The Battle of Alcazar, written as early as 1589, but not printed till 1594, is a strange performance, and nearly as worthless as strange; full of tearing rant and fustian; while the action, if such it may be called, goes it with prodigious license, jumping to and fro between Portugal and Africa without remorse.  I have some difficulty in believing the piece to be Peele’s:  certainly it is not in his vein, nor, as to that matter, in anybody’s else; for it betrays at every step an ambitions imitation of Marlowe, wherein, as usually happens, the faults of the model are exaggerated, and the virtues not reached.  Peele could hardly have been cast into such an ecstasy of disorder, but from a wild attempt to rival the author of Tamburlaine, which is several times referred to in the piece.

King Edward the First, printed in 1593, and probably written later than the preceding, is much better every way.  But its chief claim to notice is as an early attempt in the Historical Drama, which Shakespeare brought to such perfection.  The character of Edward is portrayed with considerable spirit and truth to history, and is perhaps Peele’s best effort in that line.  On the other hand, Queen Elinor of Castile is shockingly disfigured, and this, not only in contempt of history, which might be borne with if it really enriched the scene, but to the total disorganizing of the part itself; the purpose being, no doubt, to gratify the bitter national antipathy to the Spaniards.  Peele seems to have been incapable of the proper grace and delectation of comedy:  nevertheless the part of Prince Lluellen, of Wales, and his adherents, who figure pretty largely, and sometimes in the disguise of Robin Hood and his merry men, shows something of comic talent, and adds to the entertainment of the piece.  The other comic portions have nothing to recommend them.

The Old Wives’ Tale, printed in 1595, is little worth mention save as having probably contributed somewhat to one of the noblest and sweetest poems ever written.—­Two brothers are wandering in quest of their sister, whom Sacrapant, an enchanter, has imprisoned:  they call her name, and Echo replies; whereupon Sacrapant gives her a potion that induces self-oblivion.  His magical powers depend on a wreath which encircles his head, and on a light enclosed in glass which he keeps hidden under the turf.  The brothers afterwards meet with an old man, also skilled in magic, who enables them to recover their sister.  A Spirit in the likeness of a young page comes to Sacrapant, tears off his wreath, and kills him.  Still the sister remains enchanted, and cannot be released till the glass is broken and the light extinguished; which can only be done by a Lady who is neither maid, wife, nor widow.  The Spirit blows a magical horn, and the Lady appears, breaks the glass, and puts out the light.  A curtain being then withdrawn discovers the sister asleep; she is disenchanted, joins her brothers, and the Spirit vanishes.—­The resemblance to Milton’s Comus need not be pointed out.  The difference of the two pieces in all points of execution is literally immense; Peele’s work in this case being all steeped in meanness and vulgarity, without a touch of truth, poetry, or wit.