Chaucer by Adolphus William Ward

every part of him. Her eyes seemed every now and then as if she were inclined to be merciful, such was the delusion of fools: a delusion in very truth, for It was no counterfeited thing; It was her owne pure looking; So the goddess, dame Nature, Had made them open by measure And close;
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every part of him. Her eyes seemed every now and then as if she were inclined to be merciful, such was the delusion of fools: a delusion in very truth, for

It was no counterfeited thing;
It was her owne pure looking;
So the goddess, dame Nature,
Had made them open by measure
And close; for were she never so glad, Not foolishly her looks were spread,
Nor wildely, though that she play’d; But ever, methought, her eyen said:
“By God, my wrath is all forgiven.”

And at the same time she liked to live so happily that dulness was afraid of her; she was neither too “sober” nor too glad; in short, no creature had over more measure in all things. Such was the lady whom the knight had won for himself, and whose virtues he cannot weary of rehearsing to himself or to a sympathising auditor.

“Sir!” quoth I, “where is she now?”
“Now?” quoth he, and stopped anon;
Therewith he waxed as dead as stone, And said: “Alas that I was bore!
That was the loss! and heretofore
I told to thee what I had lost.
Bethink thee what I said. Thou know’st In sooth full little what thou meanest:
I have lost more than thou weenest. God wot, alas! right that was she.”
“Alas, sir, how? what may that be?
“She is dead.” “Nay?” “Yes, by my truth!” Is that your loss? by God, it is ruth.”

And with that word, the hunt breaking up, the knight and the poet depart to a “long castle with white walls on a rich hill” (Richmond?), where a bell tolls and awakens the poet from his slumbers, to let him find himself lying in his bed, and the book with its legend of love and sleep resting in his hand. One hardly knows at whom more to wonder–whether at the distinguished French scholar who sees so many trees that he cannot see a forest, and who, not content with declaring the “Book of the Duchess,” as a whole as well as in its details, a servile imitation of Machault, pronounces it at the same time one of Chaucer’s feeblest productions; or at the equally eminent English scholar who, with a flippancy which for once ceases to be amusing, opines that Chaucer ought to “have felt ashamed of himself for this most lame and impotent conclusion” of a poem “full of beauties,” and ought to have been “caned for it!” Not only was this “lame and impotent conclusion” imitated by Spenser in his lovely elegy, “Daphnaida” (I have been anticipated in pointing out this fact by the author of the biographical essay on “Spenser” in this series–an essay to which I cannot help taking this opportunity of offering a tribute of sincere admiration. It may not be an undesigned coincidence that the inconsolable widower of the “Daphnaida” is named Alcyon, while Chaucer’s poem begins with a reference to the myth of Ceyx and Alcyone. Sir Arthur Gorges re-appears in Alcyon in “Colin Clout’s come home again.”); but it is the first passage in Chaucer’s writings revealing, one would have thought unmistakeably, the dramatic power which was among his most characteristic gifts. The charm of this poem, notwithstanding all the artificialities with which it is overlaid, lies in its simplicity and truth to nature. A real human being is here brought before us instead of a vague abstraction; and the glow of life is on the page, though it has to tell of death and mourning. Chaucer is finding his strength by dipping into the true spring of poetic inspiration; and in his dreams he is awaking to the real capabilities of his genius. Though he is still uncertain of himself and dependent on others, it seems not too much to say that already in this “Book of the Duchess” he is in some measure an original poet.

How unconscious, at the same time, this waking must have been is manifest from what little is known concerning the course of both his personal and his literary life during the next few years. But there is a tide in the lives of poets, as in those of other men, on the use or neglect of which their future seems largely to depend. For more reasons than one Chaucer may have been rejoiced to be employed on the two missions abroad, which apparently formed his chief occupation during the years 1370-1373. In the first place, the love of books, which he so frequently confesses, must in him have been united to a love of seeing men and cities; few are observers of character without taking pleasure in observing it. Of his literary labours he probably took little thought during these years; although the visit which in the course of them he paid to Italy may be truly said to have constituted the turning-point in his literary life. No work of his can be ascribed to this period with certainty; none of importance has ever been ascribed to it.

On the latter of these missions Chaucer, who left England in the winter of 1372, visited Genoa and Florence. His object at the former city was to negotiate concerning the settlement of a Genoese mercantile factory in one of our ports, for in this century there already existed between Genoa and England a commercial intercourse, which is illustrated by the obvious etymology of the popular term “jane” occurring in Chaucer in the sense of any small coin. (“A jane” is in the “Clerk’s Tale” said to be a sufficient value at which to estimate the “stormy people”) It has been supposed that on this journey he met at Padua Petrarch, whose residence was near by at Arqua. The statement of the “Clerk” in the “Canterbury Tales” that he learnt the story of patient Griseldis “at Padua of a worthy clerk…now dead,” who was called “Francis Petrarch, the laureate poet,” may of course merely imply that Chaucer borrowed the “Clerk’s Tale” from Petrarch’s Latin version of the original by Boccaccio. But the meeting which the expression suggests may have actually taken place, and may have been accompanied by the most suitable conversation which the imagination can supply; while, on the other hand, it is a conjecture unsupported by any evidence whatever, that a previous meeting between the pair had occurred at Milan in 1368, when Lionel Duke of Clarence was married to his second wife with great pomp in the presence of Petrarch and of Froissart. The really noteworthy point is this: that while neither (as a matter of course) the translated “Romaunt of the Rose,” nor the “Book of the Duchess” exhibits any traces of Italian influence, the same assertion cannot safely be made with regard to any important poem produced by Chaucer after the date of this Italian journey. The literature of Italy which was–and in the first instance through Chaucer himself–to exercise so powerful an influence upon the progress of our own, was at last opened to him, though in what measure, and by what gradations, must remain undecided. Before him lay both the tragedies and the comedies, as he would have called them, of the learned and brilliant Boccaccio–both his epic poems and that inexhaustible treasure-house of stories which Petrarch praised for its pious and grave contents, albeit they were mingled with others of undeniable jocoseness–the immortal “Decamerone.” He could examine the refined gold of Petrarch’s own verse with its exquisite variations of its favourite pure theme and its adequate treatment of other elevated subjects; and he might gaze down the long vista of pictured reminiscences, grand and sombre, called up by the mightiest Muse of the Middle Ages, the Muse of Dante. Chaucer’s genius, it may said at once was not TRANSFORMED by its contact with Italian literature; for a conscious desire as well as a conscientious effort is needed for bringing about such a transformation; and to compare the results of his first Italian journey with those of Goethe’s pilgrimage across the Alps, for instance, would be palpably absurd. It might even be doubted whether for the themes which he was afterwards likely to choose, and actually did choose, for poetic treatment the materials at his command in French (and English) poetry and prose would not have sufficed him. As it was, it seems probable that he took many things from Italian literature; it is certain that he learnt much from it. There seems every reason to conclude that the influence of Italian study upon Chaucer made him more assiduous as well as more careful in the employment of his poetic powers–more hopeful at once, if one may so say, and more assured of himself.

Meanwhile, soon after his return from his second foreign mission, he was enabled to begin a more settled life at home. He had acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the Crown, as is shown by the grant for life of a daily pitcher of wine, made to him on April 23rd, 1374, the merry day of the Feast of St. George. It would of course be a mistake to conclude, from any seeming analogies of later times, that this grant, which was received by Chaucer in money-value, and which seems finally to have been commuted for an annual payment of twenty marks, betokened on the part of the King a spirit of patronage appropriate to the claims of literary leisure. How remote such a notion was from the minds of Chaucer’s employers is proved by the terms of the patent by which, in the month of June following, he was appointed Comptroller of the Customs and Subsidy of wools, skins, and tanned hides in the port of London. This patent (doubtless according to the usual official form) required him to write the rolls of his office with his own hand, to be continually present there, and to perform his duties in person and not by deputy. By a warrant of the same month Chaucer was granted the pension of 10 pounds for life already mentioned, for services rendered by him and his wife to the Duke and Duchess of Lancaster and to the Queen; by two successive grants of the year 1375 he received further pecuniary gratifications of a more or less temporary nature; and he continued to receive his pension and allowance for robes as one of the royal esquires. We may therefore conceive of him as now established in a comfortable as well as seemingly secure position. His regular work as comptroller (of which a few scattered documentary vestiges are preserved) scarcely offers more points for the imagination to exercise itself upon than Burns’s excisemanship or Wordsworth’s collectorship of stamps (It is a curious circumstance that Dryden should have received as a reward for his political services as a satirist, an office almost identical with Chaucer’s. But he held it for little more than a year.), though doubtless it must have brought him into constant contact with merchants and with shipmen, and may have suggested to him many a broad descriptive touch. On the other hand, it is not necessary to be a poet to feel something of that ineffable ennui of official life, which even the self-compensatory practice of arriving late at one’s desk, but departing from it early, can only abate, but not take away. The passage has been often quoted in which Chaucer half implies a feeling of the kind, and tells how he sought recreation from what Charles Lamb would have called his “works” at the Custom House in the reading, as we know he did in the writing, of other books:–

–when thy labour done all is,
And hast y-made reckonings,
Instead of rest and newe things
Thou go’st home to thine house anon, And there as dumb as any stone
Thou sittest at another book.

The house at home was doubtless that in Aldgate, of which the lease to Chaucer, bearing date May, 1374, has been discovered; and to this we may fancy Chaucer walking morning and evening from the riverside, past the Postern Gate by the Tower. Already, however, in 1376, the routine of his occupations appears to have been interrupted by his engagement on some secret service under Sir John Burley; and in the following year, and in 1378, he was repeatedly abroad in the service of the Crown. On one of his journeys in the last-named year he was attached in a subordinate capacity to the embassy sent to negotiate for the marriage with the French King Charles V’s daughter Mary to the young King Richard II, who had succeeded to his grandfather in 1377,–one of those matrimonial missions which, in the days of both Plantagenets and Tudors, formed so large a part of the functions of European diplomacy, and which not unfrequently, as in this case at least ultimately, came to nothing. A later journey in May of the same year took Chaucer once more to Italy, whither he had been sent with Sir Edward Berkeley to treat with Bernardo Visconti, joint lord of Milan, and “scourge of Lombardy,” and Sir John Hawkwood–the former of whom finds a place in that brief mirror of magistrates, the “Monk’s Tale.” It was on this occasion that of the two persons whom, according to custom, Chaucer appointed to appear for him in the Courts during his absence, one was John Gower, whose name as that of the second poet of his age is indissolubly linked with Chaucer’s own.

So far, the new reign, which had opened amidst doubts and difficulties for the country, had to the faithful servant of the dynasty brought an increase of royal goodwill. In 1381–after the suppression of the great rebellion of the villeins–King Richard II had married the princess whose name for a season linked together the history of two countries the destinies of which had before that age, as they have since, lain far asunder. Yet both Bohemia and England, besides the nations which received from the former the impulses communicated to it by the latter, have reason to remember Queen Anne the learned and the good; since to her was probably due in the first instance the intellectual intercourse between her native and her adopted country. There seems every reason to believe that it was the approach of this marriage which Chaucer celebrated in one of the brightest and most jocund marriage-poems ever composed by a laureate’s hand; and if this was so, he cannot but have augmented the favour with which he was regarded at Court. When, therefore, by May, 1382, his foreign journeys had come to an end, we do not wonder to find that, without being called upon to relinquish his former office, he was appointed in addition to the Comptrollership of the Petty Customs in the Port of London, of which post he was allowed to execute the duties by deputy. In November, 1384, he received permission to absent himself from his old comptrollership for a month, and in February, 1385, was allowed to appoint a (permanent) deputy for this office also. During the month of October, 1386, he sat in Parliament at Westminster as one of the Knights of the Shire for Kent, where we may consequently assume him to have possessed landed property. His fortunes, therefore, at this period had clearly risen to their height; and naturally enough his commentators are anxious to assign to these years the sunniest, as well as some of the most elaborate, of his literary productions. It is altogether probable that the amount of leisure now at Chaucer’s command enabled him to carry into execution some of the works for which he had gathered materials abroad and at home, and to prepare others. Inasmuch as it contains the passage cited above, referring to Chaucer’s official employment, his poem called the “House of Fame” must have been written between 1374 and 1386 (when Chaucer quitted office), and probably is to be dated near the latter year. Inasmuch as both this poem and “Troilus and Cressid” are mentioned in the Prologue to the “Legend of Good Women,” they must have been written earlier than it; and the dedication of “Troilus” to Gower and Strode very well agrees with the relations known to have existed about this time between Chaucer and his brother-poet. Very probably all these three works may have been put forth, in more or less rapid succession, during this fortunate season of Chaucer’s life.

