FEINBERG/WHITMAN    NOTES [and] NOTEBOOKS  NOTES[--Retirence] UNDATED [Chaucer ("WW's Manuscript Notes and Review of Chaucer")
Box 42 Folder 63Chaucer: Marginilia. A.MA. (82p. 18x 12 cm.)      [*188*]

Written in pencil, with last page in ink, in the margins and on an
end-sheet of two books, one on Chaucer (pp. xi-xiii, 21-81) and Half-Hours
with the Best Authors ('The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth')
(pp. 287-298, plus 4), which have been bound into one book
with title Walt Whitman's Manuscript Notes on a Review of Chaucer,
more than 400 words, with marks, underlinings, verticle lines in the
margins, point hands, etc.

The marginalia on pp. xiii, 26, 27, 29, 40, 52, 55, 57, 60, 82, 299,
54, 55, 24 (last three not used) [*printed*] on pp. 92, 93, 94, and 158 in Walt
Whitman's Notes and Fragments: Left by Walt Whitman and Now Edited
by Dr Richard Maurice Bucke, one of His Literary Executors (Printed
for Private Distribution Only, 1899, 225 copies).FREDERICK BALDWIN ADAMS JRWALT WHITMAN'S
MANUSCRIPT NOTES
ON
A Review of ChaucerTO THE READER OF CHAUCER.
             -----------
DUE attention to the following remarks, by Tyrwhitt, upon the pronunciation
and accent of words used by Chaucer, and their seeming metrical
irregularity, will enable us to read him with ease and pleasure.
   And first, with regard to such offences against metre, as arise from a
superfluity of syllables:
   "With respect to this species of irregularity, I have not taken
notice of any superfluities in Chaucer's verses, but what may be reduced
to just measure by the usual practices of modern poets. They may all, I
think, be comprehended in our language under this one general principle,
that an English verse, though chiefly composed of feet of two syllables,
is capable of receiving feet of three syllables in every part of it, provided
only one of the three syllables be accented."
   Secondly, with reference to such offences as arise from the deficiency
of a syllable or two:
   "In some of these, perhaps the defect may still be supplied from MSS.,
but for the greatest part I am persuaded no such assistance is to be expected;
and, therefore, supposing the text in these cases to be correct,
it is worth considering whether the verse may not also be made correct,
by adopting in certain words a pronunciation, different indeed from modern
practice, but which, we have reason to believe, was used by the
author himself.
   "For instance, in the genitive [*possessive*] case singular and the plural number of
nouns, there can be no doubt that such words as shoures, croppes, shires,
lordes, &c., were regularly pronounced as consisting of two syllables.
   "In like manner, we may be sure that ed, the regular termination of
xii  REMARKS ON PRONUNCIATION.

the past tense and its participle, made, or contributed to make, a second
syllable in the words, perced, bathed, loved, wered, &c.

"But nothing will be found of such extensive use for supplying the
deficiencies of Chaucer's metre as the pronunciation of the e feminine;1
and as that pronunciation has been for a long time antiquated it may be
proper here to suggest some reasons for believing that the final e in our
ancient language was very generally pronounced, as the e feminine is at
this day by the French.

"With respect to words imported directly from France, it is certainly
quite natural to suppose, that, for some time, they retained their native
pronunciation; whether they were nouns substantive, as hoste, face:
adjectives, as large, strange: or verbs, as grante, preche, &c. And it
cannot be doubted that in these and other similar words in the French language, 
the final e was always pronounced, as it still is, so as to make
them dissylables.

"We have not indeed so clear a proof of the original pronunciation 
of the Saxon part of our language; but when we find that a great number 
of those words which in Chaucer's time ended in e, originally ended 
in a, we may reasonably presume that our ancestors first passed from the 
broader sound of a to the thinner sound of e feminine, and not at once 
from a to e mute. 

"We may also presume, that in words terminated, according to the 
Saxon form, in en, such as the infinitive modes and plural numbers of 
verbs, and a great variety of adverbs and prepositions, the n only was at 
first thrown away, and the e, which then became final, continued for a 
long time to be pronounced as well as written. We may, therefore, 
safely conclude, that what is generally considered as an e mute in our 
language, either at the end or in the middle of words, was anciently pronounced, 
but obscurely, like the e feminine of the French." 

Thirdly, with reference to the misapplication of accents: 

"We must be cautious of concluding too hastily that Chaucer accented 
the syllables that we do. On the contrary, I am persuaded that in his 
French words he most commonly laid his accent according to the French 
custom (upon the last syllable or the last but one, in words ending in e 

1 "The true e feminine is always to be pronounced with an obscure, evanescent 
sound, and is incapable of bearing any stress or accent"--Tyrwhitt.


REMARKS ON PRONUNCIATION.   xiii 

feminine), which, as is well known, is the very reverse of our practice. 
Thus he uses licoúr, for líquour; coráges, for coúrages; coráge, for 
coúrage; resón, for réason; viáge, for vóyage; viságe, for vísage; manére, 
for mánner; laboúre, for lábour; prelát, for prélate; langáge, for 
lánguage; mariáge, for márriage; contrée, for coúntry; and so through 
the whole work. 

"In the same manner he accents the last syllable of the participle 
present, as weddíng, comíng, for wédding, cóming; livíng, for líving;
cryíng, for cry'ing; brenníng, for brénning, &c., and as he does this in
words of Saxon as well as of French growth, I should suppose that the
old participle of the present tense, ending in and, was originally accented
upon that syllable, as it certainly continued to be by the Scottish poets a
long time after Chaucer."— Tyrwhitt's Essay on Lang. and Versif.
Chaucer, sec. 13 to 17, inclusive.

Concurrent with the above are Hazlitt's remarks upon Chaucer's versification.
Says he: "Chaucer's versification, considering the time at
which he wrote, and that versification is a thing in a great degree mechanical,
is not one of his least merits. It has considerable strength and
harmony, and its apparent deficiency in the latter respect arises chiefly
from the alterations which have sense taken place in the pronunciation
or mode of accenting the words of the language. The best general rule
for reading him is to pronounce the final e, as in reading Italian."— Lectures
on Eng. Poets, art. Chaucer and Spenser.

[*Of course, in Chaucer's time
the language of the court, and
of learned and refined persons,
especially of poetical=disposed
genteel persons,--and mostly was French.--must have
assimilated to the French. -- 
coming on to them from William
the Conqueror and his [h?] nobles,
and their descendants.--*]EFFECTS OF HIS WRITINGS.   21

CHAPTER II.

The effect produced upon the English language by Chaucer's writings.—
The grade and quality of his genius

IT will not be deemed presumptuous, perhaps, if, without venturing
to pronounce critically upon the effect that Chaucer's writings
had upon the English language and English poetry, we bring
together the judgments of those who may be rightfully esteemed
"doctors" upon that question.

It is worthy of observation that the two principal censors of
Chaucer's style, are men who made no pretensions to poetical
sensibility. They were mere verbal pedants, and their censures
are based upon a servile adhesion to those rules of philology,
which their minds recognized as of the first importance. Honest
old Verstegan, and long after him Skinner, the celebrated philologist,
censure Chaucer as having "deformed the English idiom
by an immoderate admixture of French words." Diametrically
opposed to these, and yet belonging to the same family of error,
are they who deny that Chaucer imported words from French,
and who insist that he kept the language precisely as he found it.
The most judicious critics stand upon a middle ground, and agree
that he naturalized words both from the French and Provencal,
and thereby improved and softened our barren and harsh tongue.
This is the testimony of Dryden, who also asserts that from him
the purity of the English tongue began. Warton also, the learned
and elegant author of "The History of English Poetry," says,
"Edward the Third, while he perhaps intended only to banish a
badge of conquest, greatly contributed to establish the national22   CHAUCER.

dialect, by abolishing the use of Norman tongue in the public
and judicial proceedings, and by substituting the national language
of the country. But Chaucer first taught his countrymen
to write English, and formed a style by naturalizing words from
the Provencal, at that time the most polished dialect of any in
Europe, and the best adapted to the purposes of poetical expression."¹
A kindred writer, Henry Hallam, endorses this opinion
with a slight reservation: "As the first original English poet, if
we except Langland, as an improver, though with too much
innovation, of our language, and as a faithful witness to the
manners of his age, Chaucer would deserve our reverence, if he
had not also intrinsic claims for his excellences which do not depend
upon any collateral considerations." Ritson, the querulous but
indefatigable collector of Ancient English Metrical Romances,
also affirms that "the language was greatly improved and enlarged
by Chaucer," but thinks at the same time, that owing to the
poverty of our tongue, he was forced to borrow words form the
French and Provencal, especially in his translations. And lastly,
Tyrwhitt, the eminent critic upon Chaucer, and the ablest editor
of his works, proves beyond cavil, by an appeal to antecedent and
contemporaneous history, the falsity of the charge that Chaucer
had corrupted the language by an immoderate admixture of Gallicisms,
inasmuch as that evil was chiefly attributable to the Norman

     ¹ The following is an extract from the famous statute to which Warton
refers:— "For this that it is oftentimes shown to the King, by the prelates,
dukes, earls, barons, and all the commonalty, the great mischiefs which
are to come to many of this realm, for this that the laws, customs and statutes
of the real are not commonly known in the same realm, because they are
pleaded, shown and judged in the French language, which is too much
unknown in the same realm, so that the persons who plead or are impleaded
in the courts of the King, and the courts of others, have not understanding
of that which is said for or against them by their sergeants and
other pleaders, be it ordained that all pleas which shall be to plead, be
pleaded in the English language."


GRADE AND QUALITY OF HIS GENIUS.   23

Conquest, from the effects of which the language was just
recovering. He admits that Chaucer selected and naturalized
many words and phrases from the French and Provencal, but
contends for the truth of the general principle, "that the English
language must have imbibed a strong tincture of the French long
before the age of Chaucer; and, consequently, that he ought not 
to be charged as the importer of words and phrases, which he 
only used after the example of his predecessors, and in common
with his contemporaries." If we add to this, that Horne Tooke
quotes him continually, and with more frequency than any of his
contemporaries, as authority for his Saxon derivations, the case
would seem to be conclusively in favor of the more moderate
theory.

The great merit of Chaucer's style is not, however, the selection
of words or phrases, and their naturalization from any foreign
idiom: but consists in his [*drawing of finger pointing *] judicious combination and apt choice
of such as, by their strength, simplicity, and musical inflexion,
most fully express the sentiment he aims to convey. And his
proficiency here was owing to that "perpetual fountain of good
sense," which irrigates all his writings, and which "taught him
what to say, and when to leave off, and cause him to follow 
nature everywhere, but restrained him from the boldness of going 
beyond her."¹

Thus much for the matter of Chaucer's style. The quality
and grade of his genius now remain to be examined; and the
effect that his writings produced on English poetry. We can
arrive at a more correct notion of the former point, perhaps, if we
first examine the latter.

The translations and inventions of Chaucer first admitted the
people who spoke our tongue, to a companionship with the Muses;
and laid the foundation upon with the English language was
elevated to its present dignity. Before, and until the time of our
[*drawing of hand pointing to this paragraph*] 

¹ Dryden's Preface to Palamon and Arcite.24  CHAUCER

poet, the language was considered semi-barbarous, both at home
and abroad, and there was no institution of learning where English
was suffered to be taught. "Children in scole (says a nearly
contemporaneous writer),¹ agenst the usage and manir of all other
nations, beeth compelled for to leve hire own language, and for to
construe hir lessons and hir thynges in Frenche: also gentilmen's
children beeth taught to speke Frensche from the time that they
beeth rokked in hire cradles." Late in the reign of Edward the
Third, this custom was somewhat changes, as Treviza bears witness,
but Chaucer's youthful Muse was found to struggle with it;
and it followed him on close to manhood, for the students of the
Universities were also compelled to converse in French or Latin.
So prevalent was this language, that not only the letters and dispatches
of the King were always written in French,² but "the
minutes of the corporation of London, recorded in the Town
Clerk's office, were in French, as well as the proceedings of Parliament."³
Joined to these obstacles, was the intense ignorance
which so universally prevailed during this century, that it was
quite an unusual thing for a layman, even of the higher ranks, to
know how to sign his name or read; and Kings and Emperors
shared the barren heritage. Books were scarce as rubies and as
highly prized; and the transfer of one from one library to another,
was an event duly recorded, and invested with many solemn legal
observances. Wickliffe's Bible was not yet written; and Sir
[*the first English book*] John Mandeville's Book of Travels—the first English book—was 
written, A.D., 1356, when Chaucer was in his twenty-eighth
year, and after he had written the Court of Love and translated
Boethius. There was not a single historian in English prose,
even among the clergy, before A.D., 1385,⁴ in the reign of Richard
the Second, when translation of Randal Higden's Polychronicon,
by John Treviza, was dignified by the name of History. And

¹ Higden, who lived in the time of Richard the Second.
² Ritson.          ³ Hallam's Lit. Eur., p. 47, vol. 1.          ⁴ Ritson.

