Peele chose three distinct points of interest because he knew no better. It seemed to him, just as it did to Greene, that by so doing he would treble the interest of the play as a whole; both were a long way from comprehending the wisdom underlying the dramatic law of Unity of Action. If not famous, Peele's Chronicle History has become, in a small way, infamous, by reason of the representation it gives of the queen's character. A Spaniard, she figures as a monster of cruelty, pride and vanity, capable of wishes and deeds which we have no desire to remember. At this distance of time, however, righteous indignation at the injustice done to a fair name is perhaps uncalled for. The play is only read by the curious student, and it is quite apparent, as others have pointed out, that the attack is directed more against the Spanish nation than against an individual. We may still regret the injustice, but we know better than to wonder at any misconception sixteenth-century Englishmen may have formed of their hated foe. As a specimen of Peele's rarely exercised broad humour the knavery of the Welsh Friar, Hugh ap David, should be noticed; his trick for winning a hundred marks from 'sweet St. Francis' receiver' is, perhaps, the best part of it. More worthy of remembrance is Joan, admirably chosen, for her innocence and gentleness, to stand in contrast to Queen Elinor; the story of her happy love and most unhappy death adds a touch of genuine pathos to the gruesome shadows of tragedy which darken the final pages. Much in her portrait, as in the prose scenes concerned with the Welsh Friar, may have been inspired by the success of Greene, whose influence is marked throughout the play. For our illustrations we quote Gloucester's lament over his young wife--the closing speech of the play--, and one of several allusions to the English nation which testify to the poet's sincere and warm patriotism. (1) _Gloucester._ Now, Joan of Acon, let me mourn thy fall. Sole, here alone, now sit thee down and sigh, Sigh, hapless Gloucester, for thy sudden loss: Pale death, alas, hath banish'd all thy pride, Thy wedlock-vows! How oft have I beheld Thy eyes, thy looks, thy lips, and every part, How nature strove in them to show her art, In shine, in shape, in colour and compare! But now hath death, the enemy of love, Stain'd and deform'd the shine, the shape, the red, With pale and dimness, and my love is dead. Ah, dead, my love! vile wretch, why am I living? So willeth fate, and I must be contented: All pomp in time must fade, and grow to nothing. Wept I like Niobe, yet it profits nothing. Then cease, my sighs, since I may not regain her; And woe to wretched death that thus hath slain her! (2)