A fortunate season–for in it the prince who, from whatever cause, was indisputably the patron of Chaucer and his wife, had, notwithstanding his unpopularity among the lower orders, and the deep suspicion fostered by hostile whisperings against him in his royal nephew’s breast, still contrived to hold the first place by the throne. Though serious danger had already existed of a conflict between the King and his uncle, yet John of Gaunt and his Duchess Constance had been graciously dismissed with a royal gift of golden crowns, when in July, 1386, he took his departure for the continent, to busy himself till his return home in November, 1389, with the affairs of Castile, and with claims arising out of his disbursements there. The reasons for Chaucer’s attachment to this particular patron are probably not far to seek; on the precise nature of the relation between them it is useless to speculate. Before Wyclif’s death in 1384, John of Gaunt had openly dissociated himself from the reformer; and whatever may have been the case in his later years, it was certainly not as a follower of his old patron that at this date Chaucer could have been considered a Wycliffite.

Again, this period of Chaucer’s life may be called fortunate, because during it he seems to have enjoyed the only congenial friendships of which any notice remains to us, The poem of “Troilus and Cressid” is, as was just noted, dedicated to “the moral Gower and the philosophical Strode.” Ralph Strode was a Dominican of Jedburgh Abbey, a travelled scholar, whose journeys had carried him as far as the Holy Land, and who was celebrated as a poet in both the Latin and the English tongue, and as a theologian and philosopher. In connexion with speculations concerning Chaucer’s relations to Wycliffism it is worth noting that Strode, who after his return to England was appointed to superintend several new monasteries, was the author of a series of controversial arguments against Wyclif. The tradition, according to which he taught one of Chaucer’s sons, is untrustworthy. Of John Gower’s life little more is known than of Chaucer’s; he appears to have been a Suffolk man, holding manors in that county as well as in Essex, but occasionally to have resided in Kent. At the period of which we are speaking, he may be supposed, besides his French productions, to have already published his Latin “Vox Clamantis”–a poem which, beginning with an allegorical narrative of Wat Tyler’s rebellion, passes on to a series of reflexions on the causes of the movement, conceived in a spirit of indignation against the corruptions of the Church, but not of sympathy with Wycliffism. This is no doubt the poem which obtained for Gower the epithet “moral” (i.e. sententious) applied to him by Chaucer, and afterwards by Dunbar, Hawes, and Shakspere. Gower’s “Vox Clamantis” and other Latin poems (including one “against the astuteness of the Evil One in the matter of Lollardry”) are forgotten; but his English “Confessio Amantis” has retained its right to a place of honour in the history of our literature. The most interesting part of this poem, its “Prologue,” has already been cited as of value for our knowledge of the political and social condition of its times. It gives expression to a conservative tone and temper of mind; and like many conservative minds, Gower’s had adopted, or affected to adopt, the conviction that the world was coming to an end. The cause of the anticipated catastrophe he found in the division, or absence of concord and love, manifest in the condition of things around. The intensity of strife visible among the conflicting elements of which the world, like the individual human being, is composed, too clearly announced the imminent end of all things. Would that a new Arion might arise to make peace where now is hate; but, alas! the prevailing confusion is such that God alone may set it right. But the poem which follows cannot be said to sustain the interest excited by this introduction. Its machinery was obviously suggested by that of the “Roman de la Rose,” though, as Warton has happily phrased it, Gower, after a fashion of his own, blends Ovid’s “Art of Love” with the Breviary. The poet, wandering about in a forest, while suffering under the smart of Cupid’s dart, meets Venus, the Goddess of Love, who urges him, as one upon the point of death, to make his full confession to her clerk or priest, the holy father Genius. This confession hereupon takes place by means of question and answer; both penitent and confessor entering at great length into an examination of the various sins and weaknesses of human nature, and of their remedies, and illustrating their observations by narratives, brief or elaborate, from Holy Writ, sacred legend, ancient history, and romantic story. Thus Gower’s book, as he says at its close, stands “between earnest and game,” and might be fairly described as a “Romaunt of the Rose,” without either the descriptive grace of Guillaume de Lorris, or the wicked wit of Jean de Meung, but full of learning and matter, and written by an author certainly not devoid of the art of telling stories. The mind of this author was thoroughly didactic in its bent; for the beauty of nature he has no real feeling, and though his poem, like so many of Chaucer’s, begins in the month of May, he is (unnecessarily) careful to tell us that his object in going forth was not to “sing with the birds.” He could not, like Chaucer, transfuse old things into new, but there is enough in his character as a poet to explain the friendship between the pair, of which we hear at the very time when Gower was probably preparing his “Confessio Amantis” for publication.

They are said afterwards to have become enemies; but in the absence of any real evidence to that effect we cannot believe Chaucer to have been likely to quarrel with one whom he had certainly both trusted and admired. Nor had literary life in England already advanced to a stage of development of which, as in the Elizabethan and Augustan ages, literary jealousy was an indispensable accompaniment. Chaucer is supposed to have attacked Gower in a passage of the “Canterbury Tales,” where he incidentally declares his dislike (in itself extremely commendable) of a particular kind of sensational stories, instancing the subject of one of the numerous tales in the “Confessio Amantis.” There is, however, no reason whatever for supposing Chaucer to have here intended a reflection on his brother poet, more especially as the “Man of Law,” after uttering the censure, relates, though probably not from Gower, a story on a subject of a different kind likewise treated by him. It is scarcely more suspicious that when Gower, in a second edition of his chief work, dedicated in 1393 to Henry, Earl of Derby (afterwards Henry IV), judiciously omitted the exordium and altered the close of the first edition, both of which were complimentary to Richard II, he left out, together with its surrounding context, a passage conveying a friendly challenge to Chaucer as a “disciple and poet of the God of Love.”

In any case there could have been no political difference between them, for Chaucer was at all times in favour with the House of Lancaster, towards whose future head Gower so early contrived to assume a correct attitude. To him–a man of substance, with landed property in three counties–the rays of immediate court-favour were probably of less importance than to Chaucer; but it is not necessity only which makes courtiers of so many of us: some are born to the vocation, and Gower strikes one as naturally more prudent and cautious–in short, more of a politic personage–than Chaucer. He survived him eight years–a blind invalid, in whose mind at least we may hope nothing dimmed or blurred the recollection of a friend to whom he owes much of his fame.

In a still nearer relationship,–on which the works of Chaucer that may certainly or probably be assigned to this period throw some light,–it seems impossible to describe him as having been fortunate. Whatever may have been the date and circumstances of his marriage, it seems, at all events in its later years, not to have been a happy one. The allusions to Chaucer’s personal experience of married life in both “Troilus And Cressid” and the “House of Fame” are not of a kind to be entirely explicable by that tendency to make a mock of women and of marriage, which has frequently been characteristic of satirists, and which was specially popular in an age cherishing the wit of Jean de Meung, and complacently corroborating its theories from naughty Latin fables, French fabliaux, and Italian novelle. Both in “Troilus And Cressid” and in the “House of Fame” the poet’s tone, when he refers to himself, is generally dolorous; but while both poems contain unmistakeable references to the joylessness of his own married life, in the latter he speaks of himself as “suffering debonairly,”–or, as we should say, putting a good face upon–a state “desperate of all bliss.” And it is a melancholy though half sarcastic glimpse into his domestic privacy which he incidentally, and it must be allowed rather unnecessarily, gives in the following passage of the same poem:–

“Awake!” to me he said,
In voice and tone the very same
And with that voice, sooth to say(n) My mind returned to me again;
For it was goodly said to me;
So was it never wont to be.

In other words, the kindness of the voice reassured him that it was NOT the same as that which he was wont to hear close to his pillow! Again, the entire tone of the Prologue to the “Legend of Good Women” is not that of a happy lover; although it would be pleasant enough, considering that the lady who imposes on the poet the penalty of celebrating GOOD women is Alcestis, the type of faithful wifehood, to interpret the poem as not only an amende honorable to the female sex in general, but a token of reconciliation to the poet’s wife in particular. Even in the joyous “Assembly of Fowls,” a marriage-poem, the same discord already makes itself heard; for it cannot be without meaning that in his dream the poet is told by “African,”–

–thou of love hast lost thy taste, I guess, As sick men have of sweet and bitterness;

and that he confesses for himself that, though he has read much of love, he knows not of it by experience. While, however, we reluctantly accept the conclusion that Chaucer was unhappy as a husband, we must at the same time decline, because the husband was a poet, and one of the most genial of poets, to cast all the blame upon the wife, and to write her down a shrew. It is unfortunate, no doubt, but it is likewise inevitable, that at so great a distance of time the rights and wrongs of a conjugal disagreement or estrangement cannot with safety be adjusted. Yet again, because we refuse to blame Philippa, we are not obliged to blame Chaucer. At the same time it must not be concealed, that his name occurs in the year 1380 in connexion with a legal process of which the most obvious, though not the only possible, explanation is that he had been guilty of a grave infidelity towards his wife. Such discoveries as this last we might be excused for wishing unmade.

Considerable uncertainty remains with regard to the dates of the poems belonging to this seemingly, in all respects but one, fortunate period of Chaucer’s life. Of one of these works, however, which has had the curious fate to be dated and re-dated by a succession of happy conjectures, the last and happiest of all may be held to have definitively fixed the occasion. This is the charming poem called the “Assembly of Fowls,” or “Parliament of Birds”–a production which seems so English, so fresh from nature’s own inspiration, so instinct with the gaiety of Chaucer’s own heart, that one is apt to overlook in it the undeniable vestiges of foreign influences, both French and Italian. At its close the poet confesses that he is always reading, and therefore hopes that he may at last read something “so to fare the better.” But with all this evidence of study the “Assembly of Fowls” is chiefly interesting as showing how Chaucer had now begun to select as well as to assimilate his loans; how, while he was still moving along well-known tracks, his eyes were joyously glancing to the right and the left; and how the source of most of his imagery at all events he already found in the merry England around him, even as he had chosen for his subject one of real national interest.

Anne of Bohemia, daughter of the great Emperor Charles IV, and sister of King Wenceslas, had been successively betrothed to a Bavarian prince and to a Margrave of Meissen, before–after negotiations which, according to Froissart, lasted a year–her hand was given to the young King Richard II of England. This sufficiently explains the general scope of the “Assembly of Fowls,” an allegorical poem written on or about St. Valentine’s Day, 1381–eleven months or nearly a year after which date the marriage took place. On the morning sacred to lovers the poet (in a dream, of course, and this time conducted by the arch-dreamer Scipio in person) enters a garden containing in it the temple of the god of Love, and filled with inhabitants mythological and allegorical. Here he sees the noble goddess Nature, seated upon a hill of flowers, and around her “all the fowls that be,” assembled as by time honoured custom on St. Valentine’s Day, “when every fowl comes there to choose her mate.” Their huge noise and hubbub is reduced to order by Nature, who assigns to each fowl its proper place– the birds of prey highest; then those that eat according to natural inclination–

–worm or thing of which I tell no tale;

then those that live by seed; and the various members of the several classes are indicated with amusing vivacity and point, from the royal eagle “that with his sharp look pierceth the sun,” and “other eagles of a lower kind” downwards. We can only find room for a portion of the company:–

The sparrow, Venus’ son; the nightingale That clepeth forth the fresh leaves new; The swallow, murd’rer of the bees small, That honey make of flowers fresh of hue; The wedded turtle, with his hearte true; The peacock, with his angels’ feathers bright, The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night.

The waker goose, the cuckoo, ever unkind; The popinjay, full of delicacy;
The drake, destroyer of his owne kind; The stork, avenger of adultery;
The cormorant, hot and full of gluttony The crows and ravens with their voice of care; And the throstle old, and the frosty fieldfare.

Naturalists must be left to explain some of these epithets and designations, not all of which rest on allusions as easily understood as that recalling the goose’s exploit on the Capitol; but the vivacity of the whole description speaks for itself. One is reminded of Aristophanes’ feathered chorus; but birds are naturally the delight of poets, and were befriended by Dante himself.