 
GRADE AND QUALITY OF HIS GENIUS.  25

the voluminous labors of Robert of Gloucester, and Robert De
Brunne—the only two versifiers or translators of any note, who
wrote in English before the time of Chaucer—are saved from 
being contemptible, simply by their antiquity. It was Chaucer
who recused our noble language from chaos; and the instrument
which he used was the same that has in all ages been the founder
and polisher of every written language, Poetry. Anterior to his
time, the poetry of the country or its miserable substitute, was in
the keeping of the clergy, the heralds, and the minstrels. The
two latter classes were uneducated, save for the duties and requirement
of war, tournaments, and of feastings: while the
education of the former was as inflexible as an armor of sheet-
iron, and ran into the channels of legendary and saintly lore, or
of quaint superstitions, many of which were also conveyed in a
foreign tongue. The classics of Greece and Rome were little
known, and so were the Rhapsodists and Romancers of more
southern and polished climes. The language was barren and
uncouth, and a savage and uncultivated taste was as characteristic
of a magnificent but semi-barbarous court, as it was of the common
people. The only "amusement which deserved the name
of literary, was old metrical and prose romances, and what had
yet much less merit, and more absurdity, wild and unintelligible
books of prophesies in rhyme."¹ In the formal and precise language
of Dr. Johnson, "Chaucer was the first English versifier
who wrote poetically." He was, we may say, the first English
poet "who came with a tale which held children from play, and
old men from the chimney corner."² He was the first man of
the world, the first educated English layman whose genius spurned
the fetters which bound his class, and who dared to lay his profane
hands upon the altar of Poesy. He was, to use the glowing
language of one not given to praise unduly—the poet Wordsworth
—"The Morning Star of English Poetry," and "ever to be

¹ Tytler's Univ. Hist.          ² Sir Philip Sydney.

326  CHAUCER.

[*Spenser copied Chaucer 200 yrs after*]
honored." Nor was Wordsworth the only poet who bowed before
the majesty of Chaucer's hoar antiquity. Spenser, the first after
him whose genius could stand alone, reverently hails him as the
"well of English undefiled," and more than once intimates that
the "soul of Chaucer was transfused into his body; and that he
was begotten by him two hundred years after his decease."
Indeed he was so studious an admirer of Chaucer, that he offended
the taste of the critics of his time by his frequent and plenteous
copyings, and was thus curtly defended from them by quaint and
sturdy old Fuller: "The many Chaucerisms used (for I could
not say affected) by him, are thought by the ignorant to be
blemishes, but know by the learned to be beauties to his book."¹

In the estimation of Dryden, also, whose opinion was the result
of a view of the rapid growth of poetry immediately after the
reign of Richard II., Chaucer was the "Father of English Poetry,"
and as such, "was held by him in the same degree of veneration
[*"Palemon & Arcite"*] as the Grecians held of Home." In his Preface to the
Fables, he adds further, "I prefer in Chaucer, far above all his
other stories, the noble poem of Palamon and Arcite, which is of
the epic kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the Iliad or
Eneid: the story is more pleasing that either of them, the manner
as perfect, and the disposition full as artful." And again,
in his epistle to the Duchess of Ormond, he says,

     "The bard who first adorned our native tongue
     Turned to his British lyre this ancient song:
     Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
     And leaves without a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse.
     He matched their beauties, where they most excel;
     Of love sung better, and of arms as well."

"But," it may be objected, "Chaucer was chiefly a translator,
and lacked the first requisite of a great poet, Invention." A

¹ Worthies of England.


[*As to Shakespeare's translations - they are
the translation of so much beef and bread
into vital human body and soul.—*]
GRADE AND QUALITY OF HIS GENIUS.  27

sufficient reply to the latter part of this object is, that if a
poet's indebtedness to another for the story or vehicle of his fancies
is incompatible with his possessions of the "creative faculty,"
then Chaucer must fall; but his ruin will be shared by Shakespeare
and Milton. By a similar argument, this precious endowment,
the creative faculty, may be denied to any poet who
applies the mechanism invented by another, as the vehicle of his
fancies; and consequently, whosoever writes an epic, must of
necessity be inferior to its great inventor. So also, the rank of
the poets, whose pathetic stories of Ugolino's and of Lear's sufferings
excite our deep sympathies and anguish, will be made
subservient to the crude historians whose homely narratives of
barren facts they embodied and transfigured. The error of
those friendly to this theory lies in the notion they entertain,
that the "creative genius" of a poet is of the same kind with
that tremendous power which the Deity exercised when

          "The Heav'ns and Earth
     Rose out of Chaos;"                 MILTON.

and that, like the Deity, our of nothing the poet evokes his sublime
fancies. Divine, however, as the poet's calling is, greatly
inferior to this is the degree of his power. He more nearly
resembles the architect who, by his genius, creates from rude
and shapeless stones a temple whose awful majesty shall command
the veneration of ages; or the sculptor, under whose
hands the dull and senseless block shall become instinct with life
and beauty—principles which before had no existence there.
Like these, the poet broods over the chaos of nature, and gives
birth to conceptions that men shall "never willingly let die."
It is useless, however, to discuss an objection which is as unsound
as the collateral charge is untrue. For, an appeal to his works,
and a comparison of them with the imitations or translations by
Dryden, Pope, Wordsworth and others, will fully establish Chaucer28                                     CHAUCER.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
claim to originality; while the most malevolent objector
against his genius must confess that as a translator he has been
rarely equalled. Indeed, critics generally agree, that so many
new beauties are made apparent; so much eloquent simplicity,
so much tenderness and manliness, are added by his translations,
to the best works of the greatest poets of his age, that they bear
all the air of originality, and surpass the models that he emulated.
   It would seem, then, that when Chaucer appeared, it was
"with all the lustre and dignity of a true poet, in an age which
compelled him to struggle with a barbarous language and a national
want of taste."' that he
                                              "In times
      Dark and untaught, began with charming verse
      To tame the rudeness of his native land;"  ARKENSIDE.
and that his efforts first constructed a taste by which he and all
subsequent poets were to be adjudged and enjoyed, and his genius
aroused the glorious tide of Song, which still swells and
surges like the billows of the great deep. that his powerful 
example gave life and vigor to Gower and Douglas, and successively
thereafter to Lydgate,¹ to Surrey, and to Wyatt, until he
was reproduced in Spenser. And that the voice of Genius has
ever delighted to honor him with the sober reverence due to a
parent. What then shall we conclude to be the grade and
quality of his genius?
   If results are ever to be considered the measure of a cause--if
the strength and skill of a warrior or a statesman are to be ascertained
from the nature of the difficulty overcome, of the conquest
gained, or of the good accomplished; if a more august fame is
the award of those brave men who spurn opposing circumstances,
and in their spite attain a goal, which few dare hope to reach

                               ¹See Appendix B.

                GRADE AND QUALITY OF GENIUS.                     29
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
with all their powerful aid; then, surely, we may claim for
Chaucer a proud place in the Temple of Fame.
   It is agreed that he who combines simplicity of diction and of
thought with an earnest and truthful spirit--who possesses a
grand but healthy imagination, and a lively fancy--whose power
of observation is seconded by his faculty of description--whose
sensibility is as delicate as his judgment is manly and profound;
and whose command of language is commensurate with the
unclogged exhibition of these several faculties, enabling him to control
the humors, the emotions, and even the affections and passions
of his readers--it is agreed that such an one deservedly
ranks among the first of poets. And such was Chaucer, who
everywhere is vigorous and manly; frank, bold and truthful;
sublimely imaginative, yet sternly simple; fanciful, yet direct;
eminently a master of the pathetic, yet humorous and gleesome;
while his descriptive powers, whether of a lark, a daisy, a May
morning, or of the "gloomy sanctuary of the tremendous temple
of Mars," are unsurpassed, perhaps unequalled. We therefore
affirm--and we shelter ourselves under the authority we
have adduced, the intrinsic merits of his writings, and their
powerful effects upon literature--that Chaucer must be classed
with Homer and Dante, with Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton.

[*([With] As great as Spenser & Milton very
easily - and no obstinate quarrel about
Dante; --but wait awhile
before putting him with Homer
or Shakespeare.)*]30 CHAUCER. 

CHAPTER III. 

Characteristics of Chaucer's Poetry—His estimate of Woman, and fondness 
for birds, flowers and rural scenery—Control over language—Omission 
to celebrate the great personages of his age and nation. 

AN examination into the characteristics of Chaucer's Poetical 
Compositions will not be inappropriate to the plan of this work; 
nor will the inquiry prove uninteresting, since his most beautiful 
creations are as much fruits of a necessity of his nature, as the
full-grown oak is of the planted acorn; and their exhibition is
but a more thorough introduction to the man, and will lead to a 
more perfect acquaintance with his character and feelings.

And first, we notice, that he excelled all who passed before or
who have followed after him—save only Shakespeare—in his chivalrous
estimate of, and ability to portray, feminine loveliness, delicacy
and modesty; and in his unbounded trust in woman's virtue
and truth. Dante's Beatrice and Laura of Petrarch are
beauteous visions, but yet are not invested with the same flesh-
and-blood attributes and affections, which distinguish Chaucer's 
and Shakespeare's portraitures. And Portia, Rosalind and Imogen—
the most perfect of Shakespeare's women—do not exalt our
love for woman, do not challenge for her implicit faith, unwavering
trust and ardent affection, any more powerfully than Chaucer's 
numberless paintings. Without pausing to comment upon his
truthful delineation of womanly virtue in the character of Dorigene;
or his more impassioned description of Griselda's conjugal
affection and faith; where shall we find a picture so dignified,
and yet so subdued and piteous as that of Custance when


CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS POETRY.   31

she is led "with a dedly pale face" to what seemed a lingering
and horrible death:—

"Hire little child lay weeping in hire arm,
And kneeling, pitiously to him she said,
Pees, little son, I wol do thee no harm!
With that, her coverchief off hire head she braid1
And over his little eyen she it laid,
And in hire arm she lulleth it full fast,
And into the heaven hire eyen up she cast."

And again; what can be more simple and delicate than the description
of Griselda as she sat spinning on the field while she
tended her sheep, or as she plucked "worts and other herbes"
on her homeward way at even; or what can be conceived more
submissively filial than the picture of this "tendre mayden" as

"In great reverence and charitee
Hire olde poure fader fostered she,
And ay2 she kept her fader's life on loft
With every obeisance and diligence
That child may don to fadre's reverence?"

Or, where are descriptions of womanly beauty more luxuriant and
blooming; as fresh, healthful and buoyant, and yet so simple and
pure; so unangelic, so perfectly human, and worthy of the affection
as well as homage of a manly heart, as our glimpses of the
golden-haired Emilie in the garden, who

"fairer was to seen
Than is the lily on his stalke greene?"

or of that Roman's daughter who was

"faire in excellent beautee
Aboven any wight that man may see?"

1 Tore. 2 Always.32  CHAUCER.

     It is worthy of remark that Chaucer's descriptions of woman
never invest her with any Juno-like attributes; but she is ever
as mild, patient and submissive, as she is beauteous; and is always
accompanied and adorned by the fireside virtues. This
is particularly noteworthy, because the sentiment was far in advance
of the age, which delighted to worship woman sparkling
with imperious beauty, and elated by the triumph of her conquests;
or gracing the tournament with her presence, and even
partaking with man the fierce enthusiasm of battle. Such was
not Chaucer's woman. Nor was she the houris of a Mahommedan's
paradise, much less the ideal abstraction of Spenser's beautiful
allegories. She was the sharer of man's joys, the minister
to his comfort, the partner of his griefs,

     "A creature not too bright or good
      For human nature's daily food
      For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
      Praise, love, blame, kisses, tears and smiles."¹

     Although, throughout Chaucer's writings, it is plainly observable
that he placed a high estimate upon woman's nature in the
points of virtue and purity; yet in his Miller's and Wife of Bath's
tales, and in some other compositions, he describes with apparent
zest, women who are far from virtuous, who are indeed libidinous
and adulterous. Without being able to willing entirely to defend
his election of a plan, which necessarily drew these characters
into the action of his plots, it still should be remembered that he
pictured the age in which he lived—perhaps all too truly in the
particulars of its lewdness and licentiousness; and that when he
entered into the person of each fancied narrator, he possessed the
wizard power of assuming for the time his character, even to the
most trivial peculiarity. We have no right to assume that therefore

                                           ¹ Wordsworth.


