one side, HORNER, and his neighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters bearing his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; a drum before him: at the other side, PETER, with a drum and a similar staff; accompanied by prentices drinking to him.

1 Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack. And fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.

2 Neigh. And here, neighbour, here's a cup of charneco.a

3 Neigh. And here's a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man.

Hor. Let it come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter!

1 Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid.

2 Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the prentices.

Peter. I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for I think I have taken my last draught in this world.-Here, Robin, an if I die I give thee my apron; and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer:—and here, Tom, take all the money that I have.—O Lord, bless me, I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already. Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows. Sirrah, what's thy name?

Peter. Peter, forsooth.

Sal. Peter! what more?

Peter. Thump.

Sal. Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Charneco-the name of a wine.

Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man and touching the duke of York, I will take my death, I never meant him any ill, nor the king, nor the queen: And therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow, [as Bevis of Southampton fell upon Ascapart."]

York. Despatch;-this knave's tongue begins to double.

Sound trumpets alarum to the combatants.

[Alarum. They fight, and PETER strikes down his master.

Hor. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess [Dies.

treason.

York. Take away his weapon:-Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way.

Peter. O God! have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right!

K. Hen. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight;

For, by his death, we do perceive his guilt:
And God, in justice, hath reveal'd to us
The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,
Which he had thought to have murder'd wrong-
fully.

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence;
I care not whither, for I beg no favour,
Only convey me where thou art commanded.
Stan. Why, madam, that is to the isle of Man;
There to be used according to your state.

Duch. That's bad enough, for I am but reproach:

And shall I then be used reproachfully?

Stan. Like to a duchess, and duke Humphrey's lady,

According to that state you shall be used.

Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare; Although thou hast been conduct of my shame!

Sher. It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. Duch. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharg'd.

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stan. Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet:

No, it will hang upon my richest robes,
And show itself, attire me how I can.
Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison.
[Exeunt.

"As Bevis of Southampton fell upon Ascapart." We have been unwilling to part with these words, although they are wanting in the text as revised by Shakspere. The allusions in our old poets to the older romances, form a chain of traditionary literature of which it is not pleasant to lose a single link. We have no doubt that our greatest poet was a diligent student of those ancient legends, upon which one who in many respects greatly resembled him chiefly formed himself. Scott has done more than any man of our own generation to send us back to these well-heads of poesy. His lines in the Lady of the Lake' illustrate the passage before us :"My sire's tall form might grace the part Of Ferragus, or Asca bart."

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Sir Bevis has had monuments of stone (as the

Gate at Southampton), and more enduring monuments of literature. He earned these honours, as the legend says, by the conquest of the mightiest of giants, who yet stands by his side, in the sculptured record, as a person of very reasonable dimensions. But the romance (we give the modernised version of Ellis) tells us something different:

"This giant was mighty and strong,
And full thirty feet was long.
He was bristled like a sow;

A foot he had between each brow;
His lips were great and hung aside;
His eyen were hollow, his mouth was wide;
Lothly he was to look on than,

And liker a devil than a man:
His staff was a young oak,-
Hard and heavy was his stroke."

THE miracle scene at St. Alban's is founded upon a real occurrence. Sir Thomas More tells the story as related to him by his father. The poet probably found it in More's works, which were printed in 1557; but this ludicrous episode in a tragic history is also thus told by Grafton in his Chronicle:

"In the time of King Henry VI., as he rode in progress, there came to the town of Saint Alban's a certain beggar, with his wife, and there was walking about the town, begging, five or six days before the king's coming, saying that he was born blind, and never saw in all his life; and was warned in his dream that he should come out of Berwick, where he said that he had ever dwelled, to seek Saint Alban.

When the king was come, and the town full of people, suddenly this blind man, at Saint Alban's shrine, had his sight; and the same was solemnly rung for a miracle, and Te Deum songen: so that nothing was talked of in all the town but this miracle. So happened it then that Duke Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, a man no less wise than also well learned, called the poor man up to him, and looked well upon his eyen, and asked whether he could never see anything at all in all his life before? and when as well his wife as himself affirmed fastly, No; then he looked advisedly upon his eyen again, and said, I believe you may well, for me thinketh that ye cannot see well yet. Yes, sir, quoth he: I

thank God and his holy martyr, I can see now as well as any man. Ye can, quoth the duke; what colour is this gown? Then anon the beggar told him. What colour, quoth he, is this man's gown? He told him also, without staying or stumbling, and told the names of all the colours that could be showed him. And when the duke saw that, he made him be set openly in the stocks."

The poet found the picturesque story of the trial of battle between the armourer and his servant thus briefly told in Holinshed :

"In the same year also a certain armourer was appeached of treason by a servant of his own. For proof thereof a day was given them to fight in Smithfield, insomuch that in conflict the said armourer was overcome and slain; but yet by misgoverning of himself: for, on the morrow, when he should come to the field fresh and fasting, his neighbours came to him, and gave him wine and strong drink in such excessive sort that he was therewith distempered, and reeled as he went, and so was slain without guilt. As for the false servant, he lived not long unpunished; for, being convict of felony in court of assize, he was judged to be hanged, and so was, at Tyburn."

The event is dramatically connected by the poet with the main plot, by his exact description of the treason of which "a certain armourer was appeached:"

"His words were these ;-that Richard, duke of York,
Was rightful heir unto the English crown;
And that your majesty was an usurper."

The poetical variations of the incident told by Holinshed greatly heighten the dramatic effect. The scene, in all probability, presents an accurate representation of the forms which attended a trial of battle. In this remarkable case of the battle between the armourer and his servant, some very curious particulars, not detailed by the chroniclers, have been found in the original precept to the sheriffs, and the return of expenses on the occasion, both of which are preserved in the Exchequer. The names of the combatants were John Daveys and William Catour. The barriers, it appears, were brought to Smithfield from Westminster; a large quantity of sand and gravel was laid down, and the place of battle was strewed with rushes. The return of expenses contains the following item: "Also paid to officers for watchyng of ye ded man in Smyth felde ye same day and ye nyghte aftyr yt ye bataill was doon, and for hors hyre for ye officers at ye execucion doyng, and for ye hangman's labor, xjs. vid." The "hangman's labor" was subsequent to the battle. All the historians agree thathe armourer was slain by his servant; but the ceret monies attending the punishment of a traitor were gone through with the dead body. (See Douce, Illustrations.') It is remarkable that the trial of battle was only abolished by law as recently as 1819; and that in the previous year there was every probability that a somewhat similar scene to that here dramatized would have been acted by the authority of the law, in the celebrated case of Ashford and Thornton.

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