Hereupon the action of the poem opens. A female eagle is wooed by three suitors–all eagles; but among them the first, or royal eagle, discourses in the manner most likely to conciliate favour. Before the answer is given, a pause furnishes an opportunity to the other fowls for delighting in the sound of their own voices, Dame Nature proposing that each class of birds shall, through the beak of its representative “agitator,” express its opinion on the problem before the assembly. There is much humour in the readiness of the goose to rush in with a ready-made resolution, and in the smart reproof administered by the sparrow-hawk amidst the uproar of “the gentle fowls all.” At last Nature silences the tumult, and the lady- eagle delivers her answer, to the effect that she cannot make up her mind for a year to come; but inasmuch as Nature has advised her to choose the royal eagle, his is clearly the most favourable prospect. Whereupon, after certain fowls had sung a roundel, “as was always the usance,” the assembly, like some human Parliaments, breaks up with shouting;

(Than all the birdis song with sic a schout That I annone awoik quhair that I lay
Dunbar, “The Thrissil and the Rois.”)

and the dreamer awakes to resume his reading.

Very possibly the “Assembly of Fowls” was at no great interval of time either followed or preceded by two poems of far inferior interest–the “Complaint of Mars” (apparently afterwards amalgamated with that of “Venus”), which is supposed to be sung by a bird on St. Valentine’s morning, and the fragment of “Queen Anelida and false Arcite.” There are, however, reasons which make a less early date probable in the case of the latter production, the history of the origin and purpose of which can hardly be said as yet to be removed out of the region of mere speculation. In any case, neither of these poems can be looked upon as preparations, on Chaucer’s part, for the longer work on which he was to expend so much labour; but in a sense this description would apply to the translation which, probably before he wrote “Troilus and Cressid,” certainly before he wrote the Prologue to the “Legend of Good Women,” he made of the famous Latin work of Boethius, “the just man in prison,” on the “Consolation of Philosophy.” This book was, and very justly so, one of the favourite manuals of the Middle Ages, and a treasure-house of religious wisdom to centuries of English writers. “Boice of Consolacioun” is cited in the “Romaunt of the Rose”; and the list of passages imitated by Chaucer from the martyr of Catholic orthodoxy and Roman freedom of speech is exceedingly long. Among them are the ever-recurring diatribe against the fickleness of fortune, and (through the medium of Dante) the reflection on the distinction between gentle birth and a gentle life. Chaucer’s translation was not made at second-hand; if not always easy it is conscientious, and interpolated with numerous glosses and explanations thought necessary by the translator. The metre of “The Former Life” he at one time or another turned into verse of his own.

Perhaps the most interesting of the quotations made in Chaucer’s poems from Boethus occurs in his “Troilus and Cressid,” one of the many medieval versions of an episode engrafted by the lively fancy of an Anglo-Norman trouvere upon the deathless, and in its literary variations incomparably luxuriant, growth of the story of Troy. On Benoit de Sainte-Maure’s poem Guido de Colonna founded his Latin-prose romance; and this again, after being reproduced in languages and by writers almost innumerable, served Boccaccio as the foundation of his poem “Filostrato”–i.e. the victim of love. All these works, together with Chaucer’s “Troilus and Cressid,” with Lydgate’s “Troy-Book,” with Henryson’s “Testament of Cressid” (and in a sense even with Shakespere’s drama on the theme of Chaucer’s poem), may be said to belong to the second cycle of modern versions of the tale of Troy divine. Already their earlier predecessors had gone far astray from Homer, of whom they only know by hearsay, relying for their facts on late Latin epitomes, which freely mutilated and perverted the Homeric narrative in favour of the Trojans–the supposed ancestors of half the nations of Europe. Accordingly, Chaucer, in a well-known passage in his “House of Fame,” regrets, with sublime coolness, how “one said that Homer” wrote “lies,”

Feigning in his poetries
And was to Greekes favourable.
Therefore held he it but fable.

But the courtly poets of the romantic age of literature went a step further, and added a mediaeval colouring all their own. One converts the Sibyl into a nun, and makes her admonish Aeneas to tell his beads. Another–it is Chaucer’s successor Lydgate–introduces Priam’s sons exercising their bodies in tournaments and their minds in the glorious play of chess, and causes the memory of Hector to be consecrated by the foundation of a chantry of priests who are to pray for the repose of his soul. A third finally condemns the erring Cressid to be stricken with leprosy, and to wander about with cup and clapper, like the unhappy lepers in the great cities of the Middle Ages. Everything, in short, is transfused by the spirit of the adapters’ own times; and so far are these writers from any weakly sense of anachronism in describing Troy as if it were a moated and turreted city of the later Middle Ages, that they are only careful now and then to protest their own truthfulness when anything in their narrative seems UNLIKE the days in which they write.

But Chaucer, though his poem is, to start with, only an English reproduction of an Italian version of a Latin translation of a French poem, and though in most respects it shares the characteristic features of the body of poetic fiction to which it belongs, is far from being a mere translator. Apart from several remarkable reminiscences introduced by Chaucer from Dante, as well as from the irrepressible “Romaunt of the Rose,” he has changed his original in points which are not mere matters of detail or questions of convenience. In accordance with the essentially dramatic bent of his own genius, some of these changes have reference to the aspect of the characters and the conduct of the plot, as well as to the whole spirit of the conception of the poem. Cressid (who, by the way, is a widow at the outset–whether she had children or not, Chaucer nowhere found stated, and therefore leaves undecided) may at first sight strike the reader as a less consistent character in Chaucer than in Boccaccio. But there is true art in the way in which, in the English poem, our sympathy is first aroused for the heroine, whom, in the end, we cannot but condemn. In Boccaccio, Cressid is fair and false–one of those fickle creatures with whom Italian literature, and Boccaccio in particular, so largely deal, and whose presentment merely repeats to us the old cynical half-truth as to woman’s weakness. The English poet, though he does not pretend that his heroine was “religious” (i.e. a nun to whom earthly love is a sin), endears her to us from the first; so much that “O the pity of it” seems the hardest verdict we can ultimately pass upon her conduct. How, then, is the catastrophe of the action, the falling away of Cressid from her truth to Troilus, poetically explained? By an appeal– pedantically put, perhaps, and as it were dragged in violently by means of a truncated quotation from Boethius–to the fundamental difficulty concerning the relations between poor human life and the government of the world. This, it must be conceded, is a considerably deeper problem than the nature of woman. Troilus and Cressid, the hero sinned against and the sinning heroine, are the VICTIMS OF FATE. Who shall cast a stone against those who are, but like the rest of us, predestined to their deeds and to their doom; since the co-existence of free-will with predestination does not admit of proof? This solution of the conflict may be morally as well as theologically unsound; it certainly is aesthetically faulty; but it is the reverse of frivolous or commonplace.

Or let us turn from Cressid, “matchless in beauty,” and warm with sweet life, but not ignoble even in the season of her weakness, to another personage of the poem. In itself the character of Pandarus is one of the most revolting which imagination can devise; so much so that the name has become proverbial for the most despicable of human types. With Boccaccio Pandarus is Cressid’s cousin and Troilus’ youthful friend, and there is no intention of making him more offensive than are half the confidants of amorous heroes. But Chaucer sees his dramatic opportunity; and without painting black in black and creating a monster of vice, he invents a good- natured and loquacious, elderly go-between, full of proverbial philosophy and invaluable experience–a genuine light comedy character for all times. How admirably this Pandarus practises as well as preaches his art; using the hospitable Deiphobus and the queenly Helen as unconscious instruments in his intrigue for bringing the lovers together:–

She came to dinner in her plain intent; But God and Pandar wist what all this meant.

Lastly, considering the extreme length of Chaucer’s poem, and the very simple plot of the story which it tells, one cannot fail to admire the skill with which the conduct of its action is managed. In Boccaccio the earlier part of the story is treated with brevity, while the conclusion, after the catastrophe has occurred and the main interest has passed, is long drawn out. Chaucer dwells at great length upon the earlier and pleasing portion of the tale, more especially on the falling in love of Cressid, which is worked out with admirable naturalness. But he comparatively hastens over its pitiable end–the fifth and last book of his poem corresponding to not less than four cantos of the “Filostrato.” In Chaucer’s hands, therefore, the story is a real love-story, and the more that we are led to rejoice with the lovers in their bliss, the more our compassion is excited by the lamentable end of so much happiness; and we feel at one with the poet, who, after lingering over the happiness of which he has in the end to narrate the fall, as it were unwillingly proceeds to accomplish his task, and bids his readers be wroth with the destiny of his heroine rather than with himself. His own heart, he says, bleeds and his pen quakes to write what must be written of the falsehood of Cressid, which was her doom.

Chaucer’s nature, however tried, was unmistakeably one gifted with the blessed power of easy self-recovery. Though it was in a melancholy vein that he had begun to write “Troilus and Cressid,” he had found opportunities enough in the course of the poem for giving expression to the fresh vivacity and playful humour which are justly reckoned among his chief characteristics. And thus, towards its close, we are not surprised to find him apparently looking forward to a sustained effort of a kind more congenial to himself. He sends forth his “little book, his little tragedy,” with the prayer that, before he dies, God his Maker may send him might to “make some comedy.” If the poem called the “House of Fame” followed upon “Troilus and Cressid” (the order of succession may, however, have been the reverse), then, although the poet’s own mood had little altered, yet he had resolved upon essaying a direction which he rightly felt to be suitable to his genius.

The “House of Fame” has not been distinctly traced to any one foreign source; but the influence of both Petrarch and Dante, as well as that of classical authors, are clearly to be traced in the poem. And yet this work, Chaucer’s most ambitious attempt in poetical allegory, may be described not only as in the main due to an original conception, but as representing the results of the writer’s personal experience. All things considered, it is the production of a man of wonderful reading, and shows that Chaucer’s was a mind interested in the widest variety of subjects, which drew no invidious distinctions, such as we moderns are prone to insist upon, between Arts and Science, but (notwithstanding an occasional deprecatory modesty) eagerly sought to familiarise itself with the achievements of both. In a passage concerning the men of letters who had found a place in the “House of Fame,” he displays not only an acquaintance with the names of several ancient classics, but also a keen appreciation, now and then perhaps due to instinct, of their several characteristics. Elsewhere he shows his interest in scientific inquiry by references to such matters as the theory of sound and the Arabic system of numeration; while the Mentor of the poem, the Eagle, openly boasts his powers of clear scientific demonstration, in averring that he can speak “lewdly” (i.e. popularly) “to a lewd man.” The poem opens with a very fresh and lively discussion of the question of dreams in general–a semi-scientific subject which much occupied Chaucer, and upon which even Pandarus and the wedded couple of the “Nun’s Priest’s Tale” expend their philosophy.

Thus, besides giving evidence of considerable information and study, the “House of Fame” shows Chaucer to have been gifted with much natural humour. Among its happy touches are the various rewards bestowed by Fame upon the claimants for her favour, including the ready grant of evil fame to those who desire it (a bad name, to speak colloquially, is to be had for the asking; and the wonderful paucity of those who wish their good works to remain in obscurity and to be their own reward, but then Chaucer was writing in the Middle Ages. And as pointing in a direction which the author of the poem was subsequently to follow out, we may also specially notice the company thronging the House of Rumour: shipmen and pilgrims, the two most numerous kinds of travellers in Chaucer’s age, fresh from seaport and sepulchre, with scrips brimful of unauthenticated intelligence. In short, this poem offers in its details much that is characteristic of its author’s genius; while, as a whole, its abrupt termination notwithstanding, it leaves the impression of completeness. The allegory, simple and clear in construction, fulfils the purpose for which it was devised; the conceptions upon which it is based are neither idle, like many of those in Chaucer’s previous allegories, nor are they so artificial and far-fetched as to fatigue instead of stimulating the mind. Pope, who reproduced parts of the “House of Fame” in a loose paraphrase, in attempting to improve the construction of Chaucer’s work, only mutilated it. As it stands, it is clear and digestible; and how many allegories, one may take leave to ask, in our own allegory-loving literature or in any other, merit the same commendation? For the rest, Pope’s own immortal “Dunciad,” though doubtless more immediately suggested by a personal satire of Dryden’s, is in one sense a kind of travesty of the “House of Fame,”–A “House of Infamy.”