HIS ESTIMATE OF WOMAN.   33

he himself was lewd and licentious, or that he was an unbeliever
in woman's faith and chastity. On the contrary, these
comparisons serve at once to engender disgust for the depravity
which they describe, and by their powerful contrast with the
purer examples of Custance, Griselda and Lucrece, to heighten
our admiration for their virtuous beauty. Nor should we forget
—to use the language of the young gentleman before quoted—
that though "the uncleanness of Chaucer's age has left a smooch
here and there upon his poems, yet it is only in the margin, and
may be torn off without injury to the text."¹

     The same faculty that observed and prized in woman the
beauteous virtues of modesty and simplicity, keenly perceived
her foibles and affectations; those petty vices, which appearing in
individuals, diminish the lustre of the class to which they belong.
How perfect and yet how gentle, is Chaucer's ridicule of that
artificiality of her nature, which caused the "tender-hearted
Prioresse" to dignify trivialities and formalities into a high importance,
at the expense of real perfections and accomplishments;
and which led her to lavish upon insignificant objects, affections
that are based upon deep and abiding principles of humanity.
This was a ready mean for lowering and degrading those holy
sympathies of our nature which can only be shared with our
fellow-mortals, and the desecration of them cannot be atoned for
by the most exquisite kindness to the lower creation. This
Chaucer saw, and he limned the vice so truthfully that we of
this remote generation and New World are profited and instructed
thereby. Our language in reference to this good lady's failings
sounds harsh beside the poet's gentle correction; but it was
not in the nature of the creator of Custance and Griselda to deal
otherwise than most tenderly with woman. Indeed, his sharpest
corrections of the sex fall upon it like the pattering May-shower
upon a rose, serving to cleanse and purify it from the dross and

                                      ¹ Lowell's Conversations.

                                                           3*34   CHAUCER.

dirt which disfigure it, and leaving it more fragrant than before.
His description of the good Prioresse and her foibles serves to 
contrast with the nobler characters we have just considered, and
points out their virtues no less strongly than the coarser pictures
of the "gap-toothed Wife of Bath" or the unfaithful Alison.

     "At mete was she well ytaught withall;
      She lette no morsel from her lippes falle,
      Ne wette hire fingers in hire sauce depe.
      Well coude she carry a morsel and wel kepe
      That no drop ne fell upon hir brest.
      In curtsie was sett full much hire lest.¹
      Hire over lippe wiped she so clene,
      That in hire cuppe was no farthing seene
      Of grese, when she dronken had her draught.
      But for to speken of hire conscience,
      She was so charitable and pitous,
      She wolde wepe if that she saw a mouse
      Caughte in a trap, if it were dede or bled.
      Of smalle houndes hadde she, that she fedde
      With rosted flesh, and milk and wastel² brede.
      But sore wept she if one of hem was dedde,
      Or if men smote it with a yerde smerte:
      And all was conscience and tendre heart."

     Entirely congenial with Chaucer's admiration and love of
woman, was his passionate fondness for birds, and flowers, and
rural life. Although he has described with terrific ability, scenes
which awaken the fiercer passions of the human heart, causing it
like his own war-horse "to stert like the fire;" yet his imagination
—taking its hue perhaps from his affections—dwelt fondly upon
scenes of rural enjoyment and innocence; and we gladly linger

                     ¹ Pleasure.                                    ² Fine.


FONDNESS FOR RURAL SCENERY.   35

with him as he lounges upon the "meadowes softe, sweet, and
grene;" or, under a tree beside a well, listen with him to the
rippling of waters and the melody of birds, and watch the gambols
of "the prettie conies,"

     "The dredeful [*that is, one that dreads*] roe, the buck, the hart, the hind,
       Squirrels and beastes small of gentil kind."

There is no poet—certainly no English poet—at all comparable
with him in the enthusiastic love of these beautiful children of
nature, birds and flowers; and in all his writings scarcely a
description of rural scenery occurs from which all are omitted.
And we have his own confession that, when "sickness sate on
his herte" he sought relief by rising anon and going

     "Into the woodes, to hear the birdes sing;"

or by rambling through fields whose "flowers of many diverse
hues spread their leaves against the sun," and sparkled like silver
with dew that was "as any baume sweet."

     Not less enthusiastic was his love of Spring, and the sportful
pleasures that genial season ushered in. His writings may be
called a continuous poem in praise of Woman, Flowers, Rural
pleasures and the Spring. And if bold Robin Hood had lived in
his time we might easily have fancied them to be warm friends:
for Chaucer's love of sylvan sports, and his intimacy with the
denizens of the woods, was entirely in Robin's own vein: nor do
we recollect to have seen anywhere so perfect and so sprightly a
description of the bold forester, as in limned from the life in Chaucer's
portrait of the Squier's Yeman:

     "He was cladde in cote and hode of grene,
      A sheaf of peacock arwes bright and kene36   CHAUCER.

      Under his belt he bare full thirftily.
      Well coude he dress his takle yemanly:
      His arwes drooped not with featheres lowe,
      And in his hand he bore a mighty bowe.
          A not-hed [*? round head*] hadde he, with a brown visage,
      Of woodcraft coud¹ he well all the usage.
      A cristofre,² on his brest of silver shene. 
      An horn he bare, the baudrik was of grene;
      A forster was he sothly as I gesse."

     Such is the magic of Chaucer's descriptions of Spring, that
even in mid-winter we dream not of the sharp, biting cold, and of
fires; but fancy ourselves exulting in the bright and cheering
sunshine, or breathing in the pure, fresh air, and hearkening to
the singing of birds, the clucking of fowls, the lowing of cattle,
and the teeming hum of a new insect creation; while our sky is
filled with soft, fleecy clouds, such as the gentle Spring ever
brings with it.

     As the first intellectual effort of Man in Paradise was to give
names to those creations of the Deity by which he found himself
surrounded; thus figuring forth by language his ideas of their
characters and natures: so the first and chief delight of the earliest
great poets of every country has been to describe such
operations of nature as are most obvious and striking. They
have chosen to deal with effects rather than speculate upon their
causes. And, as their minds are not fatigued by searching out
rules and models; or in studying the ornaments of composition,
and observing the practices and precedent of their predecessors;
their descriptions are signalized by simplicity, fidelity and enthusiasm.
Each succeeding generation chronicles a further departure
from those necessary accompaniments of high poetical
endowment: and although refined minds will never fail to appreciate

¹ Knew.
² An image of St Christopher, who was the patron of field sports.


FONDNESS FOR RURAL SCENERY.  37

the beauties and point out the features of these requisites;
yet at each step of advancement in the rules of critical analysis,
and the refinement of intellectual art, new and insurmountable
barriers raise. To express it in a Poet's phrase,

     "Invention, Nature's child, flees step-dame Study's blows."¹

We know no better illustration of this observation, than is afforded
by a comparison of Wordsworth—the most natural, if not the
greatest poet of this age, and yet the most artistical—with Chaucer.
Both are fond of describing similar natural scenes, and are
intent upon discerning beauty in identical objects. But how
widely does the modern poet depart from the ancient! The one
seems to be obsequiously obeying an imposed duty, or fulfilling a
necessity of the poet's calling; the other carols as blithely and
heartily as his own birds. One never rejects a phrase or an idea
because it is homely: he cares not if it happen to outrage the
ear or disturb the serenity of the over-sensitive. The other picks
his words and phrases as daintily as the perfumed and jewelled
exquisite does his way through a muddy street.

     This train of thought has been suggested by Chaucer's fondness
for detailing morning scenes; and by his frequent and enthusiastic
descriptions of the joyous walks that ushered in the
sunrise. His love of these walks rivalled his love of woman;
and well might he love them, for he tells us that "the blissful
sight" of sunrise as he "walked on the mead, softened all his
sorrows." Spenser, also, was fond of describing sunrise, but
plainly builds upon Chaucer's original, wheresoever he is truly
English. Moreover, he labors so heavily with figures introduced
from the Greek and Latin classics that, in these particular descriptions,
our attention is employed upon them, at the expense of the

                                         ¹ Sir Philip Sidney.38                                         CHAUCER.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
object he may be professedly portraying. For the purpose of
contrasting these two builders of English Song, we subjoin examples
from both. The following is a celebrated description of
sunrise from Spenser:
 
 "The joyous day gan early to appear,
   And fair Aurora from the dewy bed
   Of aged Tithon, gan herself to rear,
   With rosie cheeks, for shame all blushing red;
   Her golden locks for haste were loosely shed
   About her ears, when Una her did mark
   Climb to the charet all with flowers spread,
   From Heaven high to chase the cheerless dark;
   With merry note, her loud salutes the mountain lark."¹   

Now hearken to Chaucer:

  "The busy lark, the messenger of day,
   Saluteth in her song the morrow gray;
   And fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright
   That all the orient laugheth at the sight,
   And with his streams he drieth in the greves²
   The silver droppes hanging on the leaves."

   These paintings, so freely scattered over Chaucer's works—and
which without being disjointed from his narratives are distinguishable
from them, and deserve to rank by themselves as distinct
and perfect compositions—are worthy of a critical examination.
For although this high hart is no uncommon attendant upon the gift of
song, and must, indeed, be possessed by all true poets; yet Chaucer's
paintings demand particular attention from the singular rapidity,
brevity and fidelity of their execution, and the vividness of their

   ¹ Faëry Queen, book i., canto ii., stanza 51.        ² Groves.


            VIVIDNESS OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS.                                 39
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
coloring. Few poets describe so accurately and fully, with so
few touches. Timotheus-like, his

                          "flying fingers touched the lyre,"

and with the careless power of a master he wielded language to
the expression of his rich fancies. Instead of engendering a
weak climax by servilely recounting the details of a subject—its
conception, birth and gradual growth, until it safely reaches a
logical perfection—he seizes it at the moment of its highest completeness,
and by a peculiar faculty of description he causes to
flash upon our fancy—as vividly as if he had portrayed it all
—its whole progress from the faint beginning to its ripened
glory. In his descriptions of sunrise, for instance, as in the one
we have been considering, he does not, like Spenser, perplex us
with a display of classical lore, in a merciless pursuit of the
allegorical connexion between Aurora and Tithon. He declines
to lessen the majestic beauty of this glorious sight by likening it
to the uprising of a youthful maiden from the spiritless embraces
of an imbecile old man. On the contrary, by a few simple
touches he plants us in the midst of natural scenery where, as
the grey morning breaks upon us, we are greeted by the gay
song of the lark; we see the fresh and sparkling dew hanging
from leaf and flower; and we behold the misty vapors of morning
rising like an incense "with many a wholesome air" from 
the joyous earth.

   But when we speak of Chaucer's paintings, we more especially
allude to his portraitures of individuals of the human
kind—including his various impersonations—and of the nobler
classes of the inferior animal creation, or to his condensed
descriptions of natural objects. And we cannot refrain from
expressing the belief that our painters, as well as poets, have
neglected to study them: else, why is his matchless gallery of40     CHAUCER.

paintings unappropriated, when it contains landscapes as lovely
as ever eyes dwelt upon; barnyard and rural pictures, wherewith
many a heart might be gladdened; and groupings of god-like
forms and countenances, worthy to lead the conception of
the most rapt painter. Nor is this wonderful collection any less 
remarkable for its diversity than it is for its excellence, for here
are heroes than whom none are more majestic, women than
whom none are lovelier; here are sights of nature in her gayest
and mildest moods, and of the fierce strife of battle; here are
portly monks and smiling nuns; choleric stewards and burly
millers; mumbling friars, lecherous clerks, cuckolded husbands
and gamesome wives. All this have we disposed and arranged
into multiform combinations by sublime genius and yet the great
world wags on and heeds them not.

