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"Poison'd,-ill fare ;- dead, forsook, cast off:
And none of you will bid the winter come,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold." *

When the dramatic power was working, as we have no doubt it was working early, in the mind of William Shakspere, he would look at history to see how events might be brought together, not in the exact order of time, but in the more natural order of cause and effect. Events would be made prominent, not according to their absolute political importance, but as they were the result of high passions and fearful contests of opinion. The epic of history is a different thing from the dramatic. In the epic the consequences of an event, perhaps the remote consequences, may be more important than the event itself; may be foreseen before the event comes; may be fully delineated after the event has happened. In the drama the importance of an action must be understood in the action itself; the hero must be great in the instant time, and not in the possible. future. It is easy to understand, therefore, how the matured Shakspere attempted not to work upon many of the local associations which must have. been vividly present to his youthful fancy. The great events connected with certain localities were not capable of sustaining a dramatic development. There

* King John, Act v., Scene vii.

was no event, for example, more important in its consequences than the Battle of Evesham. The battle-field must have been perfectly familiar to the young Shakspere. About two miles and a half from Evesham is an elevated point, near the village of Twyford, where the Alcester road is crossed by another track. The Avon is not more than a mile distant on either hand; for, flowing from Offenham to Evesham, a distance of about three miles, it encircles that town, returning in a nearly parallel direction, about the same distance, to Charlbury. The great road, therefore, from Alcester to Evesham continues, after it passes Twyford, through a narrow tongue of land bounded by the Avon, having considerable variety of elevation. Immediately below Twyford is a hollow now called Battlewell, crossing which the road ascends to the elevated platform of Greenhill. Here, then, was the scene of that celebrated battle which put an end to the terrible conflicts between the Crown and the Nobility, and for a season left the land in peace under the sway of an energetic despotism. The circumstances which preceded that battle, as told in 'The Chronicle of Evesham' (which in William Shakspere's time would have been read and remembered by many an old tenant of the Abbey), were singularly interesting. Simon Montfort, the great Earl of Leicester, was waiting at Evesham the arrival of his son's army from Kenilworth; but Prince Edward had surprised that army, and taken many of its leaders prisoners, and young Montfort durst not leave his stronghold. In that age rumour did not fly quite so quickly as in our days. The Earl of Leicester was ignorant of the events that had happened at Kenilworth. He had made forced marches from Hereford to Worcester, and thence to Evesham. There were solemn masses in the Abbey Church on the 3rd of August, 1265, and the mighty Earl, who had won for himself the name of Sir Simon the Righteous,' felt assured that his son was at hand, and that Heaven would uphold his cause against a perjured Prince. On the morning of the 4th of August the Earl of Leicester sent his barber Nicholas to the top of the Abbey tower, to look for the succour that was coming over the hills from Kenilworth. The barber came down with eager gladness, for he saw, a few miles off, the banner of young Simon de Montfort in advance of a mighty host. And again the Earl sent the barber to the top of the Abbey tower, and the man hastily descended in fear and sorrow, for the banner of young de Montfort was no more to be seen, but, coming nearer and nearer, were seen the standards of Prince Edward, and of Mortimer, and of Gloucester. Then saw the Earl his imminent peril; and he said, according to one writer, "God have our souls all, our days are all done;" or, according to another writer, “Our souls God have, for our bodies be theirs." But Montfort was not a man to fly. Over the bridge of Evesham he might have led his forces, so as to escape from the perilous position in which he was shut up. He hastily marched northward, with King Henry his prisoner, at two o'clock in the afternoon of that day. Before nightfall the waters of the little valley were blood-red. Thousands were slain between those two hills; thousands fled, but there was no escape but by the bridge of Evesham, and they perished in the Avon. The old King, turned loose upon a war-horse amidst the terrible conflict, was saved from death at the hands of the victors by crying out, "I am Henry of Winchester." The massacre of Evesham, where a hun

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dred and eighty barons and knights, in arms for what they called their liberties, were butchered without quarter, was a final measure of royal vengeance. It was a great epic story. It had dramatic points, but it was not essentially dramatic. If Shakspere had chosen the wars of the Barons, instead of the wars of the Roses, for a vast dramatic theme, the fate of Simon de Montfort and his gallant company might have been told so as never to have been forgotten. But he had another tale of civil war to tell; one more essentially dramatic in the concentration of its events, the rapid changes in its fortunes, the marked characters of its leaders. On the battle-field of Evesham he would indeed meditate upon "The ill success of treason, the fall of hasty climbers, the wretched end of usurpers, the misery of civil dissension, and how just God is evermore in punishing murder." * But these lessons were to be worked out more emphatically in other histories. Another Warwickshire poet would sing the great Battle of Edward and Leicester:

"In that black night before this sad and dismal day,

Were apparitions strange, as dread Heaven would bewray
The horrors to ensue : O most amazing sight!