In the theme of this poem there was undoubtedly something that could hardly fail to humour the half-melancholy mood in which it was manifestly written. Are not, the poet could not but ask himself, all things vanity; “as men say, what may ever last?” Yet the subject brought its consolation likewise. Patient labour, such as this poem attests, is the surest road to that enduring fame, which is “conserved with the shade;” and awaking from his vision, Chaucer takes leave of the reader with a resolution already habitual to him–to read more and more, instead of resting satisfied with the knowledge he has already acquired. And in the last of the longer poems which seem assignable to this period of his life, he proves that one Latin poet at least–Venus’ clerk, whom in the “House of Fame” he behold standing on a pillar of her own Cyprian metal–had been read as well as celebrated by him

Of this poem, the fragmentary “Legend of Good Women,” the “Prologue” possesses a peculiar biographical as well as literary interest. In his personal feelings on the subject of love and marriage, Chaucer had, when he wrote this “Prologue,” evidently almost passed even beyond the sarcastic stage. And as a poet he was now clearly conscious of being no longer a beginner, no longer a learner only, but one whom his age knew, and in whom it took a critical interest. The list including most of his undoubted works, which he here recites, shows of itself that those already spoken of in the foregoing pages were by this time known to the world, together with two of the “Canterbury Tales,” which had either been put forth independently, or (as seems much less probable) had formed the first instalment of his great work. A further proof of the relatively late date of this “Prologue” occurs in the contingent offer which it makes of the poem to “the Queen,” who can be no other than Richard II’s young consort Anne. At the very outset we find Chaucer as it were reviewing his own literary position–and doing so in the spirit of an author who knows very well what is said against him, who knows very well what there is in what is said against him, and who yet is full of that true self-consciousness which holds to its course–not recklessly and ruthlessly, not with a contempt for the feelings and judgments of his fellow-creatures, but with a serene trust in the justification ensured to every honest endeavour. The principal theme of his poems had hitherto been the passion of love, and woman who is the object of the love of man. Had he not, the superfine critics of his day may have asked–steeped as they were in the artificiality and florid extravagance of chivalry in the days of its decline, and habituated to mistranslating earthly passion into the phraseology of religious devotion–had he not debased the passion of love, and defamed its object? Had he not begun by translating the wicked satire of Jean de Meung, “a heresy against the law” of Love, and had he not, by cynically painting in his Cressid a picture of woman’s perfidy, encouraged men to be less faithful to women

That be as true as ever was any steel?

In Chaucer’s way of meeting this charge, which he emphasises by putting it in the mouth of the God of Love himself, it is, to be sure, difficult to recognise any very deeply penitent spirit. He mildly wards off the reproach, sheltering himself behind his defender, the “lady in green,” who afterwards proves to be herself that type of womanly and wifely fidelity unto death, the true and brave Alcestis. And even in the body of the poem one is struck by a certain perfunctoriness, not to say flippancy, in the way in which its moral is reproduced. The wrathful invective against the various classical followers of Lamech, the maker of tents, wears no aspect of deep moral indignation; and it is not precisely the voice of a repentant sinner which concludes the pathetic story of the betrayal of Phillis with the adjuration to ladies in general:–

Beware ye women of your subtle foe,
Since yet this day men may example see And as in love trust ye no man but me.

(Lamech, Chaucer tells us in “Queen Annelida and the false Arcite,” was the

first father that began
The love of two, and was in bigamy.

This poem seems designed to illustrate much the same moral as that enforced by the “Legend of Good Women”–a moral which, by-the-bye, is already foreshadowed towards the close of “Troilus and Cressid,” where Chaucer speaks of

women that betrayed be
Through false folk, (God give them sorrow, amen!) That with their greate wit and subtlety
Betray you; and ’tis this that moveth me To speak; and, in effect, you all I pray: Beware of men, and hearken what I say.)

At the same time the poet lends an attentive ear, as genius can always afford to do, to a criticism of his shortcomings, and readily accepts the sentence pronounced by Alcestis that he shall write a legend of GOOD women, both maidens and also wives, that were

true in loving all their lives.

And thus, with the courage of a good or at all events easy conscience, he sets about his task which unfortunately–it is conjectured by reason of domestic calamities, probably including the death of his wife–remained, or at least has come down to us unfinished. We have only nine of the nineteen stories which he appears to have intended to present (though indeed a manuscript of Henry IV’s reign quotes Chaucer’s book of “25 good women”). It is by no means necessary to suppose that all these nine stories were written continuously; maybe, too, Chaucer, with all his virtuous intentions, grew tired of his rather monotonous scheme, at a time when he was beginning to busy himself with stories meant to be fitted into the more liberal framework of the “Canterbury Tales.” All these illustrations of female constancy are of classical origin, as Chaucer is glad to make known and most of them are taken from Ovid. But though the thread of the English poet’s narratives is supplied by such established favourites as the stories of Cleopatra the Martyr Queen of Egypt, of Thisbe of Babylon the Martyr, and of Dido to whom “Aeneas was forsworn,” yet he by no means slavishly adheres to his authorities, but alters or omits in accordance with the design of his book. Thus, for instance, we read of Medea’s desertion by Jason, but hear nothing of her as the murderess of her children; while, on the other hand, the tragedy of Dido is enhanced by pathetic additions not to be found in Virgil. Modern taste may dislike the way in which this poem mixes up the terms and ideas of Christian martyrology with classical myths, and as “the Legend of the Saints of Cupid” assumes the character of a kind of calendar of women canonised by reason of their faithfulness to earthly love. But obviously this is a method of treatment belonging to an age, not to a single poem or poet. Chaucer’s artistic judgment in the selection and arrangement of his themes, the wonderful vivacity and true pathos with which he turns upon Tarquin or Jason as if they had personally offended him, and his genuine flow of feeling not only FOR but WITH his unhappy heroines, add a new charm to the old familiar faces. Proof is thus furnished, if any proof were needed, that no story interesting in itself is too old to admit of being told again by a poet; in Chaucer’s version Ovid loses something in polish, but nothing in pathos; and the breezy freshness of nature seems to be blowing through tales which became the delight of a nation’s, as they have been that of many a man’s, youth.

A single passage must suffice to illustrate the style of the “Legend of Good Women”; and it shall be the lament of Ariadne, the concluding passage of the story which is the typical tale of desertion, though not, as it remains in Chaucer, of desertion unconsoled. It will be seen how far the English poet’s vivacity is from being extinguished by the pathos of the situation described by him.

Right in the dawening awaketh she,
And gropeth in the bed, and found right naught. “Alas,” quoth she, “that ever I was wrought! I am betrayed!” and her hair she rent,
And to the strande barefoot fast she went, And criede: “Theseus, mine hearte sweet! Where be ye, that I may not with you meet? And mighte thus by beastes been y-slain!” The hollow rockes answered her again.
No man she sawe; and yet shone the moon, And high upon a rock she wente soon,
And saw his barge sailing in the sea. Cold waxed her heart, and right thus said she: “Meeker than ye I find the beastes wild!” (Hath he not sin that he her thus beguiled?) She cried, “O turn again for ruth and sin, Thy barge hath not all thy meinie in.”
Her kerchief on a pole sticked she, Askance, that he should it well y-see,
And should remember that she was behind, And turn again, and on the strand her find. But all for naught; his way he is y-gone, And down she fell aswoone on a stone;
And up she rose, and kissed, in all her care, The steppes of his feet remaining there; And then unto her bed she speaketh so:
“Thou bed,” quoth she, “that hast received two, Thou shalt answer for two, and not for one; Where is the greater part away y-gone?
Alas, what shall I wretched wight become? For though so be no help shall hither come, Home to my country dare I not for dread, I can myselfe in this case not rede.”
Why should I tell more of her complaining? It is so long it were a heavy thing.
In her Epistle Naso telleth all.
But shortly to the ende tell I shall. The goddes have her holpen for pity,
And in the sign of Taurus men may see The stones of her crown all shining clear. I will no further speak of this matter.
But thus these false lovers can beguile Their true love; the devil quite him his while!

Manifestly, then, in this period of his life–if a chronology which is in a great measure cojectural may be accepted–Chancer had been a busy worker, and his pen had covered many a page with the results of his rapid productivity. Perhaps, his “Words unto his own Scrivener,” which we may fairly date about this time, were rather too hard on “Adam.” Authors ARE often hard on persons who have to read their handiwork professionally; but in the interest of posterity poets may be permitted an execration or two against whosoever changes their words as well as against whosoever moves their bones:–

Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall “Boece” or “Troilus” to write anew,
Under thy long locks may’st thou have the scall, If thou my writing copy not more true!
So oft a day I must thy work renew, It to correct and eke to rub and scrape; And all is through thy negligence and rape.

How far the manuscript of the “Canterbury Tales” had already progressed is uncertain; the “Prologue” to the “Legend of Good Women” mentions the “Love of Palamon and Arcite”–an earlier version of the “Knight’s Tale,” if not identical with it–and a “Life of Saint Cecilia” which is preserved, apparently without alteration, in the “Second Nun’s Tale.” Possibly other stories had been already added to these, and the “Prologue” written–but this is more than can be asserted with safety. Who shall say whether, if the stream of prosperity had continued to flow, on which the bark of Chaucer’s fortunes had for some years been borne along, he might not have found leisure and impulse sufficient for completing his masterpiece, or at all events for advancing it near to completion? That his powers declined with his years is a conjecture which it would be difficult to support by satisfactory evidence; though it seems natural enough to assume that he wrote the best of his “Canterbury Tales” in his best days. Troubled times we know to have been in store for him. The reverse in his fortunes may perhaps fail to call forth in us the sympathy which we feel for Milton in his old age doing battle against a Philistine reaction, or for Spenser overwhelmed with calamities at the end of a life full of bitter disappointment. But at least we may look upon it with the respectful pity which we entertain for Ben Jonson groaning in the midst of his literary honours under that dura rerum necessitas, which is rarely more a matter of indifference to poets than it is to other men.

In 1386, as already noted, Chaucer, while continuing to hold both his offices at the Customs, had taken his seat in Parliament as one of the knights of the shire of Kent. He had attained to this honour during the absence in Spain of his patron the Duke of Lancaster, though probably he had been elected in the interest of that prince. But John of Gaunt’s influence was inevitably reduced to nothing during his absence, and no doubt King Richard now hoped to be a free agent. But he very speedily found that the hand of his younger uncle, Thomas Duke of Gloucester, was heavier upon him than that of the elder. The Parliament of which Chaucer was a member was the assembly which boldly confronted the autocratical tendencies of Richard II, and after overthrowing the Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, forced upon the king a Council controlling the administration of affairs. Concerning the acts of this Council, of which Gloucester was the leading member, little or nothing is known, except that in financial matters it attempted, after the manner of new brooms, to sweep clean. Soon the attention of Gloucester and his following was occupied by subjects more absorbing than a branch of reform fated to be treated fitfully. In this instance the new administration had as usual demanded its victims–and among their number was Chaucer. For it can hardly be a mere coincidence that by the beginning of December in this year, 1386, Chaucer had lost one, and by the middle of the same month the other, of his comptrollerships. At the same time, it would be presumptuously unfair to conclude that misconduct of any kind on his part had been the reason of his removal. The explanation usually given is that he fell as an adherent of John of Gaunt; perhaps a safer way of putting the matter would be to say that John of Gaunt was no longer in England to protect him. Inasmuch as even reforming Governments are occasionally as anxious about men as they are about measures, Chaucer’s posts may have been wanted for nominees of the Duke of Gloucester and his Council–such as it is probably no injustice to Masters Adam Yerdely and Henry Gisors (who respectively succeeded Chaucer in his two offices) to suppose them to have been. Moreover, it is just possible that Chaucer was the reverse of a persona grata to Gloucester’s faction on account of the Comptroller’s previous official connexion with Sir Nicholas Brembre, who, besides being hated in the city, had been accused of seeking to compass the deaths of the Duke and of some of his adherents. In any case, it is noticeable that four months BEFORE the return to England of the Duke of Lancaster, i.e. in July, 1389, Chaucer was appointed Clerk of the King’s Works at Westminster, the Tower, and a large number of other royal manors or tenements, including (from 1390 at all events) St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. In this office he was not ill-paid, receiving two shillings a day in money, and very possibly perquisites in addition, besides being allowed to appoint a deputy. Inasmuch as in the summer of the year 1389 King Richard had assumed the reins of government in person, while the ascendancy of Gloucester was drawing to a close, we may conclude the King to have been personally desirous to provide for a faithful and attached servant of his house, for whom he had had reason to feel a personal liking. It would be specially pleasing, were we able to connect with Chaucer’s restoration to official employment the high-minded Queen Anne, whose impending betrothal he had probably celebrated in one poem, and whose patronage he had claimed for another.