     It is a curious circumstance, when the chivalrous bias of his
nature is considered, that throughout Chaucer's voluminous
writings, scarcely anything is said of the throng of fair and virtuous 
women that ornamented the brilliant court of Edward the
Third and his lovely Queen Philippa; or of the host of great
and gallant men who swelled the armies of their sovereign, and
made his arms invincible. In the same age with the poet, and
in his own land, lived warriors with whose exploits all Europe
resounded, and which even vied with the fabulous deeds of
Arthur and his round table knights. It was a period prolific in 
heroes, among whom none were bolder or more courageous than
his own countrymen, or more signalized by the virtues of gentleness, 
honor and generosity. The great battles of Cressy and
Poitiers had just been fought, and Europe yet rang with the
fame of the victors' prowess, and the story of their knightly
[*drawing of finger pointing*] courtesy. But Chaucer marks them not. We listen, in silent
expectation, to hear a tide of exulting song poured from the
bounding strings of his harp, as our imagination pictures him, 

     [*Doubtless, at that time, no one
knew or thought those persons heroes, or
those wars and politics important.—
Also, Chaucer alone of eminent English
poets, seems to have been above adulating
royalty and nobles, for gain's sake.—*]


HIS PREFERENCE OF RURAL THEMES.     41

     "With all a poet's ecstasy
     In varying cadence, soft or strong, 
     Sweeping the sounding chords along;"

But the vision fades away; his strings are mute; the harp

                                             "is dumb
     That knew all tones of passion."

And while we sit musing, Fancy again claims its prerogative; we
see the Black Prince and his brother, scar-worn John of Gaunt, 
the chivalrous De Mauny, the heroic Chandois and the brave
Derby, stalk mournfully past, seeming to reproach the poet who
refused to celebrate their fame. 

     It is less to be wondered at that he refrained from celebrating
the achievements of King Edward himself, or of his brother the
Duke of Lancaster, for the pride of Chaucer was of that noble
kind which disdained adulation. But it is truly singular, that
a poet, whose pictures of women are so exquisitely tender and 
delicate, should neglect to do homage to the matchless purity of 
Queen Philippa, whom all hearts loved; and who was of such
"distinguished beauty that the statuaries of those days used to
make her their model for images of the Virgin Mary, who was
always figured young and beautiful."¹

     If we further consider, that Chaucer was a poet who delighted
to describe splendid pageants and processions; that he was himself 
a favorite inmate of a court, which was occupied by frequent
spectacles of tournaments and martial exercises, and which has
been justly named "the theatre of romantic elegance;" that
King Edward was from was from inclination and policy the enthusiastic
patron of chivalry and romance; and that he had just instituted
the order of the blue garter out of his love for the virtuous

¹ Hearne.42     CHAUCER.

Countess of Salisbury, in the midst of feasts and joustings that
had been proclaimed throughout Europe; and which were graced
by the beautiful and brave of France, Scotland, and Brabant; 
of Germany, Hainault and Burgundy. If we pause over these
facts, it will also appear remarkable, that upon these rich themes
—which only required a faithful description to have rendered them
as deeply interesting as the most romantic fiction—Chaucer utters
no sound. And we vent our disappointment by censuring him
because he did not celebrate such noble deeds and brilliant scenes
with the same magic pen that transferred to immortality the 
simple habits and customs of his countrymen, and the rural
scenery of his native land; with the melody of its birds, the fragrance
of its flowers, its cool and limpid waters, its balmy mornings, 
and its gladsome months of May. 


RESEMBLANCES OF POETS.     43

CHAPTER IV.

Resemblances of Poets.—Chaucer and Spenser.—Chaucer and his Translators and Imitators.—Specimens of Dryden's powers as a Translator of Chaucer. 

To trace the imitations of poets, or their casual resemblances to
one another, would be an occupation far from uninteresting. Not
that we could, for an instant, countenance that paltry, envious
and dastardly disposition which charges wilful plagiarism upon
all resemblances. But the speculation would be curious, as exhibiting
to us identical subjects variously considered by master
minds; would present to our view, each new beauty or modification 
of beauty, at the moment of its engraftment; would enable
us to institute comparisons between the various artists, and to 
pronounce intelligently upon the different degrees of skill and
ingenuity, or of freshness and originality displayed; and would, 
finally, cause us to award to each author, with some precision, 
his particular rank, and yield to him his lawful share of our
homage and veneration. It would be delightful and instructive, 
for instance, to trace the strong and terse thoughts of Chaucer, 
through the accumulating dust and rubbish of intervening poets,
till their rough and manly quaintness are exchanged for Spenser's
dreamy visions and daring metaphors, or for Shakspeare's fluent
and almost inspired reasonings: and thence again, to witness it, 
like a pure stream, sink into the earth and roll on, hidden from
ordinary sight, till in due time it bursts forth sparkling with the
stately and awful imagery of Milton, the elegant finish of Dryden, 
or the quiet ease and dignity of Wordsworth.44                                           CHAUCER.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Such a study would prove no less absorbing to the philosopher
than genial to the poet; and if systematically pursued would
challenge the attention of both. Without daring to lay claim to
either of these august titles, the writer of these pages has ventured
to jot down a few resemblances, which, while they were yet freshly
perceived, occasioned throes of thought that have since been
rendered doubly pleasant, by the charm which memory ever
throws around its objects.
   Those poets who follow nature most closely; who quell not,
but mark the impulses of their own hearts; and who narrowly
study their fellow-men in the varied ramifications of their habits,
passions and affections; who endorse upon a broad and generous
fund of common sense (that best abused of all terms), the higher
and more attractive attributes of fancy and imagination, and who
spurn the tyrannical guidance of custom, disdaining the manifold
trickeries to which the poetical mob resorts; will necessarily
possess the highest originality, and the most enduring power;
and be the wells from whence their more artistical and perhaps
refined brethren will draw inspiration. To the former, these
bear--in theory, as certainly as they do in chronological fact--
the same relation as Columbus does to modern navigators. They
are the gifted discoverers of new regions in the world of thought,
which a later, more polished, and more scientific generation shall
explore, and cultivate, and beautify. We do not mean to assert
the eminently fallacious dogma, that Nature--which is the soul
of Poetry--can only be found in a state of semi-barbarism, or
amid scenes of rural or pastoral life. For it dwells no less constantly 
in the great city, the populous mart, and the most
advanced stages of society, than in the secluded forest or the
earliest youth of a nation. The inmates of the stateliest palace
are as truly her children, and bow to the supremacy of her laws
no less reverentially than their humbler brethren of the field or
mountain. The gilded hall and the whitewashed cot, both are

                THE OMNIPRESENCE OF NATURE.                                   45
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
her temples. Pride is no less natural than humility. But is is
in the crowded city that nature may be discerned in her noblest
form, arrayed in a vesture of many hues. It is there that the
common charities of man, and his as common miseries, whatsoever
lightens, and whatsoever oppresses, or that in any manner
concerns the noblest work of a Divine hand--all cluster. There
the cheerful and strong voice of labor may be heard commingled
with the sharp cry of passion or of pain, and their sad accompaniments 
of sobs and tears. There exuberant health leaps and
sings hard by the wretched victim of disease, and the feeble moan of
famine ascends beside the mansion of wealth and plenty. There
the awful imprecation and the devout prayer are wafted to the
presence of Omnipotence by the same breath of air; while, regardless
alike of the cry of the joyous or the despairing, heedless
of merriment or of woe--the steady, monotonous hum of the base
and greedy followers of pleasure and mammon, rolls up to the
glorious heaven, and obscures it with an atmosphere as dim and
murky as Milton's hell. Here, too, the poet may see the hideous
and loathsome figure of vice, and the spotless and beauteous form
of mercy, of fierce hate and bountiful love, in such artistical
juxtaposition as only a Divine Artist could order and execute.
Here he may dream dreams and see visions, that shall be a foresight
of that better bliss which another life promises; or he may
behold models from whence to draw the black and fiendish outlines
of a damned world. In fine; here that wonderful complexity,
the heart of man, ebbs and flows, and pours in rapid
torrents its flood of hopes and fears, of joy, anguish and remorse.
   Although we thus perceive that nature is as actually present
in the thronged city and the most advanced stage of society, a
it is in the earlier periods of social being; yet it is, nevertheless,
undoubtedly true that, as refinement and civilisation, with their
handmaidens the arts and sciences, commerce and manufactures,
advance to perfection, the mind of Man is oppressed, his imagination
46 CHAUCER.
tion is fettered, his fancy becomes bewildered and his attention
distracted, by the countless variety of objects which his position 
in the world's life forces upon him. His reason, like the
muscles of his body, is enlarged and developed by constant use; 
and it encroaches upon the other faculties, which it also disdains,
[morbid growth of reason] and reaches a monstrous growth, while they either recede, or at
best remain stationary. And thus the poetic faculty oftentimes
lies buried or hindered. 
Occasionally, however, in the course of a nation's existence, 
and contrasting with the surrounding barrenness, there well forth
from the arid soil, fresh and cooling springs of poesy, rejoicing
the heart with their shadowed and verdant banks. Such were Chaucer, 
Shakspeare, and Milton; founts which have gladdened the spirits
of thousands, and at which, throughout all time, genius will delight
to drink inspiration. 
Spenser, whom we have omitted from this list, was not the true
child of nature that his master, Chaucer, was. It is true that his
verse is more accurate and his rhyme more perfect; but he has
neither contrived to excite for his characters our affection and
concern, nor to awaken our dislike and disgust. His descriptions
are beautiful or grand; and his metaphors and allegories are the
legitimate offspring of an imagination at once restless and
gorgeous. but in his portraitures of individual and real characters
he is so often tamely classical, that they do not excite in the
breasts of his readers any higher emotion than that of admiration; 
excepting always, however, his touching description of the desolate
Una and her faithful Lion. His personifications, also, are usually
so overladen with images, his comparisons so wire-drawn and
redundant, that they are supernatural and tiresome. His men
and women belong to no age or nation, and do not describe any
class. Hence, necessarily, his writing are not imbued with that
strong dramatic interest which particularly signalizes Chaucer's

CHAUCER AND SPENSER. 47
compositions, and which is inseparable from the highest poetic
efforts. It is this quality which lends to Chaucer's portraitures
of men, or of the passions, and other attributes of humanity, the
strongest individual concern. He describes an abstraction as
though it were a reality, and makes it as tangible as if it were
possessed of physical properties. Thus, in his descriptions of
Richesse, Mirth, Hate, Beauty, Gladnesse, and Venus, he invests
each of them with an air of humanity and an individuality that
challenge emotions as various as the characters introduced, and 
we admire or dislike, pity or love, at his bidding. "In arranging
themselves under his dominion, these abstract ideas of unsubstantial
existence take a visible and substantial form, distinguished by
the attributes, the insignia, and the effects of Reality."1
Without pausing to examine the servile and almost numberless
imitations of Chaucer, by his immediate followers, Lydgate and 
Occleve, or the frequent resemblances that occur in Douglas,
and at a still later and more auspicious period were apparent in
the writings of Surrey and Sidney; we will, for a short space
longer, linger with the great poet who is also justly esteemed one
of the principal landmarks of our literature. 
Glimmering through Spenser's tortuous and inverted style, and 
sparkling amid the complicated and continuous drove of metaphors,
which both beautify and deform his writings, we however
find frequent resemblances to Chaucer; especially in his paintings 
of imaginary characters. In the linings of Avarice and
Envy, whom he introduces in the guise of "sage Counsellors" to
Pride, Spenser not only maintains a strong general resemblance
to Chaucer's powerful paintings of these characters, but he observes
the same order and preserves the same relative dependence
of one upon the other. Moreover, both poets strive to create
a disgust for these base personages by the same instrumentality,
namely, by clothing them with filthy rags and an "evil hued"
1 Adapted from Roscoe's Lorenzo De Medici, Vol. i., p. 234.48   CHAUCER.

and sallow skin, and by causing them to elect a craving and
hungry belly, rather than part with their ill-begotten wealth.
We award the superiority, in this instance, to Chaucer's descriptions,
not merely from their having been the originals from which
Spenser drew, but because they are also more fully detailed without
degenerating into the catalogue and inventory style; and are
more boldly conceived and executed.1

Another striking resemblance to Chaucer may be observed in
Spenser's figure of Danger. These closely approximate; and
as the passage illustrating the likeness is brief, we quote from the
two poets, commencing with Spenser.

"With him went Danger, cloth'd in ragged weed
Made of beare's skin, that him more dredeful made:
Yet his own face was dredeful, nor did need
Strange horror to deform his griesly shade."2

This is seemingly epitomized from Chaucer's more detailed
description:

"With that anon, out stert Dangere
Out of the place where he was hid:
Full grete he was and black of hewe,
Sturdy and hideous, who so him knewe;
Like sharp urchons3 his haire was grow
His eyen red and sparkling as the fire glow,
His nose frounced full kyked4 stood,
And he come criand as he were wood."5

1 Compare F. Queen, book I., canto iv., st. 27, 28, and 29, with Rom.
Ros., vs. 209 to 300.
2 F. Queen, book III., Canto xii., st. 11.
3 Hedgehog bristles. 4 Crooked. 5 Mad.