Two armies in the air discerned were to fight,

Which came so near to earth, that in the morn they found
The prints of horses' feet remaining on the ground;
Which came but as a show, the time to entertain
Till th' angry armies join'd, to act the bloody scene.
Shrill shouts, and deadly cries, each way the air do fill,
And not a word was heard from either side, but kill:

The father 'gainst the son, the brother 'gainst the brother,
With gleaves, swords, bills, and pikes, were murthering one another.

* Nashe.

The full luxurious earth seems surfeited with blood,
Whilst in his uncle's gore th' unnatural nephew stood;
Whilst with their charged staves the desperate horsemen meet,
They hear their kinsmen groan under their horses' feet.
Dead men, and weapons broke, do on the earth abound;
The drums, bedash'd with brains, do give a dismal sound.
Great Le'ster there expir'd, with Henry his brave son,
When many a high exploit they in that day had done.
Scarce was there noble house of which those times could tell,
But that some one thereof on this or that side fell;
Amongst the slaughter'd men that there lay heap'd on piles,
Bohuns and Beauchamps were, Bassets and Mandeviles :
Segraves and Saint Johns seek, upon the end of all,
To give those of their names their Christian burial.
Ten thousand on both sides were ta'en and slain that day:
Prince Edward gets the goal, and bears the palm away."

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There is peace awhile in the land. A strong man is on the throne. The first Edward dies, and, a weak and profligate son succeeding him, there is again misrule and turbulence. Within ten miles of Stratford there was a fearful tragedy enacted in the year 1312. On the little knoll called Blacklow Hill, about a mile from Warwick, would William Shakspere ponder upon the fate of Gaveston. In that secluded spot all around him would be peacefulness; the only sound of life about him would be the dashing of the wheel of the old mill at Guy's Cliff. The towers of Warwick would be seen rising above their

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surrounding trees; and, higher than all, Guy's Tower. He would have heard that this tower was not so called from the Saxon champion, the Guy of minstrelsy, whose statue, bearing shield and sword, he had often looked upon in the chapel of St. Mary Magdalen at Guy's Cliff. The Tower was called after

• Drayton's Polyolbion,' 22nd Song.

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the Guy whose common name-a name of opprobrium fixed on him by Gaveston-was associated with that of his maternal ancestors,-Guy, the Black Dog of Arden. And then the tragedy of Blacklow Hill, as he recollected this, would present itself to his imagination. There is a prisoner standing in the great hall of Warwick Castle. He is unarmed; he is clad in holiday vestments, but they are soiled and torn; his face is pale with fear and the fatigue of a night journey. By force has he been hurried some thirty miles across the country from Dedington, near Banbury; and amidst the shouts of soldiery and the rude clang of drum and trumpet has he entered the castle of his enemies, where they are sitting upon the dais,-Warwick and Lancaster, and Hereford and Arundel, and the prisoner stands trembling before them, a monarch's minion, but one whom they have no right to punish. But the sentence is pronounced that he shall die. He sued for mercy to those whom he had called "the black dog" and "the old hog," but they spurned him. sad procession is marshalled. The castle gates are opened; the drawbridge is let down. In silence the avengers march to Blacklow Hill, with their prisoner in the midst. He dies by the axe. In a few years his unhappy master falls still more miserably. Here is, indeed, a story fit for tragedy; and that the young Shakspere had essayed to dramatize it, or at any rate had formed a dramatic picture of so remarkable an event, one so fitted for the display of character and passion, may be easily conjectured. But it was a story, also, which in some particulars his judgment would have rejected, as unworthy to be dramatized. Another poet would arise, a man of undoubted power, of daring genius, of fiery temperament, who would seize upon the story of Edward II. and his wretched favourite, and produce a drama that should present a striking contrast to the drawling histories of the earlier stage. The

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