The Clerkship of the King’s Works to which Chaucer was appointed, seems to have been but a temporary office; or at all events he only held it for rather less than two years, during part of which he performed its duties by deputy. Already, however, before his appointment to this post, he had certainly become involved in difficulties. For in May, 1388, we find his pensions, at his own request, assigned to another person (John Scalby)–a statement implying that he had raised money on them which he could only pay by making over the pensions themselves. Very possibly, too, he had, before his dismissal from his comptrollerships, been subjected to an enquiry which, if it did not touch his honour, at all events gave rise to very natural apprehensions on the part of himself and his friends. There is accordingly much probability in the conjecture which ascribes to this season of peril and pressure the composition of the following justly famous stanzas entitled “Good Counsel of Chaucer”:-

Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; Suffice thee thy good, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness: Press hath envy, and wealth is blinded all. Savour no more than thee behove shall;
Do well thyself that other folk canst rede; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

Pain thee not each crooked to redress In trust of her (Fortune) that turneth as a ball. Greate rest stands in little business.
Beware also to spurn against a nail. Strive not as doth a pitcher with a wall. Deeme thyself that deemest others’ deed; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

That thee is sent receive in buxomness; The wrestling of this world asketh a fall. Here is no home, here is but wilderness. Forth, pilgram! forth, beast, out of thy stall! Look up on high, and thank God of all.
Waive thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, And truth shall thee deliver, it is no dread.

Misfortunes, it is said, never come alone; and whatever view may be taken as to the nature of the relations between Chaucer and his wife, her death cannot have left him untouched. From the absence of any record as to the payment of her pension after June, 1387, this event is presumed to have taken place in the latter half of that year. More than this cannot safely be conjectured; but it remains POSSIBLE that the “Legend of Good Women” and its “Prologue” formed a peace-offering to one whom Chaucer may have loved again after he had lost her, though without thinking of her as of his “late departed saint.” Philippa Chaucer had left behind her a son of the name of Lewis; and it is pleasing to find the widower in the year 1391 (the year in which he lost his Clerkship of the Works) attending to the boy’s education, and supplying him with the intellectual “bread and milk” suitable for his tender age in the shape of a popular treatise on a subject which has at all times excited the intelligent curiosity of the young. The treatise “On the Astrolabe,” after describing the instrument itself, and showing how to work it, proceeded, or was intended to proceed, to fulfil the purposes of a general astronomical manual; but, like other and more important works of its author, it has come down to us in an uncompleted, or at all events incomplete, condition. What there is of it was, as a matter of course, not original–popular scientific books rarely are. The little treatise, however, possesses a double interest for the student of Chaucer. In the first place it shows explicitly, what several passages imply, that while he was to a certain extent fond of astronomical study (as to his capacity for which he clearly does injustice to himself in the “House of Fame”), his good sense and his piety alike revolted against extravagant astrological speculations. He certainly does not wish to go as far as the honest carpenter in the “Miller’s Tale,” who glories in his incredulity of aught besides his credo, and who yet is afterwards befooled by the very impostor of whose astrological pursuits he had reprehended the impiety. “Men,” he says, “should know nothing of that which is private to God. Yea, blessed be alway a simple man who knows nothing but only his belief.” In his little work “On the Astrolobe,” Chaucer speaks with calm reasonableness of superstitions in which his spirit has no faith, and pleads guilty to ignorance of the useless knowledge with which they are surrounded. But the other, and perhaps the chief value, to us of this treatise lies in the fact that of Chaucer in an intimate personal relation it contains the only picture in which it is impossible to suspect any false or exaggerated colouring. For here we have him writing to his “little Lewis” with fatherly satisfaction in the ability displayed by the boy “to learn sciences touching numbers and proportions,” and telling how, after making a present to the child of “a sufficient astrolabe as for our own horizon, composed after the latitude of Oxford,” he has further resolved to explain to him a certain number of conclusions connected with the purposes of the instrument. This he has made up his mind to do in a forcible as well as simple way; for he has shrewdly divined a secret, now and then overlooked by those who condense sciences for babes, that children need to be taught a few things not only clearly but fully–repetition being in more senses than one “the mother of studies”:–

“Now will I pray meekly every discreet person that readeth or heareth this little treatise, to hold my rude inditing excused, and my superfluity of words, for two causes. The first cause is: that curious inditing and hard sentences are full heavy at once for such a child to learn. And the second cause is this: that truly it seems better to me to write unto a child twice a good sentence, than to forget it once.”

Unluckily we know nothing further of Lewis–not even whether, as has been surmised, he died before he had been able to turn to lucrative account his calculating powers, after the fashion of his apocryphal brother Thomas or otherwise.

Though by the latter part of the year 1391 Chaucer had lost his Clerkship of the Works, certain payments (possibly of arrears) seem afterwards to have been made to him in connexion with the office. A very disagreeable incident of his tenure of it had been a double robbery from his person of official money, to the very serious extent of twenty pounds. The perpetrators of the crime were a notorious gang of highwaymen, by whom Chaucer was, in September, 1390, apparently on the same day, beset both at Westminster, and near to “the foul Oak” at Hatcham in Surrey. A few months afterwards he was discharged by writ from repayment of the loss to the Crown. His experiences during the three years following are unknown; but in 1394 (when things were fairly quiet in England) he was granted an annual pension of twenty pounds by the King. This pension, of which several subsequent notices occur, seems at times to have been paid tardily or in small instalments, and also to have been frequently anticipated by Chaucer in the shape of loans of small sums. Further evidence of his straits is to be found in his having, in the year 1398, obtained letters of protection against arrest, making him safe for two years. The grant of a tun of wine in October of the same year is the last favour known to have been extended to Chaucer by King Richard II. Probably no English sovereign has been more diversely estimated, both by his contemporaries and by posterity, than this ill-fated prince, in the records of whose career many passages betokening high spirit strangely contrast with the impotence of its close. It will at least be remembered in his favour that he was a patron of the arts; and that after Froissart had been present at his christening, he received, when on the threshold of manhood, the homage of Gower, and on the eve of his downfall showed most seasonable kindness to a poet far greater than either of these. It seems scarcely justifiable to assign to any particular point of time the “Ballade sent to King Richard” by Chaucer; but its manifest intention was to apprise the king of the poet’s sympathy with his struggle against the opponents of the royal policy, which was a thoroughly autocratical one. Considering the nature of the relations between the pair, nothing could be more unlikely than that Chaucer should have taken upon himself to exhort his sovereign and patron to steadfastness of political conduct. And in truth, though the loyal tone of this address is (as already observed) unmistakeable enough, there is little difficulty in accounting for the mixture of commonplace reflexions and of admonitions to the king, to persist in a spirited domestic policy. He is to

“Dread God, do law, love truth and worthiness,”

and wed his people–not himself–“again to steadfastness.” However, even a quasi-political poem of this description, whatever element of implied flattery it may contain, offers pleasanter reading than those least attractive of all occasional poems, of which the burden is a cry for money. The “Envoy to Scogan” has been diversely dated, and diversely interpreted. The reference in these lines to a deluge of pestilence, clearly means, not a pestilence produced by heavy rains, but heavy rains which might be expected to produce a pestilence. The primary purpose of the epistle admits of no doubt, though it is only revealed in the postscript. After bantering his friend on account of his faint- heartedness in love:–

“Because thy lady saw not thy distress, Therefore thou gavest her up at Michaelmas–“

Chaucer ends by entreating him to further his claims upon the royal munificence. Of this friend, Henry Scogan, a tradition repeated by Ben Jonson averred that he was a fine gentleman and Master of Arts of Henry IV’s time, who was regarded and rewarded for his Court “disguisings” and “writings in ballad-royal.” He is therefore appropriately apostrophised by Chaucer as kneeling

–at the streames head
Of grace, of all honuor and worthiness,

and reminded that his friend is at the other end of the current. The weariness of tone, natural under the circumstances, obscures whatever humour the poem possesses.

Very possibly the lines to Scogan were written not before, but immediately after, the accession of Henry IV. In that case they belong to about the same date as the wellknown and very plainspoken “Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse,” addressed by him to the new Sovereign without loss of time, if not indeed, as it would be hardly uncharitable to suppose, prepared beforehand. Even in this “Complaint” (the term was a technical one for an elegiac piece, and was so used by Spenser) there is a certain frank geniality of tone, the natural accompaniment of an easy conscience, which goes some way to redeem the nature of the subject. Still, the theme remains one which only an exceptionally skilful treatment can make sufficiently pathetic or perfectly comic. The lines had the desired effect; for within four days after his accession–i.e. on October 3rd, 1399–the “conqueror of Brut’s Albion,” otherwise King Henry IV, doubled Chaucer’s pension of twenty marks, so that, continuing as he did to enjoy the annuity of twenty pounds granted him by King Richard, he was now once more in comfortable circumstances. The best proof of these lies in the fact that very speedily–on Christmas Eve, 1399–Chaucer, probably in a rather sanguine mood, covenanted for the lease for fifty-three years of a house in the garden of the chapel of St. Mary at Westminster. And here, in comfort and in peace, as there seems every reason to believe, he died before another year, and with it the century, had quite run out–on October 25th, 1400.

Our fancy may readily picture to itself the last days of Geoffrey Chaucer, and the ray of autumn sunshine which gilded his reverend head before it was bowed in death. His old patron’s more fortunate son, whose earlier chivalrous days we are apt to overlook in thinking of him as a politic king and the sagacious founder of a dynasty, cannot have been indifferent to the welfare of a subject for whose needs he had provided with so prompt a liberality. In the vicinity of a throne the smiles of royalty are wont to be contagious–and probably many a courtier thought well to seek the company of one who, so far as we know, had never forfeited the goodwill of any patron or the attachment of any friend. We may, too, imagine him visited by associates who loved and honoured the poet as well as the man– by Gower, blind or nearly so, if tradition speak the truth, and who, having “long had sickness upon hand,” seems unlike Chaucer to have been ministered to in his old age by a housewife whom he had taken to himself in contradiction of principles preached by both the poets; and by “Bukton,” converted, perchance, by means of Chaucer’s gift to him of the “Wife of Bath’s Tale,” to a resolution of perpetual bachelorhood, but otherwise, as Mr. Carlyle would say, “dim to us.” Besides these, if he was still among the living, the philosophical Strode in his Dominican habit, on a visit to London from one of his monasteries; or–more probably–the youthful Lydgate, not yet a Benedictine monk, but pausing, on his return from his travels in divers lands, to sit awhile, as it were, at the feet of the master in whose poetic example he took pride; the courtly Scogan; and Occleve, already learned, who was to cherish the memory of Chaucer’s outward features as well as of his fruitful intellect:–all these may in his closing days have gathered around their friend; and perhaps one or the other may have been present to close the watchful eyes for ever.

But there was yet another company with which, in these last years, and perhaps in these last days of his life, Chaucer had intercourse, of which he can rarely have lost sight, and which even in solitude he must have had constantly with him. This company has since been well known to generations and centuries of Englishmen. Its members head that goodly procession of figures which have been familiar to our fathers as livelong friends, which are the same to us, and will be to our children after us — the procession of the nation’s favourites among the characters created by our great dramatists and novelists, the eternal types of human nature which nothing can efface from our imagination. Or is there less reality about the “Knight” in his short cassock and old-fashioned armour and the “Wife of Bath” in hat and wimple, than–for instance–about Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman? Can we not hear “Madame Eglantine” lisping her “Stratford-atte-Bowe” French as if she were a personage in a comedy by Congreve or Sheridan? Is not the “Summoner” with his “fire-red cherubim’s face” a worthy companion for Lieutenant Bardolph himself? And have not the humble “Parson” and his Brother the “Ploughman” that irresistible pathos which Dickens could find in the simple and the poor? All these figures, with those of their fellow-pilgrims, are to us living men and women; and in their midst the poet who created them lives, as he has painted himself among the company, not less faithfully than Occleve depicted him from memory after death.