CHAUCER AND SPENSER.   49

Spenser's frequent resemblances to Chaucer shadow forth the
high reverence which he felt for him; and suggest the pleasant
fancy, that while his own immortal progeny was being ushered
into life, he was ministered to by the ripe thoughtfulness and gorgeous
imaginings of the elder poet. It is right pleasant thus then
to fancy the poet of Queen Elizabeth's time bending, studiously
and reverentially, over the massive, and even then antiquated,
black-letter folios of his great master of a less refined period;
and signalizing and perpetuating his homage of admiration by embalming
their contents in his own sweet verse. It is delightful
thus to witness the accord of noble minds, and to note their generous
strife for the purest fame. Nor indeed do we merely fancy
pleasant dreams; for how else shall we account for the coincidence
furnished by the following lines from Chaucer's Frankelein's
Tale,

"Love wol not be constrained by maistrie,
When maistrie cometh, the God of love anone,
Beteth his wings, and farewell, he is gone;"

and these from Spenser's Fairy Queen?

"Ne may love be compelled by mastery;
For soon as maistre comes sweet love anone
Takes to his nimble wings and soon away is gone:"¹

Unless indeed, we suppose, what is yet more flattering to Chaucer,
that Spenser drew it and its numerous companions from the
treasure house of his memory.

Although much force is due to the argument that two minds
of powerful and poetic mould must arrive at similarity of thought

1 F. Queen, book III., canto i., st. 25.
450   CHAUCER.

and expression when occupied upon the same point; yet we
think it chiefly applies to natural or real objects, and not to chimeras
or visions of the imagination. Hence we have been accustomed,
also, to look upon his celebrated description of the
House of Morpheus, as an artistic enlargement by Spenser upon 
Chaucer: the most notable difference between them consisting in
the superfluousness of classical allusions which encumber and 
characterize the former. And yet it were unjust not to notice
that Spenser very judiciously, and which the truest poetical taste,
heightens the notion of drowsiness, by his introduction of an
"ever drizzling rain, mixt with a murmuring wind." Indeed
the figure seems thereby transformed into reality. But let each
bard strike the lyre with his own hand:--

"He making speedy way through spersed ayre,
And through the world of waters wild and depe,
To Morpheus' house doth hastily repair,
Amid the bowels of the earth full stepe,
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe,
His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth stepe
In silver dew his ever-drooping head,
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spread.

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast;
The one fair fram'd of burnisht ivory,
The other all with silver overcast;
And wakeful dogges before them far doe lye,
Watching to banish Care, their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleep.
By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe,
In drowsie fit he finds; of nothing takes he kepe. 


CHAUCER AND SPENSER.   51

And, more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever drizzling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne,
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries,
As still are wont t' annoy the walled town,
Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes."1

Thus sang Spenser: hearken now to Chaucer:

"This messenger tooke level and went
Upon his way, and never did he stent,
Till he came to the darke valley
That stant betweene rockes twey,
There never yet grew corne ne grass,
Ne tree, ne naught that aught was,
Beast ne man, ne naught else,
Save that there were a few wells
Came rennen fro the cliffes adowne
That made a dedly sleeping sowne,
And rennen down right by a cave
That was under a rocke ygrave,
Amid the valley wonder deepe,
There these goddes lay aslepe
Morpheus and Eclympastiere
That was the god of slepe's heir,
That slept, and did non other werke."

Spenser's description of Archimago's hermitage has been highly
lauded: 

1 F. Queen, book I., canto i., st. 39, 40, 41.[*Plainest Imitators } Hardly any poet in the English language since 1400, but imitates Chaucer more or less*]

52   CHAUCER.
_____________________________________________________________________
"A little lowly hermitage it was,
Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side;"

almost identical with the widowe's cottage, in the Nonnes Preeste's
Tale:

"A poure widowe, somdel stoupen in age,
was whilom dwelling in a narwe cotage,
Beside a grove, stonding in a dale."

Indeed Chaucer thoroughly understood what were the requisites
of a "snuggery." Describing the Reve's house, he says:

"His wonning was full faire upon an heth,
With grene trees yshadowed was the place."

These resemblances might be followed out almost indefinitely,
particularly in descriptions of rural scenery and the music of
birds: but we refrain, lest it prove distasteful, or be tortured into
a reflection upon the genius or honor of Spenser; who could
easily dispense with the title over  much more than we dare claim
as Chaucer's, and would still be rich in the stores of his own
glorious fancies. 
   We are now very naturally led to a consideration of the professed 
imitations or translations of Chaucer, by Prior, Pope, Gay,
Wordsworth, Dryden, and others. Of these, Dryden's only are 
worthy of notice. Prior's attempts are disgusting for their obscenity,
and are totally destitute of poetic merit; and Gay's insignificant
imitations Reserve a similar meed. Those by Pope
were the effusions of precocious youth, and are characterized by
a pert smartness entirely unlike Chaucer. They suggest the
idea of infancy assuming the "port and gesture" of robust
manhood, or the wig and staff of "venerable eld." Wordsworth,
at the same time that he manifests the highest deference for his
original, and is careful to preserve its integrity complete, infuses

HIS TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATORS.   53
___________________________________________________________________
upon it and through it an artistic smartness and coldness, and a
modern twang, which contrasts strangely with its startling and 
antique ideas. It is as if a worn, old painting were transferred
to a new frame sparkling with gilt and varnish. The result is
unqualified dissonance. The same points, in a less degree, lie
against Dryden that have been adduced in censure of Wordsworth,
while he is far less scrupulous in his regard for Chaucer's
original, which he amplifies and dilutes: and his rank as an 
inferior poet is made more plainly evident from his prolonged 
measuring of his powers by that of his superior. But Dryden's
"Tales" are something more than mere translations, and merit
the title of complete and independent poems. They do not
abound in awkward comminglings of old and new phrases; nor 
do we observe in them the still greater outrages upon taste and
good sense which signalize the other numerous imitations of our
 poet, and which consist in graceless collocations of antique and
modern ideas, or in the mere fitting of an antiquated style upon 
insignificant and unmeaning thoughts. His translations are an
honorable and laborious tribute to Chaucer's genius, and a powerful
attempt, in opposition to high authority, to introduce to his 
countrymen the Father of English Poetry. They are characterized
by ease, energy, and harmony, and, we may add, by no small
degree of self-confidence--a property in which "glorious John"
was by no means deficient. For, having observed a want of 
polish, a mingling of "trivial things with those of greater moment,"
and an "excess of conceits" in Chaucer, he rashly dared
to polish, to prune, and to adorn him. He thus defends his
course: "Having observed this redundancy in Chaucer (as it is
an easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one
of greater), I have not tied myself to a literal translation; but
have often omitted what I judged unnecessary, or not of dignity
enough to appear in company of better thoughts. I have presumed
farther, in some places, and added somewhat of my own,54    CHAUCER.
____________________________________________________________________
when I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his
thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the beginning of
our language." Not content with this, but spirited on by his
first rashness, to still higher presumption, he adds proudly, "what
beauties I lose in some places, I give to others which had them
not originally."
   Usually it is the fate of a great poet who falls into the hands
of translators, to be shorn of many a gem, and to have his
shining vesture parted among them. Such is Chaucer's lot even
with Dryden, who unhappily forgets that Chaucer's beauties and
his own are very different affairs, possessing different degrees of
intrinsic value; and that, although he may elevate his own 
thoughts by engrafting them upon Chaucer's original, he at the 
same time debases it. Hence, when we take up his translations,
it is not Chaucer whom we read: just as Allston's Belshazzar's
Feast by Mr. Spear is nevertheless not Allston's. It is true,
Dryden generally preserves the beauties of his original--or, rather,
"imparts noble hints" of them--but they are shorn of their
simplicity, and obscured by a fluent loquaciousness, and rendered
effeminate and wearisome by being appareled in a constantly
recurring triplet, and a regular and perfect rhyme. This last,
however, was an essential feature of the Dryden and Pope school,
by which such trivialities were raised to a monstrous significancy,
and for which they discarded the--to us-- far more valuable
quality that Dryden observed in Chaucer's style, and which he
compared to the "rude sweetness of a Scotch tune." 
[*Rhyme was (and is) an essential part of the Dryden & Pope school*]
  While most of our great poets unite in sounding the praise of
Chaucer, we cannot fail to observe that Spenser and Dryden only 
studied him. Even they were directed by totally different views.
Spenser sought to give vigor to his muse by nurturing it at the 
feet of his great master, and by training it under his guidance
and companionship. With dignified humility he prayed that his 
master's mantle might fall upon him, and in his writings was re-

HIS TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATORS.   55
____________________________________________________________________
produced the electric spark of Chaucer's mighty genius. Spenser's
homage of the elder poet was profoundly reverential; for he was an 
undoubted child of song, and owed to his ancestor a filial regard.
Dryden, on the contrary, the father of a modern school of poetry,
owed him no allegiance of affection. He did not study him 
[*Dryden founded the school under which Pope's style comes*]
duteously as a model, but carpingly as a critic. A second Canute,
he arrogantly prescribed rules for, and would fain fetter,
the mighty billows of genius. A child of art, he was chiefly 
solicitous for artistic excellence, and prided himself upon the
skilful disposition of words, and the construction of splendid or
 musical sequences. He was more careful to shape sentiments by
the measure of critical propriety, than he was able to evoke such
as should be radiant with originality. Consequently he is more
desirous to clothe Chaucer in a modern garb, of unexceptionable
fashion and finish, than he is to exhibit the wondrous grace, and 
symmetry, and strength of the form which it protects. he covers 
him with glittering ornaments, that are nearly fatal to the beauty
he would make apparent: and we heartily long to see the limbs
of the old-time poet clad in those appropriate and simple robes,
so necessary to their freedom, and dignity, and ease.
[*Modern critics - the flood of them.*]
  Although Dryden's study of our poet did not in any wise affect
his original compositions--not so far as to lend them a single beauty;
yet the "Tales" display a simplicity and manliness, an earnest
sense of the pathetic and beautiful, and a descriptive and dramatic
power foreign to himself and worthy of the poet he copies. With 
him, ordinarily, passion is the offspring or slave of reason, and
always appears under the same form and garb; but while he
translates from Chaucer he is transported with real and impulsive
passion. Nevertheless, not even by Dryden is the full stature of
our poet shown; his descriptions are more studied, and owe their 
perfection to repeated and labored touches; they partake more of
the exquisite though petty finish of a miniature, than of the lofty
dignity of an historical, or the witching beauty of a landscape,
56   CHAUCER.
___________________________________________________________________
painting. In his satire also--and satire was Dryden's peculiar
element--there is less of the calm self-possession of power, far
less of that honest indignation which is void of malice, and boldly
hurls its shaft at principles, regardless of men; and more of
acridness, and venom, and peevish selfishness. Though immeasurably 
superior to all other translations or imitations of Chaucer, they
are yet like the French translations of Shakespeare's tragedies;
often forcing a smile where the simple pathos of the original
would have compelled a tear.
  In proof of the truth of the foregoing strictures upon Dryden's
Tales, compare the following description of a painting in the
Temple of Venus with the original.

"The goddess' self, some noble hand had wrought;
Smiling she seem'd and full of pleasing thought:
From Ocean as she first began to rise,
And smoothed the ruffled seas, and cleared the skies;
She trode the brine, all bare below the breast,
And the green waves but ill-concealed the rest;
A lute she held; and on her head was seen
A wreath of roses red and myrtle green:
Her turtles fann'd the buxom air above;
And by his mother stood an infant Love;
With wings unfledg'd, his eyes were banded o'er,
His hands a bow, his back a quiver bore,
Supply'd with arrows bright and keen, a deadly store."

Still more apparent is Dryden's inferiority, in his translation
of Chaucer's grand description of the Temple of Mars.

