out of the field, by the lord Clifford's band, toward the town; but or he could enter into a house, he was by the said lord Clifford espied, followed, and taken, and by reason of his apparel demanded what The young gentleman, dismayed, had not a word to speak, but kneeled on his knees, imploring mercy, and desiring grace, both with holding up his hands, and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was gone for fear.”

he was.

On this, and the similar account by Holinshed, Shakspeare, following the track of an elder dramatic poet, founded the following pathetic scene, which, there is much reason to suppose, little, if at all, exaggerates the fell and cruel rage which inflamed the breasts of nearly all the leaders in this merciless warfare.

"Plains near Sandal Castle.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter RUTLAND and his TUTOR. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands! Ah, tutor! look where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

Cliff Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Cliff. Soldiers, away with him.

Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Cliff. How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them.

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws:
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey;
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.-
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;-
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath,
Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

-

Cliff. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again;

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Cliff. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,

It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul:
And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore-

[Lifting his hand.

Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death:

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

Cliff. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me?

Cliff. Thy father hath.

Rut.

But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof,-sith God is just,-
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;

And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Cliff. No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die!

[CLIFFORD stabs him

It is some satisfaction to know that the perpetrator of this inhuman deed, after having acted a part nearly as savage and relentless at the deathscene of the duke of York, which almost immediately followed, or, as some say, preceded, the murder of his son, was himself killed about three months afterwards, near Ferrybridge in Yorkshire, after having defeated and slain the lord Fitzwalter, who had been stationed by king Edward IV. to maintain the pass at the bridge. It was in his retreat from this rencontre, which took place on Saturday the 28th of March, 1461, that, in a small valley called Dittengale, situated between Towton and Scarthingwell, having either from heat or pain

* Third Part of King Henry VI., Act i. Sc. 3.

put off his gorget, he was suddenly wounded in the throat by a headless arrow, and instantly expired.

This event, which occurred on the night of Saturday-for lord Fitzwalter was roused from his bed by the tumult of the attack-preceded but by fifteen hours the great battle of Towton, fought on Palm Sunday eve, 1461, and in which fell 37,000 Englishmen. In a period of such confusion and dismay, and on the verge of one of the most dreadful actions which ever happened between the rival houses, it is probable that the body of Clifford was left uninterred on the field; for it is the tradition of the family that it was thrown into a pit with a promiscuous heap of the slain, in all likelihood after the battle of Towton had been decided.

Shakspeare, who has thrown, intentionally, I have no doubt, the two actions into one, has finely availed himself of this liberty in depicting the death of Clifford. He represents him, in conformity with the relation of Holinshed, dying from the wound in his throat; but, just as he is in the act of expiring, he brings his bitterest foes, Edward, George of Clarence, Richard of Gloucester, Montague and Warwick, to the spot. They are retiring in exultation from the field of victory, and as the wretched Clif

ford groans and breathes his last, Edward, starting, exclaims

"Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.
Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle 's ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford ;
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch,
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,

But set his murdering knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,

I mean, our princely father, duke of York.

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there: Instead whereof let this supply the room;

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,

That nothing sung but death to us and ours:
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Attendants bring the body forward.

War. I think his understanding is bereft :

Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?-
Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,

And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth ;

'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts

Which in the time of death he gave our father.
Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.
Rich, Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.