How long Chaucer had been engaged upon the “Canterbury Tales” it is impossible to decide. No process is more hazardous than that of distributing a poet’s works among the several periods of his life according to divisions of species–placing his tragedies or serious stories in one season, his comedies or lighter tales in another, and so forth. Chaucer no more admits of such treatment than Shakspere, nor because there happens to be in his case little actual evidence by which to control or contradict it, are we justified in subjecting him to it. All we know is that he left his great work a fragment, and that we have no mention in any of his other poems of more than three of the “Tales”–two, as already noticed, being mentioned in the Prologue to the Legend of Good Women, written at a time when they had perhaps not yet assumed the form in which they are preserved, while to the third (the “Wife of Bath”) reference is made in the “Envoi to Bukton,” the date of which is quite uncertain. At the same time, the labour which was expended upon the “Canterbury Tales” by their author manifestly obliges us to conclude that their composition occupied several years, with inevitable interruptions; while the gaiety and brightness of many of the stories, and the exuberant humour and exquisite pathos of others, as well as the masterly effectiveness of the “Prologue,” make it almost certain that these parts of the work were written when Chaucer was not only capable of doing his best, but also in a situation which admitted of his doing it. The supposition is therefore a very probable one, that the main period of their composition may have extended over the last eleven or twelve years of his life, and have begun about the time when he was again placed above want by his appointment to the Clerkship of the Royal Works.

Again, it is virtually certain that the poem of the “Canterbury Tales” was left in an unfinished and partially unconnected condition, and it is altogether uncertain whether Chaucer had finally determined upon maintaining or modifying the scheme originally indicated by him in the “Prologue.” There can accordingly be no necessity for working out a scheme into which everything that he has left belonging to the “Canterbury Tales” may most easily and appropriately fit. Yet the labour is by no means lost of such inquiries as those which have with singular zeal been prosecuted concerning the several problems that have to be solved before such a scheme can be completed. Without a review of the evidence it would however be preposterous to pronounce on the proper answer to be given to the questions: what were the number of tales and that of tellers ultimately designed by Chaucer; what was the order in which he intended the “Tales” actually written by him to stand; and what was the plan of the journey of his pilgrims, as to the localities of its stages and as to the time occupied by it–whether one day for the fifty-six miles from London to Canterbury (which is by no means impossible), or two days (which seems more likely), or four. The route of the pilgrimage must have been one in parts of which it is pleasant even now to dally, when the sweet spring flowers are in bloom which Mr. Boughton has painted for lovers of the poetry of English landscape.

There are one or two other points which should not be overlooked in considering the “Canterbury Tales” as a whole. It has sometimes been assumed as a matter of course that the plan of the work was borrowed from Boccaccio. If this means that Chaucer owed to the “Decamerone” the idea of including a number of stories in the framework of a single narrative, it implies too much. For this notion, a familiar one in the East, had long been known to Western Europe by the numerous versions of the terribly ingenious story of the “Seven Wise Masters” (in the progress of which the unexpected never happens), as well as by similar collections of the same kind. And the special connexion of this device with a company of pilgrims might, as has been well remarked, have been suggested to Chaucer by an English book certainly within his ken, the “Vision concerning Piers Plowman,” where in the “fair field full of folk” are assembled among others “pilgrims and palmers who went forth on their way” to St. James of Compostella and to saints at Rome “with many wise tales”–(“and had leave to lie all their life after”). But even had Chaucer owed the idea of his plan to Boccaccio, he would not thereby have incurred a heavy debt to the Italian novelist. There is nothing really dramatic in the schemes of the “Decamerone” or of the numerous imitations which it called forth, from the French “Heptameron” and the Neapolitan “Pentamerone” down to the German “Phantasus.” It is unnecessary to come nearer to our own times; for the author of the “Earthly Paradise” follows Chaucer in endeavouring at least to give a framework of real action to his collection of poetic tales. There is no organic connexion between the powerful narrative of the Plague opening Boccaccio’s book, and the stories chiefly of love and its adventures which follow; all that Boccaccio did was to preface an interesting series of tales by a more interesting chapter of history, and then to bind the tales themselves together lightly and naturally in days, like rows of pearls in a collar. But while in the “Decamerone” the framework in its relation to the stories is of little or no significance, in the “Canterbury Tales” it forms one of the most valuable organic elements in the whole work. One test of the distinction is this: what reader of the “Decamerone” connects any of the novels composing it with the personality of the particular narrator, or even cares to remember the grouping of the stories as illustrations of fortunate or unfortunate, adventurous or illicit, passion? The charm of Boccaccio’s book, apart from the independent merits of the Introduction, lies in the admirable skill and unflagging vivacity with which the “novels” themselves are told. The scheme of the “Canterbury Tales,” on the other hand, possesses some genuinely dramatic elements. If the entire form, at all events in its extant condition, can scarcely be said to have a plot, it at least has an EXPOSITION unsurpassed by that of any comedy, ancient or modern; it has the possibility of a growth of action and interest; and (which is of far more importance, it has a variety of characters which mutually both relieve and supplement one another. With how sure an instinct, by the way, Chaucer has anticipated that unwritten law of the modern drama according to which low comedy characters always appear in couples! Thus the “Miller” and the “Reeve” are a noble pair running in parallel lines, though in contrary directions; so are the “Cook” and the “Manciple,” and again and more especially the “Friar” and the “Summoner.” Thus at least the germ of a comedy exists in the plan of the “Canterbury Tales.” No comedy could be formed out of the mere circumstance of a company of ladies and gentlemen sitting down in a country-house to tell an unlimited number of stories on a succession of topics; but a comedy could be written with the purpose of showing how a wide variety of national types will present themselves, when brought into mutual contact by an occasion peculiarly fitted to call forth their individual rather than their common characteristics.

For not only are we at the opening of the “Canterbury Tales” placed in the very heart and centre of English life; but the poet contrives to find for what may be called his action a background, which seems of itself to suggest the most serious emotions and the most humorous associations. And this without anything grotesque in the collocation, such as is involved in the notion of men telling anecdotes at a funeral, or forgetting a pestilence over love-stories. Chaucer’s dramatis personae are a company of pilgrims, whom at first we find assembled in a hostelry in Southwark, and whom we afterwards accompany on their journey to Canterbury. The hostelry is that “Tabard” inn which, though it changed its name, and no doubt much of its actual structure, long remained both in its general appearance, and perhaps in part of its actual self, a genuine relic of mediaeval London. There, till within a very few years from the present date, might still be had a draught of that London ale of which Chaucer’s “Cook” was so thorough a connoisseur; and there within the big courtyard, surrounded by a gallery very probably a copy of its predecessor, was ample room for

–well nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk,

with their horses and travelling gear sufficient for a ride to Canterbury. The goal of this ride has its religious, its national, one might even say its political aspect; but the journey itself has an importance of its own. A journey is generally one of the best of opportunities for bringing out the distinctive points in the characters of travellers; and we are accustomed to say that no two men can long travel in one another’s company unless their friendship is equal to the severest of tests. At home men live mostly among colleagues and comrades; on a journey they are placed in continual contrast with men of different pursuits and different habits of life. The shipman away from his ship, the monk away from his cloister, the scholar away from his books, become interesting instead of remaining commonplace, because the contrasts become marked which exist between them. Moreover, men undertake journeys for divers purposes, and a pilgrimage in Chaucer’s day united a motley group of chance companions in search of different ends at the same goal. One goes to pray, the other seeks profit, the third distraction, the fourth pleasure. To some the road is everything; to others, its terminus. All this vanity lay in the mere choice of Chaucer’s framework; there was accordingly something of genius in the thought itself; and even an inferior workmanship could hardly have left a description of a Canterbury pilgrimage unproductive of a wide variety of dramatic effects.

But Chaucer’s workmanship was as admirable as his selection of his framework was felicitous. He has executed only part of his scheme, according to which each pilgrim was to tell two tales both going and coming, and the best narrator, the laureate of this merry company, was to be rewarded by a supper at the common expense on their return to their starting-place. Thus the design was, not merely to string together a number of poetical tales by an easy thread, but to give a real unity and completeness to the whole poem. All the tales told by all the pilgrims were to be connected together by links; the reader was to take an interest in the movement and progress of the journey to and fro; and the poem was to have a middle as well as a beginning and an end:–the beginning being the inimitable “Prologue” as it now stands; the middle the history of the pilgrims’ doings at Canterbury; and the close their return and farewell celebration at the Tabard inn. Though Chaucer carried out only about a fourth part of this plan, yet we can see, as clearly as if the whole poem lay before us in a completed form, that its most salient feature was intended to lie in the variety of its characters.

Each of these characters is distinctly marked out in itself, while at the same time it is designed as the type of a class. This very obvious criticism of course most readily admits of being illustrated by the “Prologue”–a gallery of genre-portraits which many master-hands have essayed to reproduce with pen or with pencil. Indeed one lover of Chaucer sought to do so with both–poor gifted Blake, whose descriptive text of his picture of the Canterbury Pilgrims Charles Lamb, with the loving exaggeration in which he was at times fond of indulging, pronounced the finest criticism on Chaucer’s poem he had ever read. But it should be likewise noticed that the character of each pilgrim is kept up through the poem, both incidentally in the connecting passages between tale and tale, and in the manner in which the tales themselves are introduced and told. The connecting passages are full of dramatic vivacity; in these the “Host,” Master Harry Bailly, acts as a most efficient choragus, but the other pilgrims are not silent, and in the “Manciple’s” Prologue, the “Cook” enacts a bit of downright farce for the amusement of the company and of stray inhabitants of “Bob-up-and-down.” He is, however, homoeopathically cured of the effects of his drunkenness, so that the “Host” feels justified in offering up a thanksgiving to Bacchus for his powers of conciliation. The “Man of Law’s” Prologue is an argument; the “Wife of Bath’s” the ceaseless clatter of an indomitable tongue. The sturdy “Franklin” corrects himself when deviating into circumlocution:–

Till that the brighte sun had lost his hue, For th’ horizon had reft the sun of light, (This is as much to say as: it was night).

The “Miller” “tells his churlish tale in his manner,” of which manner the less said the better; while in the “Reeve’s Tale,” Chaucer even, after the manner of a comic dramatist, gives his Northern undergraduate a vulgar ungrammatical phraseology, probably designedly, since the poet was himself a “Southern man.” The “Pardoner” is exuberant in his sample-eloquence; the “Doctor of Physic” is gravely and sententiously moral–

–a proper man,
And like a prelate, by Saint Runyan,

says the “Host.” Most sustained of all, though he tells no tale, is, from the nature of the case, the character of Harry Bailly, the host of the Tabard, himself–who, whatever resemblance he may bear to his actual original, is the anecestor of a long line of descendants, including mine Host of the Garter in the “Merry Wives of Windsor.” He is a thorough worldling, to whom anything smacking of the precisian in morals is as offensive as anything of a Romantic tone in literature; he smells a Lollard without fail, and turns up his nose at an old-fashioned ballad or a string of tragic instances as out of date or tedious. In short, he speaks his mind and that of other more timid people at the same time, and is one of those sinners whom everybody both likes and respects. “I advise,” says the “Pardoner,” with polite impudence (when inviting the company to become purchasers of the holy wares which he has for sale), that

–our host, he shall begin,
For he is most enveloped in sin.

He is thus both an admirable picture in himself, and an admirable foil to those characters which are most unlike him–above all to the “Parson” and the “Clerk of Oxford,” the representatives of religion and learning.

As to the “Tales” themselves, Chaucer beyond a doubt meant their style and tone to be above all things POPULAR. This is one of the causes accounting for the favour shown to the work,–a favour attested, so far as earlier times are concerned, by the vast number of manuscripts existing of it. The “Host” is, so to speak, charged with the constant injunction of this cardinal principle of popularity as to both theme and style. “Tell us,” he coolly demands of the most learned and sedate of all his fellow- travellers,

–some merry thing of adventures;
Your termes, your colours, and your figures, Keep them in store, till so be ye indite High style, as when that men to kinges write; Speak ye so plain at this time, we you pray, That we may understande that ye say.