"The landscape was a forest wide and bare;
Where neither beast nor human kind repair;
the fowl that scent afar, the borders fly,

DRYDEN'S TRANSLATIONS.   57
__________________________________________________________________
[*Dryden's forte was satire - his poems all have it, more or less, visibly or invisibly*]

And shun the bitter blast, and wheel about the sky.
A cake of scurf lies baking on the ground
And prickly stubs, instead of trees are found;
Or woods with knots, and knares deformed and old;
Headless the most and hideous to behold;
A rattling tempest through the branches went,
That stripped them bare, and one sole way they bent.
Heav'n froze above, severe, the clouds congeal!
And thro' the crystal vault appear'd the standing hail.
Such was the face without, a mountain stood
Threat'ning from high and overlooked the wood;
Beneath the lowering brow, and on a bent,
The temple stood of Mars armipotent;
The frame of burnished steel, that cast a glare
From afar, and seemed to thaw the freezing air.
A straight, long entry, to the temple led,
Blind with high walls and horror over head;
Then issued such a blast, and hollow roar,
As threatened from the hinge to heave the door;
In, through that door, a northern light there shone;
'Twas all it had, for windows were there none,
The gate was adamant; eternal frame!
Which hewed by Mars himself, from Indian quarries came.
The labor of a god; and all along
Tough iron plates were clench'd to make it strong.
A tun about was every pillar there;
A polished mirror shone not half so clear.
There saw I how the secret felon wrought,
And treason laboring in the traitor's thought;
And midwife time the ripened plot, to murder brought.
There the red anger dared the pallid fear;
Next stood hypocrisy, with holy leer:
Soft smiling and demurely looking down,

4*58 CHAUCER.
But hid the dagger underneath the gown:
Th' assassinating wife, the household fiend;
And far the blackest there, the traitor friend.
On t'other side there stood destruction brave;
Unpunished rapine, and a waste of war.
Contest, with sharpened knives in cloysters drawn,
And all with blood bespread the holy lawn.
Loud menaces were heard, and foul disgrace,
And bawling infamy, in language base;
Till sense was lost in sound, and silence left the place.
The slayer of himself yet saw I there,
The gore congealed was clotted in his hair;
With eyes half closed, and gaping mouth he lay,
And grim, as when he breathed his sullen soul away.
In midst of all the dome, misfortune sat,
And gloomy discontent, and fell debate;
And madness laughing in his ireful mood,
And arm'd complaint and theft; and cries of blood.
There was the murdered corpse in covert laid,
And violent death in thousand shapes displayed:
The city to the soldier's rage resigned;
Successless wars, and poverty behind;
Ships burnt in fight, or forc'd on rocky shores,
And the rash hunter strangled by the boars;
The new born babe by nurses overlaid,
And the cook caught within the raging fire he made.
All ills of Mars his nature, flame and steel;
The gasping charioteer, beneath the wheel
Of his own car; the ruin'd house that falls
And intercepts her lord betwixt the walls:
The whole division that to Mars pertains,
All trades of Death that deal in steel for gains,
Were there; the butcher, armorer, and smith,

DRYDEN'S TRANSLATIONS. 59
Who forges sharpened falchions, or the scythe.
The scarlet conquest on a tower was placed,
With soldiers' shouts and acclamations graced:
A pointed sword hung threatening o'er his head,
Sustained but by a slender twine of thread."[*Chaucer was humorous - perhaps
as humorous as Shakespeare.-*]

60    CHAUCER.
____________________________________________________________________
Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.--Analysis of the Prologue.

The several elegant critics who have undertaken to point out the
beauties of Chaucer, unite in expressing the warmest admiration
for the felicitous prologue with which he prefaces his Canterbury
Tales; and by which he unfolds the plan of his fable and displays
his characters. Especially have they united in commending 
the rich humor which impregnates it; and in noticing that by it
"is transmitted to posterity, such an accurate contemporaneous
picture of ancient manners, of the pursuits and employments, the
customs and diversions of our ancestors, copied from the life and
represented with equal truth and spirit, as is possessed by no other
nation."1
   Some, however, have been dissatisfied because Chaucer did not
here delineate the characteristics, the foibles, the graces, and the
employments of the nobility of his age, as well as of the lower
classes. But it should be remembered that every essential char-

1 Warton's Hist. Eng. Poetry, Vol. 1.  To which those who desire a
more intimate acquaintance with Chaucer are also referred, for an elegant
and sprightly analysis of the characters in the Prologue; as well as for a
discriminating criticism of that poet's writings generally. This admirable
performance ought always to be published with the author whom it so
beautifully illustrates. Indeed, it is chiefly to the fine taste of Warton, and
the critical sagacity of Tyrwhitt, that we and our posterity owe the warmest gratitude, for having rescued from a mass of literary ruin, the riches of our
old-time Bard. And we here acknowledge that to them and the polished
George Ellis, the writer is indebted for the readings and interpretations of
Chaucer which appear in these pages.
[*What then, did not Chaucer delineate the upper 
life? Did he [?] in his best
feelings and delineations with the
body of the people?*]

GENERAL AND CLASS DESCRIPTIONS.   61
_________________________________________________________________________
acteristic of the nobility, finds it counterpart in the great mass
composed of the middling and lower classes. And that they not 
only form and direct the opinions of an age, but also furnish the 
most universal picture of life. Those poets whose names are
immortal have preferred to describe man as a species, and have 
seldom confined themselves to a class. They sieze upon those
universal attributes of humanity which are paramount to the artificial
divisions of society, or the more arbitrary ones of time. They
choose for their burden the gigantic crimes of man, or the nobler
and more genial theme of his virtues, rather than the trappings of
his social condition. They never caricature the whole race, for
the sake of hitting off the staring outlines of an eccentric individual;
but from the round of manners and habits, of emotions,
passions, affections and processes of thought, select such as are
held in common, though shared in varying degrees by all mankind.
When, for instance, Shakspeare portrays the ignoble vice
of cowardice in the person of Parolles, the vice does not depend
upon the military gewgaws which invest it to excite our ridicule or 
disgust. Nor is the "infinite humor" of invincible Sir John
Falstaff dependent upon his baronetcy or his obesity. That most
vicious tyrant Richard the Third, whose detestable treachery our 
immortal Bard has depainted in such terrific characters, is the
object of our hatred, just so far as he was a most abandoned and 
cruel man. The revengeful and obdurate Shylock excites our
repugnance, and causes our hands to clench in anger, not because
he is a Jew or a Miser, but because he repudiates and outrages 
the tenderest attributes of our humanity. And here lies the 
universal intelligibility and success of Shakspeare, that the crimes
or virtues, the passions and customs delineated, are peculiar to no
class or rank; but will apply to all of the species, in every age.
   If Chaucer displayed wisdom by his choice of the middle classes,
as the best point from which to observe and describe the men of
England in the fourteenth century; it is by his skilful groupings62  CHAUCER.

of the characters drawn from thence; by his happy arrangement
of the petty peculiarities of each individual; and by his harmonious
blending of the variant lights and shadows of their diverse characters,
that his artistical ability and his poetical sensibility is chiefly
made evident. And thus is his poetry impregnated with that
invaluable quality which, without derogating from its higher attributes,
affords us at this remote day a more accurate description
of persons; their manners, habits, customs and apparel; and of
the different degrees of superstition, of education, and of refinement
possessed by each, than we can derive from the most creditable
contemporaneous historians. Observe the ample fulness
mingled with sententious brevity which signalize the following
selections, descriptive of a young "SQUIER" and his "YEMAN."
At one glance we scan their persons and habiliments; we note
the shades of gaiety or of respectful sobriety apposite to each;
we perceive the light-hearted gallantry, the refinements and accomplishments,
together with the fondness for dress and finery so
gracefully appropriate to him who was "as fresh as is the month
of May;" and also the less dazzling, but equally picturesque and
manly decorations of his humbler companion. And we insensibly
become as well acquainted with their several avocations, as if we
were contemporaries or spectators.

"With him ther was his sone a young Squier,
A lover and a lusty bachelor,
With lockes crull' as they were laid in presse.
Of twenty yere of age he was I gesse.
Of his stature he was of even lengthe, 2
And wonderfully deliver, 3 and grete of strengthe.
Embrouded 4 was he, as it were a mede
Alle ful of fresshe floures, white and rede.
Singing he was, or floyting 6 alle the day,

1 Curled.  2 Of a medium size.  3 Wonderfully agile or nimble.
4 Embroidered.  5 Playing upon the flute.

THE SQUIER AND HIS YEMAN.  63

He was as fresshe as is the moneth of May
Short ws his goune, with sleves long and wide.
Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride.
He coude songes make, and wel endite,
Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write.
Curteis he was, lowly and servisable,
And carf before his fader at the table.
A Yeman hadde he, and servantes no mo
At that time, for him luste to ride so;
And he was cladde in cote and hode of grene.
A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene
Under his belt he bare ful thriftily.
Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly:
His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe,
And in his hond he bare a mighty bowe.
A not-hed hadde he, with a broune visage,
Of wood-craft coude he wel alle the usage.
Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracier,
And by his side a swerd and bokeler,
And on that other side a gaie daggere,
Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere:
A Cristofre on his brest of silber shene.
An horne he bare, the baudrik was of grene.
A forster was he sothely as I gesse."

The "tendre hearted Prioresse" having already occupied our
attention, 1 we pass to the next character in Chaucer's panoramic
description. This is a MONK, one of those drones who fed upon
the toil and sweat of the people; and at the same time forged the
iron chain of superstition, which bowed their necks in disgraceful
servitude. Right merrily does Chaucer belabor his lusty shoulders.

1 See page 34.64 CHAUCER.

First he recounts the tastes and accomplishments of this son of the 
cross:

"A Monk ther was, a fayre for the maistrie,
An outrider, that loved venerie;1
A manly man to ben an abbot able.
Ful many a dainte hors hadde he in stable:
And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel here
Gingeling2 in a whistling wind as clere,
And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle."

He remarks the scrupulous attention of this holy man to the 
rules of his order, and encouragingly defends his logic and his 
practice:

"The rule of Seint Maure and of Seint Beneit,
Because that it was olde and somdele streit,
[*ilk = (same)*]     This ilke3 monke lette olde thinges pace,
And held after the newe worlde the trace.
He yave not of the text a pulled hen,
That saith, that hunters ben not holy men;
Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles,⁴
Is like to a fish that is waterles;
And I say his opinion was good.
What shulde he studie, and make himselven wood,

1 Hunting
2 Anciently, no person seems to have been gallantly equipped on horseback, 
unless the horse's bridle was stuck full of bells. Wickliffe, in his 
Trialoge, inveighs against the Priests for their "fair hors, and jolly and 
gay saddles, and briddles ringing by the way." —Warton's His. Eng. Poetry, 
Vol. i., p. 164.
3 Same
4 Lawless.


THE MONK. 65

 Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore,
Or swinken with his hondes, and laboure
As Austin bit?1 how shal the world be served?
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
Therefore he was a prickasour2 a right;
Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight:
Of pricking and of hunting for the hare
Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare."

Instead of being clothed in coarse hair-cloth, and showing signs
of his vigorous mortification of a sinful body, the poet says:—

"I saw his sleves purfiled at the hond
With gris,3 and that the finest of the lond.
And for to fasten his hood under his chinne
He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne:
A love-knotte in the greater end ther was.
His hed was bald and shone as any glass,
And eke his face, as it had been anoint.
He was a lord full fat and in good point.
His eyen stepe and rolling in his hed,
That stemed as a forneis of a led.
His boutes souple, his hors in gret estat,
Now certainly he was a fayre prelat.
He was not pale as a forpined4 gost
A fat swan he loved best of any rost."

The most disgusting characters in Chaucer's picture of his
times, are this ungodly and greasy monk, and his compeers the
FRERE and the PARDONERE. In position they sink far below the
vulgar Miller; who, though licentious and quarrelsome, was yet

1 Bid.
2 A hard rider.
3 Edged with fur or minever.
4 Wasted.66                  CHAUCER.

a "stout earle for the nones," and relieved his ruffianly ferocity 
by manliness and blunt wit.  Hiding his lasciviousness under the 
appearance of a "ful solempne man," the Frere ravaged the 
country as a confessor to stupid men and simple women; fleecing 
the pockets of the one and debasing the honor of the other.

   "In all the ordres four is non that can
   So moche of daliance and fayre langage.
   Ful swetely herde he confession
   And plesant was his absolution
   He was an esy man to give penance
   There as he wiste to han a good pitance.
      His tippet was ay farsedᴧ1 ful of knives
   And pinnes for to given fayre wives.
   And certainly he hadde a merry note,
   Wel coude he singe and plaien on a rote.
   And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe,
   His eyen twinkled in his hed aright,
   As don the sterres in a frosty night.
   Thereto he strong was as a champioun,
   And knew wel the tavernes in every toune,
   And every hosteler and gay tapstere,
   Better than a lazar or a beggere,
   For unto swiche a worthy man as he
   Accordeth naught, as by his faculte
   To haven with sike lazars acquaintance.
   It is not honest, it may not avance."

   Equally caustic and humorous is his riddicule of the PARDONERE.  
His hair is yellow and smooth as flax; and it oversreads his 
shoulders with curls.  As he rode thus, with his hood off and 
"trussed up in his wallet," being also "bret-ful of pardon, come 
from Rome all hote."
                              ᴧ1 Stuffed.

            THE MONK.                         67

   "Ful loude he sang, Come hiter, love, to me.
   A vois he hadde, as small as hath a gote,
   No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have,
   As smoothe it was as it were newe shave;
   I trow he were a gelding or a mare."

   After thus artfully making us aware of his lecherous disposition 
and his effeminate appearance, the poet displays the wares in 
which this sleek sinner dealt, and with which it was his custom 
(and perhaps his boast), to make the "parson and the people his 
apes."

   "In his mail he hadde a pilwebere,ᴧ1
   Which, as he saide, was our ladies veil:
   He saide, he hadde a gobbet ᴧ2 of the seyl
   Thatte Seint Peter had, whan that he went
   Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent, ᴧ3
   He had a crois of laton ᴧ4 ful of stones,
   And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.
   But with these relikes, whanne that he fond
   A poure persone dwelling up on land
   Upon a day he gat him more monie
   Than that the parsone gat in monethes tweie."

   Of such as these were the religious orders composed, when 
Chaucer, and Wickliffe, and Longland, in a spirit of honest 
patriotism, determined to expose their vile courses.  To England, 
they were like the plague of lice, which of old covered all the 
borders of Egypt.  Swarming over the land in countless numbers, 
"as thick as motes in the sonne-beme," hostile to each other it is true, 
but leagued together in fastening their superstitions and deceptions

ᴧ1 Covering of a pillow, or pillow-case.        ᴧ2 Morsel or bit.
ᴧ3 Saved.                                                           ᴧ4 A cross of brass metal.68                               CHAUCER.

upon the people -- it might truly be said of these reptiles, that they 
"came up into the houses, and into the bed-chambers, and upon the
beds, and into the houses of the servants, and upon the people."  Or, 
they were like the lean kine in Pharaoh's dream, that destroyed 
those that were "well favored and fat-fleshed."  For, these 
foreign mendicants were first introduced, in order to correct the 
licentiousness, dissipation and negligence of the regular monastics:
whom, indeed, they soon eradicated, after having adopted 
their vices; which were also engrafted upon ambition the most 
unbounded, arrogance the most intolerable, and the most degraded
superstitions.  They also became an intolerable burthen to the 
state -- in affairs of which they presumed to meddle and direct --
since they were endowed by the Pope, among other immunities, 
with the privilege of travelling everywhere without liability to 
charge, and were absolved from all municipal taxes, had access 
to all ranks, and were the accredited confessors, the commissioned 
instructors of the youth and the women of the land.  Even the 
garb of religion was thrown off unblushingly; that respect to
appearances which policy has usually required to be observed, 
was disregarded.  The most palpable frauds and artifices were 
used in order to enrich and enlarge the various convents; and the 
most licentious desires, the most damnable crimes were hidden 
under the flimsy coverings of the grey, white, or black friars ᴧ1.  
As was perfectly natural, these mendicants were the creatures of 
the Pope, and stubbornly maintained his supremacy in opposition 
to the authority of the prelates of the Anglican Church.  Hence 
they become equally obnoxious to the patriot and the Christian.
   We should not apply the corrupt practices of these infamous

ᴧ1  A century and three quarters before Chaucer's time, the mendicant 
orders had begun to be scandalized by the intolerable licentiousness of individuals 
of their class.  And a curious specimen of poetical raillery, 
addressed against them, in the twelfth century, is yet extant, and is quoted 
in the appendix.

THE "POURE PERSONNE."                                 69

beings to the native rural clergy; who, several centuries earlier, 
having been despoiled of the licentiousness which prevailed 
among them, at the same time with their wealth and luxury, had 
in the time of Chaucer become generally a pure and simple-minded 
class, probably delineated from the life in the character 
of the "POURE PERSONNE."  This noble character, contrasting 
brightly against the lurid pictures of vice we have been considering, 
affords a model for imitation to this day.  It was appropriated 
by Dryden -- who also amended and enlarged without improving 
it -- to the celebrated Bishop Ken.

   "He was a poure Personne of a town:
   But rich he was of holy thought and werk.
   He was also lerned man, a clerk,
   That Criste's gospel trewely wolde preche.
   Benigue he was, and wonder diligent,
   And in adversitie full patient:
   Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes,
   But rather wolde he yeven ᴧ1 out of doute,
   Unto his poure parishens ᴧ2 about,
   Of his offering, and eke of his substance.
   Wide was his parish, and houses far asonder,
   But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder,
   In sikenesse and in mischief to visite,
   The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, ᴧ3
   Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf.
   This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf,
   That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
   Out of the gospel he the wordes caught,
   And this figure he added yet thereto,
   That if gold ruste, what shuld iron do?

ᴧ1 Give.                    ᴧ2 Parishioners.               ᴧ3 Great and small70                                       CHAUCER.

   For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust,
   No wonder is a lewed man to rust,
   And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe,
   To see a foule shepherd, and clene shepe.
   Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve,
   By his clenenesse, how his shepe shulde live.
   He dwelt at home, and kepte wel his folde,
   So that no wolf ne made it not miscarrie.
   He was a shepherd and no mercenarie.
   And though he holy were, and vertuous,
   He was to sinful men not dispitous, ᴧ1
   Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, ᴧ2
   But in his teching discrete and benigne.
   To drawen folk to heven, with fairnesse,
   By good ensample, was his besinesse:
   He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
   Ne maked him no spiced conscience,
   But Criste's love, and his Apostles twelve
   He taught, but first he folwed it himselve."

   The burly MILLER is a thorough John Bull of the lower class;
straight-forward, blunt, fearless, independent, and with a steady
eye to the main-chance; given moreover, as all true Millers in
every age and country are, to feats of strength and to the recital
of marvellous tales. His portrait is nobly executed.

   "Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones;
   That proved wel, for over all there he came,
   At wrastling he wold bere away the ram.
   He was short shouldered, brode, a thikke gnarre, ᴧ3
   Ther n'as ᴧ4 no dore, that he n'olde ᴧ5 heve of barre,

ᴧ1 Angry in excess.                 ᴧ2 Proud.                     ᴧ3 Knot.
ᴧ4 Was not.                              ᴧ5 Would not.


                          THE WIF OF BATHE.                                  71

                    Or breke it at a renning with his hede.
                    His berd as any sowe or fox was rede, 
                    And thereto brode, as though it were a spade.
                    Upon the cop right of his nose he hade
                    A wert, and thereon stode a tufte of haires,
                    Rede as the bristles of a sowe's eares.
[*nostrils*] His nose-thirles, blacke were and wide. [*(thirle=pins*]
                     A swerd and bokeler baree he by his side.
                     His mouth as wide was as a forneis.
                     He was a jangler ᴧ1 and a goliardeis,ᴧ 2 [*(a ready talker)*]
                     And that was most of sinne, and harlotries.
                     Wel coude he stelen corne, and tollen thries.
                    And yet he had a thombe of gold parde ᴧ3.
                    A white cote, and a blew hode wered he.
                    A bagge pipe wel coude he blowe and soune,
                    And therewithal he brought us out of toune."

   The good WIF OF BATHE, as self-assured as Miss Abby Kelly,
and we opine, in addition thereto, a "curst shrew," merits our
passing attention. Masculine and severe, she was also tidy and
industrious; with notions of finery as peculiar to her age and 
station, as they are appropriate to Chaucer's humorous picture
of her.

   "Hire coverchiefs weren full fine of ground;
   I dorste swere they weyeden a pound,
   That on the Sonday were upon hire hed.
   Hire hosen were of fine scarlet rede,
   Ful strait yteyed, and shoon ful moist and newe;
   Upon an ambler esily she sat,
   Ywimpled ᴧ4 wel, and on hire hede an hat,

ᴧ1 A great talker.                               ᴧ2 A joker.
ᴧ3 An honest miller was said to have a thumb of gold.
ᴧ4 Covered with a hood or wimple.72                                    CHAUCER.

      As brode as is a bokeler, or a targe.
      A fote-mantel^1 about hire hippes large,
      And on her fete a pair of spurres sharpe."

Although not remarkably straight-laced in her morality, she was 
yet a scrupulous attendant upon the church services, at which she 
bore a prominent part, and "thries hadde she been at Jerusalem."

      "In al the parish, wif ne was ther none
      That to the offring before hire shulde gon,
      And if ther did, certain so wroth was she
      That she was out of alle charitee."

   The principal remaining characters are a Reve, a Frankelein, a
Sompnour, a Doctor, a Shipman or Sailor, and a Clerk of Oxenforde. 
These few personages, and the tales which they relate,
effectually introduce to our presence most of the various classes 
[*?*] that then existed in England. The REVE was at that period an
officer of great importance to his master, whose affairs he guided;
to the yeomanry with whom he was brought in frequent contact,
as the tenants, clients and dependents of his master, and to the
lesser gentry by whom he was frequently consulted upon various
matters of police, of farming, and of traffic, as the representative
of his lord. As his likeness is drawn with great care it is subjoined, 
somewhat at length. 

      "The Reve was a slendre colerike man,
      His berd was shave, as neighe as ever he can:
      His hair was by his eyes round yshorne.
      His top was docked like a preest beforne;
      Ful longe were his legges, and ful lean,
      Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene.
      Wel coude he keep a garner and a binne:
      Ther was non auditor coude on him winne.

^1 A riding skirt.


             THE FRANKELEIN.                        73

   Wel wiste he by the drought and by the rain,
   The yelding of his seed, and of his grain.
   His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie,^1
   His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie,
   Were holly in this reves governing,
   And by his covenant yave he rekening,
   Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age;
   Ther coude no man bring him in average.
   Ther n'as bailliff, ne herde, ne other hine,
   That he ne knew his sleight and his covine:
   They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 
   His wonning^2 was full fayre upon an heth,
   With grene trees yshadewed was his place.
   He coude better than his lord purchase,
   Ful riche he was ystored privily.
   His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly,
   To yeve^3 and lene him of his owen good,
   And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.
   In youthe he lerned hadde a good mistere,
   He was a wel good wright, a carpentere.
   This reve sate upon a right good stot^4
   That was all pomelee grey, and highte Scot.
   A long surcote of perse^5 upon he hade,
   And by his side he bare a rusty blade.
   Tucked he was, as is a frere, aboute,
   And ever he rode the hinderest of the route."

   The FRANKELEIN, like the Miller, is a true John Bull, elevated
and adorned by the characteristic virtue of the English country
gentleman, -- hospitality; as well as by those softer shadows which
must be supposed to have meliorated the lot of one so far the

^1Dairy.                    ^2Dwelling.                       ^3Give and lend.
^4Stallion.                ^5Sky-colored cloth.

                                574                           CHAUCER.

social superior of the other.  To make his resemblance to the 
hearty class above-mentioned more perfect, it must also be remembered 
that he was a great lover of good wine:--

   "An housholder and that a grete was he;
   Seint Julianᴧ1 he was in his contree.
   His brede, his ale, was always after on;
   A better envynedᴧ2 man was no wher non.
   Withouten bake meat never was his hous,
   Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,
   It snewed in his hous of meat and drinke,
   Of alle deinties that men coud of thinke,
   After the sondry sesons of the yere,
   So changed he his mete and his soupere.
   Ful many a partrich hadde he in mewe,
   And many a breme,ᴧ3 and many a luceᴧ4 in stewe.ᴧ 5
   Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were
   Poinant and sharp, and redy all his gear.
   His table dormant in his halle alway
   Stode redy covered alle the longe day."

   The SOMPNOUR is a memento of an execrable class long since 
happily extinguished.  He was an officer of one of the ecclesiastical 
courts, with duties and a rank analogous to those of our 
constable.  Being the incumbent of an office that was far from 
respectable or popular, he was also very ignorant; and his drunken 
attempts to display his learning are supremely ludicrous.  
The gross and disgusting nature of his tastes and vices is made 
apparent by the foul diseases which have the mastery over him; 
and thus by a fine touch of art the poet possesses us with the 
same personal repugnance for an abandoned and mercenary class, 
as actuated himself and his countrymen.  For the Sompnour of

ᴧ1 St. Julian was the patron of housekeepers.           ᴧ2 Stored with wine.
ᴧ3 A kind of fish.                                 ᴧ4 Pike.               ᴧ5 Pond.