And the “Clerk” follows the spirit of the injunction both by omitting, as impertinent, a proeme in which his original, Petrarch, gives a great deal of valuable, but not in its connexion interesting, geographical information, and by adding a facetious moral to what he calls the “unrestful matter” of his story. Even the “Squire,” though, after the manner of young men, far more than his elders addicted to the grand style, and accordingly specially praised for his eloquence by the simple “Franklin,” prefers to reduce to its plain meaning the courtly speech of the Knight of the Brazen Steed. In connexion with what was said above, it is observable that each of the “Tales” in subject suits its narrator. Not by chance is the all-but-Quixotic romance of “Palamon and Arcite,” taken by Chaucer from Boccaccio’s “Teseide,” related by the “Knight”; not by chance does the “Clerk,” following Petrarch’s Latin version of a story related by the same author, tell the even more improbable, but, in the plainness of its moral, infinitely more fructuous tale of patient Griseldis. How well the “Second Nun” is fitted with a legend which carries us back a few centuries into the atmosphere of Hrosvitha’s comedies, and suggests with the utmost verisimilitude the nature of a Nun’s lucubrations on the subject of marriage. It is impossible to go through the whole list of the “Tales”; but all may be truly said to be in keeping with the characters and manners (often equally indifferent) of their tellers–down to that of the “Nun’s Priest,” which, brimful of humour as it is, has just the mild naughtiness about it which comes so drolly from a spiritual director in his worldlier hour.

Not a single one of these “Tales” can with any show of reason be ascribed to Chaucer’s own invention. French literature–chiefly though not solely that of fabliaux–doubtless supplied the larger share of his materials; but that here also his debts to Italian literature, and to Boccaccio in particular, are considerable, seems hardly to admit of denial. But while Chaucer freely borrowed from foreign models, he had long passed beyond the stage of translating without assimilating. It would be rash to assume that where he altered he invariably improved. His was not the unerring eye which, like Shakspere’s in his dramatic transfusions of Plutarch, missed no particle of the gold mingled with the baser metal, but rejected the dross with sovereign certainty. In dealing with Italian originals more especially, he sometimes altered for the worse, and sometimes for the better; but he was never a mere slavish translator. So in the “Knight’s Tale” he may be held in some points to have deviated disadvantageously from his original; but, on the other hand, in the “Clerk’s Tale,” he inserts a passage on the fidelity of women, and another on the instability of the multitude, besides adding a touch of nature irresistibly pathetic in the exclamation of the faithful wife, tried beyond her power of concealing the emotion within her:

O gracious God! how gentle and how kind Ye seemed by your speech and your visage The day that maked was our marriage.

So also in the “Man of Law’s Tale,” which is taken from the French, he increases the vivacity of the narrative by a considerable number of apostrophes in his own favourite manner, besides pleasing the general reader by divers general reflexions of his own inditing. Almost necessarily, the literary form and the self-consistency of his originals lose under such treatment. But his dramatic sense, on which perhaps his commentators have not always sufficiently dwelt, is rarely, if ever, at fault. Two illustrations of this gift in Chaucer must suffice, which shall be chosen in two quarters where he has worked with materials of the most widely different kind. Many readers must have compared with Dante’s original (in canto 33 of the “Inferno”) Chaucer’s version in the “Monk’s Tale” of the story of Ugolino. Chaucer, while he necessarily omits the ghastly introduction, expands the pathetic picture of the sufferings of the father and his sons in their dungeon, and closes, far more briefly and effectively than Dante, with a touch of the most refined pathos:–


Of Hugolin of Pisa the langour
There may no tongue telle for pity. But little out of Pisa stands a tower,
In whiche tower in prison put was he; And with him be his little children three. The eldest scarcely five years was of age; Alas! fortune! it was great cruelty
Such birds as these to put in such a cage.

Condemned he was to die in that prison, For Royer, which that bishop was of Pise, Had on him made a false suggestion,
Through which the people gan on him arise, And put him in prison in such a wise,
As ye have heard, and meat and drink he had So little that it hardly might suffice,
And therewithal it was full poor and bad.

And on a day befell that in that hour When that his meat was wont to be y-brought, The gaoler shut the doors of that tower. He heard it well, although he saw it not; And in his heart anon there fell a thought That they his death by hunger did devise. “Alas!” quoth he, “alas! that I was wrought!” Therewith the teares fell from his eyes

His youngest son, that three years was of age, Unto him said: “Father, why do ye weep?
When will the gaoler bring us our pottage? Is there no morsel bread that ye do keep? I am so hungry that I cannot sleep.
Now woulde God that I might sleep for ever! Then should not hunger in my belly creep. There is no thing save bread that I would liever.”

Thus day by day this child began to cry, Till in his father’s lap adown he lay,
And saide: “Farewell, father, I must die!” And kissed his father, and died the same day. The woeful father saw that dead he lay,
And his two arms for woe began to bite, And said: “Fortune, alas and well-away!
For all my woe I blame thy treacherous spite.”

His children weened that it for hunger was, That he his arms gnawed, and not for woe. And saide: “Father, do not so, alas!
But rather eat the flesh upon us two. Our flesh thou gavest us, our flesh thou take us fro, And eat enough.” Right thus they to him cried; And after that, within a day or two,
They laid them in his lap adown and died.

The father in despair likewise died of hunger; and such was the end of the mighty Earl of Pisa, whose tragedy whosoever desires to hear at greater length may read it as told by the great poet of Italy hight Dante.

The other instance is that of the “Pardoner’s Tale,” which would appear to have been based on a fabliau now lost, though the substance of it is preserved in an Italian novel, and in one or two other versions. For the purpose of noticing how Chaucer arranges as well as tells a story, the following attempt at a condensed prose rendering of his narrative may be acceptable:–

Once upon a time in Flanders there was a company of young men, who gave themselves up to every kind of dissipation and debauchery–haunting the taverns where dancing and dicing continues day and night, eating and drinking, and serving the devil in his own temple by their outrageous life of luxury. It was horrible to hear their oaths, how they tore to pieces our blessed Lord’s body, as if they thought the Jews had not rent Him enough; and each laughed at the sin of the others, and all were alike immersed in gluttony and wantonness.

And so one morning it befel that three of these rioters were sitting over their drink in a tavern, long before the bell had rung for nine o’clock prayers. And as they sat, they heard a bell clinking before a corpse that was being carried to the grave. So one of them bade his servant-lad go and ask what was the name of the dead man; but the boy said that he knew it already, and that it was the name of an old companion of his master’s. As he had been sitting drunk on a bench, there had come a privy thief, whom men called Death, and who slew all the people in this country; and he had smitten the drunken man’s heart in two with his spear, and had then gone on his way without any more words. This Death had slain a thousand during the present pestilence; and the boy thought it worth warning his master to beware of such an adversary, and to be ready to meet him at any time. “So my mother taught me; I say no more.” “Marry,” said the keeper of the tavern; “the child tells the truth: this Death has slain all the inhabitants of a great village not far from here; I think that there must be the place where he dwells.” Then the rioter swore with some of his big oaths that he at least was not afraid of this Death, and that he would seek him out wherever he dwelt. And at his instance his two boon- companions joined with him in a vow that before nightfall they would slay the false traitor Death, who was the slayer of so many; and the vow they swore was one of closest fellowship between them–to live and die for one another as if they had been brethren born. And so they went forth in their drunken fury towards the village of which the taverner had spoken, with terrible execrations on their lips that “Death should be dead, if they might catch him.”

They had not gone quite half a mile when at a stile between two fields they came upon a poor old man, who meekly greeted them with a “God save you, sirs.” But the proudest of the three rioters answered him roughly, asking him why he kept himself all wrapped up except his face, and how so old a fellow as he had managed to keep alive so long? And the old man looked him straight in the face and replied, “Because in no town or village, though I journey as far as the Indies, can I find a man willing to exchange his youth for my age; and therefore I must keep it so long as God wills it so. Death, alas! will not have my life, and so I wander about like a restless fugitive, and early and late I knock on the ground, which is my mother’s gate, with my staff, and say, ‘Dear mother, let me in! behold how I waste away! Alas! when shall my bones be at rest? Mother, gladly will I give you my chest containing all my worldly gear in return for a shroud to wrap me in.’ But she refuses me that grace, and that is why my face is pale and withered. But you, sirs, are uncourteous to speak rudely to an inoffensive old man, when Holy Writ bids you reverence grey hairs. Therefore, never again give offence to an old man, if you wish men to be courteous to you in your age, should you live so long. And so God be with you: I must go whither I have to go.” But the second rioter prevented him, and swore he should not depart so lightly. “Thou spakest just now of that traitor Death, who slays all our friends in this country. As thou art his spy, hear me swear that, unless thou tellest where he is, thou shalt die; for thou art in his plot to slay us young men, thou false thief!” Then the old man told them that if they were so desirous of finding Death, they had but to turn up a winding path to which he pointed, and there they would find him they sought in a grove under an oak-tree, where the old man had just left him; “he will not try to hide himself for all your boasting. And so may God the Redeemer save you and amend you!” And when he had spoken, all the three rioters ran till they came to the tree. But what they found there was a treasure of golden florins–nearly seven bushels of them as they thought. Then they no longer sought after Death, but sat down all three by the shining gold. And the youngest of them spoke first, and declared that Fortune had given this treasure to them, so that they might spend the rest of their lives in mirth and jollity. The question was how to take this money–which clearly belonged to some one else–safely to the house of one of the three companions. It must be done by night; so let them draw lots, and let him on whom the lot fell run to the town to fetch bread and wine, while the other two guarded the treasure carefully till the night came, when they might agree whither to transport it.

The lot fell on the youngest, who forthwith went his way to the town. Then one of those who remained with the treasure said to the other: “Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother, and I will tell thee something to thy advantage. Our companion is gone, and here is a great quantity of gold to be divided among us three. But say, if I could manage so that the gold is divided between us two, should I not do thee a friend’s turn?” And when the other failed to understand him, he made him promise secrecy and disclosed his plan. “Two are stronger than one. When he sits down, arise as if thou wouldest sport with him; and while thou art struggling with him as in play, I will rive him through both his sides; and look thou do the same with thy dagger. After which, my dear friend, we will divide all the gold between you and me, and then we may satisfy all our desires and play at dice to our hearts’ content.”

Meanwhile the youngest rioter, as he went up to the town, revolved in his heart the beauty of the bright new florins, and said unto himself: “If only I could have all this gold to myself alone, there is no man on earth who would live so merrily as I.” And at last the Devil put it into his relentless heart to buy poison, in order with it to kill his two companions. And straightway he went on into the town to an apothecary, and besought him to sell him some poison for destroying some rats which infested his house and a polecat which, he said, had made away with his capons. And the apothecary said: “Thou shalt have something of which (so may God save my soul!) no creature in all the world could swallow a single grain without losing his life thereby–and that in less time than thou wouldest take to walk a mile in.” So the miscreant shut up this poison in a box, and then he went into the next street and borrowed three large bottles, into two of which he poured his poison, while the third he kept clean to hold drink for himself; for he meant to work hard all the night to carry away the gold. So he filled his three bottles with wine, and then went back to his companions under the tree.

What need to make a long discourse of what followed? As they had plotted their comrade’s death, so they slew him, and that at once. And when they had done this, the one who had counselled the deed said, “Now let us sit and drink and make merry, and then we will bury his body.” And it happened to him by chance to take one of the bottles which contained the poison; and he drank, and gave drink of it to his fellow; and thus they both speedily died.

The plot of this story is, as observed, not Chaucer’s. But how carefully, how artistically the narrative is elaborated, incident by incident, and point by point! How well every effort is prepared, and how well every turn of the story is explained! Nothing is superfluous, but everything is arranged with care, down to the circumstances of the bottles being bought, for safety’s sake, in the next street to the apothecary’s, and of two out of three bottles being filled with poison, which is at once a proceeding natural in itself, and increases the chances against the two rioters when they are left to choose for themselves. This it is to be a good story- teller. But of a different order is the change introduced by Chaucer into his original, where the old hermit–who, of course, is Death himself–is fleeing from Death. Chaucer’s Old Man is SEEKING Death, but seeking him in vain–like the Wandering Jew of the legend. This it is to be a poet.

Of course it is always necessary to be cautious before asserting any apparent addition of Chaucer’s to be his own invention. Thus, in the “Merchant’s Tale,” the very naughty plot of which is anything but original, it is impossible to say whether such is the case with the humorous competition of advice between Justinus and Placebo, (“Placebo” seems to have been a current term to express the character or the ways of “the too deferential man.” “Flatterers be the Devil’s chaplains, that sing aye Placebo.”–“Parson’s Tale.”), or with the fantastic machinery in which Pluto and Proserpine anticipate the part played by Oberon and Titania in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” On the other hand, Chaucer is capable of using goods manifestly borrowed or stolen for a purpose never intended in their original employment. Puck himself must have guided the audacious hand which could turn over the leaves of so respected a Father of the Church as St. Jerome, in order to derive from his treatise “On Perpetual Virginity” materials for the discourse on matrimony delivered, with illustrations essentially her own, by the “Wife of Bath.”

Two only among these “Tales” are in prose–a vehicle of expression, on the whole, strange to the polite literature of the pre-Renascence ages–but not both for the same reason. The first of these “Tales” is told by the poet himself, after a stop has been unceremoniously put upon his recital of the “Ballad of Sir Thopas” by the Host. The ballad itself is a fragment of straightforward burlesque, which shows that in both the manner and the metre (Dunbar’s burlesque ballad of “Sir Thomas Norray” is in the same stanza) of ancient romances, literary criticism could even in Chaucer’s days find its opportunities for satire, though it is going rather far to see in “Sir Thopas” a predecessor of “Don Quixote.” The “Tale of Meliboeus” is probably an English version of a French translation of Albert of Brescia’s famous “Book of Consolation and Counsel,” which comprehends in a slight narrative framework a long discussion between the unfortunate Meliboeus, whom the wrongs and sufferings inflicted upon him and his have brought to the verge of despair, and his wise helpmate, Dame Prudence. By means of a long argumentation propped up by quotations (not invariably assigned with conscientious accuracy to their actual source) from “The Book,” Seneca, “Tullius,” and other authors, she at last persuades him not only to reconcile himself to his enemies, but to forgive them, even as he hopes to be forgiven. And thus the Tale well bears out the truth impressed upon Meliboeus by the following ingeniously combined quotation:–

And there said once a clerk in two verses: What is better than gold? Jasper. And what is better than jasper? Wisdom. And what is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than woman? No thing.

Certainly, Chaucer gave proof of consummate tact and taste, as well as of an unaffected personal modesty, in assigning to himself as one of the company of pilgrims, instead of a tale bringing him into competition with the creatures of his own invention, after his mocking ballad has served its turn, nothing more ambitious than a version of a popular discourse– half narrative, half homily–in prose. But a question of far greater difficulty and moment arises with regard to the other prose piece included among the “Canterbury Tales.” Of these the so-called “Parson’s Tale” is the last in order of succession. Is it to be looked upon as an integral part of the collection; and, if so, what general and what personal significance should be attached to it?

As it stands, the long tractate or sermon (partly adapted from a popular French religious manual), which bears the name of the “Parson’s Tale,” is, if not unfinished, at least internally incomplete. It lacks symmetry, and fails entirely to make good the argument or scheme of divisions with which the sermon begins, as conscientiously as one of Barrow’s. Accordingly, an attempt has been made to show that what we have is something different from the “meditation” which Chaucer originally put into his “Parson’s” mouth. But, while we may stand in respectful awe of the German daring which, whether the matter in hand be a few pages of Chaucer, a Book of Homer, or a chapter of the Old Testament, is fully prepared to show which parts of each are mutilated, which interpolated, and which transposed, we may safely content ourselves, in the present instance, with considering the preliminary question. A priori, is there sufficient reason for supposing any transpositions, interpolations, and mutilations to have been introduced into the “Parson’s Tale”? The question is full of interest; for while, on the one hand, the character of the “Parson” in the “Prologue” has been frequently interpreted as evidence of sympathy on Chaucer’s part with Wycliffism, on the other hand, the “Parson’s Tale,” in its extant form, goes far to disprove the supposition that its author was a Wycliffite.

This, then, seems the appropriate place for briefly reviewing the vexed question–WAS CHAUCER A WYCLIFFITE? Apart from the character of the “Parson” and from the “Parson’s Tale,” what is the nature of our evidence on the subject? In the first place, nothing could be clearer than that Chaucer was a very free-spoken critic of the life of the clergy–more especially of the Regular clergy,–of his times. In this character he comes before us from his translation of the “Roman de la Rose” to the “Parson’s Tale” itself, where he inveighs with significant earnestness against self indulgence on the part of those who are Religious, or have “entered into Orders, as sub-deacon, or deacon, or priest, or hospitallers.” In the “Canterbury Tales,” above all, his attacks upon the Friars run nearly the whole gamut of satire, stopping short perhaps before the note of high moral indignation. Moreover, as has been seen, his long connexion with John of Gaunt is a well-established fact; and it has thence been concluded that Chaucer fully shared the opinions and tendencies represented by his patron. In the supposition that Chaucer approved of the countenance for a long time shown by John of Gaunt to Wyclif there is nothing improbable; neither, however, is there anything improbable in this other supposition, that, when the Duke of Lancaster openly washed his hands of the heretical tenets to the utterance of which Wyclif had advanced, Chaucer, together with the large majority of Englishmen, held with the politic duke rather than with the still unflinching Reformer. So long as Wyclif’s movement consisted only of an opposition to ecclesiastical pretensions on the one hand, and of an attempt to revive religious sentiment on the other, half the country or more was Wycliffite, and Chaucer no doubt with the rest. But it would require positive evidence to justify the belief that from this feeling Chaucer ever passed to sympathy with LOLLARDRY, in the vague but sufficiently intelligible sense attaching to that term in the latter part of Richard the Second’s reign. Richard II himself, whose patronage of Chaucer is certain, in the end attempted rigorously to suppress Lollardry; and Henry IV, the politic John of Gaunt’s yet more politic son, to whom Chaucer owed the prosperity enjoyed by him in the last year of his life, became a persecutor almost as soon as he became a king.

Though, then, from the whole tone of his mind, Chaucer could not but sympathise with the opponents of ecclesiastical domination–though, as a man of free and critical spirit, and of an inborn ability for penetrating beneath the surface, he could not but find subjects for endless blame and satire in the members of those Mendicant Orders in whom his chief patron’s academical ally had recognised the most formidable obstacles to the spread of pure religion–yet all this would not justify us in regarding him as personally a Wycliffite. Indeed, we might as well at once borrow the phraseology of a recent respectable critic, and set down Dan Chaucer as a Puritan! The policy of his patron tallied with the view which a fresh practical mind such as Chaucer’s would naturally be disposed to take of the influence of monks and friars, or at least of those monks and friars whose vices and foibles were specially prominent in his eyes. There are various reasons why men oppose established institutions in the season of their decay; but a fourteenth century satirist of the monks, or even of the clergy at large, was not necessarily a Lollard, any more than a nineteenth century objector to doctors’ drugs is necessarily a homoeopathist.

But, it is argued by some, Chaucer has not only assailed the false; he has likewise extolled the true. He has painted both sides of the contrast. On the one side are the Monk, the Friar, and the rest of their fellows; on the other is the “Poor Parson of a town”–a portrait, if not of Wyclif himself, at all events of a Wycliffite priest; and in the “Tale” or sermon put in the Parson’s mouth are recognisable beneath the accumulations of interested editors some of the characteristic marks of Wycliffism. Who is not acquainted with the exquisite portrait in question?–

A good man was there of religion,
And was a poore Parson of a town.
But rich he was of holy thought and work. He was also a learned man, a clerk
That Christes Gospel truly woulde preach; And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was, and wondrous diligent, And in adversity full patient.
And such he was y-proved ofte sithes. Full loth he was to curse men for his tithes; But rather would he give, without doubt, Unto his poor parishioners about
Of his off’ring and eke of his substance. He could in little wealth have suffisance. Wide was his parish, houses far asunder, Yet failed he not for either rain or thunder In sickness nor mischance to visit all
The furthest in his parish, great and small, Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff.
This noble ensample to his sheep he gave, That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught Out of the Gospel he those wordes caught, And this figure he added eke thereto,
That “if gold ruste, what shall iron do?” For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder is it if a layman rust;
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep, A foul shepherd to see and a clean sheep; Well ought a priest ensample for to give By his cleanness, how that his sheep should live. He put not out his benefice on hire,
And left his sheep encumbered in the mire, And ran to London unto Sainte Paul’s,
To seek himself a chantery for souls, Or maintenance with a brotherhood to hold; But dwelt at home, and kepte well his fold, So that the wolf ne’er made it to miscarry; He was a shepherd and no mercenary.
And though he holy were, and virtuous, He was to sinful man not despitous,
And of his speech nor difficult nor digne, But in his teaching discreet and benign. For to draw folk to heaven by fairness,
By good ensample, this was his business: But were there any person obstinate,
What so he were, of high or low estate, Him would he sharply snub at once. Than this A better priest, I trow, there nowhere is. He waited for no pomp and reverence,
Nor made himself a spiced conscience; But Christes lore and His Apostles’ twelve He taught, but first he followed it himself.

The most striking features in this portrait are undoubtedly those which are characteristics of the good and humble working clergyman of all times; and some of these, accordingly, Goldsmith could appropriately borrow for his gentle poetic sketch of his parson-brother in “Sweet Auburn.” But there are likewise points in the sketch which may be fairly described as specially distinctive of Wyclif’s Simple Priests–though, as should be pointed out, these Priests could not themselves be designated parsons of towns. Among the latter features are the specially evangelical source of the “Parson’s” learning and teaching; and his outward appearance–the wandering, staff in hand, which was specially noted in an archiepiscopal diatribe against these novel ministers of the people. Yet it seems unnecessary to conclude anything beyond this: that the feature which Chaucer desired above all to mark and insist upon in his “Parson,” was the Poverty and humility which in him contrasted with the luxurious self- indulgence of the “Monk,” and the blatant insolence of the “Pardoner.” From this point of view it is obvious why the “Parson” is made brother to the “Ploughman.” For, in drawing the latter, Chaucer cannot have forgotten that other Ploughman whom Langland’s poem had identified with Him for whose sake Chaucer’s poor workman laboured for his poor neighbours, with the readiness always shown by the best of his class. Nor need this recognition of the dignity of the lowly surprise us in Chaucer, who had both sense of justice and sense of humour enough not to flatter one class at the expense of the rest, and who elsewhere (in the “Manciples Tale”) very forcibly puts the truth that what in a great man is called a coup d’etat is called by a much simpler name in a humbler fellow-sinner.

But though, in the “Parson of a Town,” Chaucer may not have wished to paint a Wycliffite priest–still less a Lollard, under which designation so many varieties of malcontents, in addition to the followers of Wyclif, were popularly included–yet his eyes and ears were open; and he knew well enough what the world and its children are at all times apt to call those who are not ashamed of their religion, as well as those who make too conscious a profession of it. The world called them Lollards at the close of the fourteenth century, and it called them Puritans at the close of the sixteenth, and Methodists at the close of the eighteenth. Doubtless the vintners and the shipmen of Chaucer’s day, the patrons and purveyors of the playhouse in Ben Jonson’s, the fox-hunting squires and town wits of Cowper’s, like their successors after them, were not specially anxious to distinguish nicely between more or less abominable varieties of saintliness. Hence, when Master Harry Bailly’s tremendous oaths produce the gentlest of protests from the “Parson,” the jovial “Host” incontinently “smells a Lollard in the wind,” and predicts (with a further flow of expletives) that there is a sermon to follow. Whereupon the “Shipman” protests not less characteristically:–

“Nay, by my father’s soul, that shall he not,” Saide the Shipman, “here shall he not preach, He shall no gospel here explain or teach. We all believe in the great God,” quoth he; “He woulde sowe some difficulty,
Or springe cockle in our clean corn.” (The nickname Lollards was erroneously derived from “lolia” (tares).)

After each of the pilgrims except the “Parson” has told a tale (so that obviously Chaucer designed one of the divisions of his work to close with the “Parson’s”), he is again called upon by the “Host”. Hereupon appealing to the undoubtedly evangelical and, it might without straining be said, Wycliffite authority of Timothy, he promises as his contribution a “merry tale in prose,” which proves to consist of a moral discourse. In its extant form the “Parson’s Tale” contains, by the side of much that might suitably have come from a Wycliffite teacher, much of a directly opposite nature. For not only is the necessity of certain sacramental usages to which Wyclif strongly objected insisted upon, but the spoliation