                      THE CLERKE OF OXENFORDE.                          75

the days of Edward the Third was as little beloved by the people, 
as the collector of tithes or of the excise is at this day in 
Scotland and Ireland.

   "He hadde a fire-red cherubinne's face,
   For sauseflemeᴧ1 he was, with eyen narwe.
   As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe,
   With scalledᴧ2 browes blake, and pilled berd;
   Of his visage children were sore aferd.
   Ther n'as quicksilver, litarge, ne brimston,
   Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non,
   Ne oinement that wolde clense or bite,
   That him might helpen of his whelkes white,ᴧ3
   Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes.
   Wel loved he garlike, onions, and lekes,
   And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood.
   And whan that he well dronken had the win,
   Then wold he speken no word but Latin.
   A fewe terms coude he, two or three,
   That he had lerned out of some decree.
   He was a gentil harlot and a kind;
   A better felaw shulde a man not find.
   He wulde suffre for a quart of wine,
   A good felaw to have his concubine,
   A twelve-month, and excuse him at the full."

The CLERKE OF OXENFORDE throve not so well upon his love 
of learning as did the Sompnour upon his "garlike, onions, and 
lekes," and "strong win as rede as blood."  His whole equipage 
and apparel give evidence of the severe mortification which poverty 
often visits upon the followers of literature:--

ᴧ1 Red and pimpled.                        ᴧ2 Scabby.
ᴧ3 Foul running sores.76                                           CHAUCER. 

   "As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
   And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
   But loked holwe,ᴧ1 and therto soberly. 
   Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy.ᴧ2
   He was nought worldly to have an office." 

   Exquisitely drawn, also, are the descriptions of the Shipman or 
Sailor, and the Doctor of Physike. The frank and fierce nature 
of the one contrasts powerfully against the cold and pedantic 
manners of the other. And yet we must acknowledge that, if 
we should encounter the former upon a lone highway, it would 
be with strong misgivings. For, although we have Chaucer's 
word for it that he "certainly was a good felaw," still we fancy 
not the dagger which is so ostentatiously suspended from his 
neck; and think we can discern in his face, so "brown of 
hewe," that brave but unscrupulous and piratical spirit which 
a century or two later covered the seas with freebooters, and laid 
the foundations of England's mighty naval power. Now do we
[*any thing  --
any thing 
but being 
subordinated*] 
experience an increase of confidence in him, as we read the list 
of his questionable graces: 

   "Ful many a draft of winne he hadde draw 
   From Burdeaux ward, while that the chapman slepe. 
   If that he fought, and hadde the higher hand, 
   By water he sent hem home to every land. 
   Hardy he was and wise I undertake, 
   With many a tempest hadde his berd be shake." 

The literal frankness of the closing lines of this quotation, and 
their perfect embodiment of the most poetical aspect of a sailor's 
rough fortunes, are inimitable. 
   We now turn to the genial character of the Hoste of the 
Tabard, delineated with such signal ability by our poet. "Oure 

ᴧ1 Hollow.                                              ᴧ2 His short cloak.


                 THE HOSTE OF THE TABARD.                                 77 

hoste" is bold of his speche," yet wise and well ytaught," 
and respectful to rank and worth. He is the possessor of strong 
good sense, an indomitable will, and great physical strength. 
Having mingled freely with men of all ranks, under cover of the 
license of a convivialist, he was thus naturally fitted to assume 
the leadership of a promiscuous mass, and to detect and control 
the conflicting interests and fiery tempers of the least scrupulous 
portion of it. Chaucer has chosen to make him a principal 
figure, and trusts to him for keeping alive the action of his plot. 
To a company accidentally gathered under his roof, this prince 
of landlords proposes that they should enliven their journey to 
Canterbury, whither they were wending, upon a pilgrimage, by 
telling tales and making mirth. In no wise distrustful of himself, 
he proffers his companionship and guidance. His offer is 
gladly accepted, and he is duly installed governor of the party, 
and the "juge and reporter of their tales." Thus, by common 
consent, "oure hoste," in addition to his being ex-officio caterer 
and marshal, is invested with a sort of critical prerogative; a 
power which he fearlessly uses, roundly to censure a prolix or 
tiresome speaker, and even to silence him, to curb his satires 
upon some companion, or to silence the clamors of those who may 
have been thus assailed. 
   This investiture of an inn-keeper with the robes of a critic, 
and the authority of leader over so numerous and respectable a 
company, may appear singular enough at this day: but was not 
so absolutely incongruous with the customs of the period when 
Chaucer wrote. At that time, a host was public property. His 
roof was common to all, and the same room, and even the same 
table, was often occupied b all the extremes of rank. From the 
bustling business qualities of his calIing, and his habitude to 
marshal and array these various ranks in their just order, he was 
well and naturally calculated for an emergency like the present. 
His bold, self-confident, and boisterous manner recommended him78 CHAUCER.

to the gentler class of pilgrims, whom it relieved from any obligations
to entertain their companions of a day, and also shielded
them from any undue familiarities.
But although "oure hoste" was thus bold, boisterous, self-reliant,
and fit

"For to have been a marshall in an hall,"

yet, like many a wiser man, he succumbed to the "power of
mighty love." For we have the passionate confession of this
same Harry Bailly---frank and roystering Harry Bailly---that he
had a wife "that of hire tongue a labbing (blabbing) shrewe was
she!" That this "thorn in the side" of honest Harry was a
most loveable helpmeet we do not doubt, if she possessed but a
tithe of the accomplishments below enumerated:

"When ended was my tale of Melibee,
And of Prudence, and hire benignitee,
Our hoste saide; as I am faithful man,
And by the precious corpus Madrian,
I have lever than a barrell of ale
That good lefe1 my wif had herde this tale;
For she n'is no swiche thing of patience,
As was this Melibeus wif Prudence.
By Goddes bones, whan I beat my knaves,
She bringeth me the grete clobbed staves,
And cryeth: Slee the dogges everich one,
And breke hem bothe bak and every bone.
And if that any neighebor of mine,
Wol not in chirche to my wife encline,
Or be so hardy to hire to trespace,
Whan she cometh home she rampeth2 in my face,

1 Dear. 2 Flieth. 


THE HOSTE OF THE TABARD. 79

And cryeth: false coward, wreke1 thy wif;
By corpus Domini, I wol have thy knif,
And thou shalt have my distaff and go spinne,
Fro day til night right thus she will beginne.
Alas, she saith, that I ever was yshape2
To wed a milksop or a coward ape,
That wol ben overlade with every wight!
Thou darest not standen by thy wives right.
This is my lif, but if3 that I wol fight,
And out at dore anon I mote4 me dight,
Or elles I am lost, but if that I
Be like a wilde leon, fool-hardy.
I wote wel she wol do me slee5 som day
Som neighebour, and thanne go my way,
For I am perilous with my knife in hond,
Al be it that I dare not hire withstand;
For she is bigge in armes, by my faith,
That shall he find, that hire misdoth or saith.
But let us passe away fro this matere.

We leave the contemplation of this "charming woman" with
as much satisfaction as honest Harry himself, and will now cover
our retreat from a pleasing task by the exhibition of his compact
and formidable portrait, as he proposed to be their companion and
guide:

"Great chere made oure hoste us everich one,
And to the souper sette he us anon:
And served us with vittaile of the best.
Strong was the wine, and wel to drinke us leste.6
A semely man our hoste was with us alle
For to han ben a marshal in an halle.

1 Revenge. 2 Fated. 3 Unless.
4 Must. 5 She will cause me to slay. 6 We chose.80 CHAUCER.

A large man he was with open stepe,
A fairer burgess is there non in Chepe.^1
Bold of his speche, and wise and well ytaught,
And of manhood him lacked righte naught.
Eke therto was he right a merry man,
And after souper plaien he began,
And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges,
Whan that we hadden made our rekenninges;
And saide thus: Now, lordinges, trewely
Ye ben to me right welcome heartily:
For by my trouthe, if that I shall not lie,
I saw not this yere swiche a compagnie
At ones in the herberwe,^2 as is now.
Fayn wolde I do you mirth, and I wiste how.
And of a mirthe I am right now bethought,
To don you ease, and it shall cost you nought.
Ye gon to Canterbury; God you spede,
The blissful martyr quite you your mede;^2
And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way,
For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non
To riden by the way dombe as the ston;
And therefore wold I maken you disport,
As I said erst, and don you some comfort.
And if you liketh, alle by one assent
Now for to stonden at my jugement:
And for to werken as I shall you say
To-morwe when ye riden on the way,
Now by my fathers soule that is ded
But ye be merry, smiteth off my hed.
Holde up your hondes withouten more speche.
Our conseil was not longe for to seche:^4

^1Cheapside. ^2Inn. ^3Desert. ^4Seek.

THE HOST OF THE TABARD. 81

Us thought it was not worth to make it wise,
And granted him withouten more avise,
And bade him say his verdit as him leste.
Lordinges, quod he, now herkeneth for the beste;
But take it not I pray you disdain;
This is the point, to speke it plat and plain,
That eche of you to shorten with your way,
In this viage, shal tellen tales twey,
To Canterbury-ward, I mene it so,
And homeward he shall tellen other two
Of aventures that whilom han befalle.
And which of you that beareth him best of alle,
That is to sayn, that telleth in this case
Tales of best sentence and most solas,
Shall have a souper at youre aller^1 cost
Here in this place, sitting by this post,
When that ye comen agen from Canterbury.
And for to maken you the more merry,
I wil myselven gladly with you ride,
Right at my owen cost, and be your guide.
And who that will my jugement withsay,
Shal pay for alle we spenden by the way.
And if he vouchsafe that it be so,
Telle me anon, withouten wordes mo,
And I wol erly shapen me therefore."

^At the cost of all.
5*Chaucer was plainly a strong, wholesome
man, with large perceptive
organs, friendly, amative, of
independent spirit, -- possessed of
the true English tastes, rude, fond of women, fond
of eating and drinking, not to be
gulled by priestcraft or kingcraft.

I think all the peculiarities of 
[pot] poets, (perhaps of all mark
persons) are to be taken
calmly and in a spirit of
latitude -- [and] not criticised
and found fault with. --
Those traits were the [man?] --
facts in nature, the same
as facts in the landscape,
in mathematics, in chemistry,
This must of course be applied to Milton,
Pope, Tennyson, &c. just the same
as any. --

THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH.         289 
flattery) never shone out fuller or brighter, or looked more like 
itself, than at this period. 
   For such an extraordinary combination and development of 
fancy and genius many causes may be assigned ; and we may seek 
for the chief of them in religion, in politics, in the circumstances 
of the time, the recent diffusion of letters, in local situation, and 
in the character of the men who adorned that period, and availed 
themselves so nobly of the advantages placed within their reach. 
   I shall here attempt to give a general sketch of these causes, 

                                                                           HAZLITT. 
   [WILLIAM HAZLITT, one of the most voluminous writers of our times, was 
born in 1778; he died of cholera in 1830. His father was a Unitarian minister, 
and he was educated for his father's profession. But he had a determined 
predilection for the fine arts, and devoted himself for several years to the studies 
of a painter. There is little doubt that he would have attained consider- 
able excellence in this walk, had his fastidiousness allowed him to have been 
satisfied with his growing mastery over the difficulties of art. He, however, 
became a writer, and for a quarter of a century he devoted himself to an 
unremitting 
course of literary exertion. His political feelings were strong and 
almost passionate. He became therefore an object of unceasing attack, and 
no man was pursued with more virulence by the party writers who supported 
the Government of the day. His reputation is now established as a vigorous 
thinker, and an eloquent critic, who in an age of imitation dared to be original.] 

   The age of Elizabeth was distinguished, beyond, perhaps, any 
other in our history, by a number of great men, famous in different 
ways, and whose names have come down to us with unblemished 
honors,—statesmen, warriors, divines, scholars, poets, and philosophers: 
Raleigh, Drake, Coke, Hooker, and higher and more 
sounding still, and still more frequent in our mouths, Shakspeare, 
Spenser, Sydney, Bacon, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher—men 
whom fame has eternized in her long and lasting scroll, and who, 
by their words and acts, were benefactors of their country, and 
ornaments of human nature. Their attainments of different kinds 
bore the same general stamp, and it was sterling : what they did 
had the mark of their age and country upon it. Perhaps the 
genius of Great Britain (if I may so speak without offence orChaucer was plainly a strong wholesome
man, with large perceptive
organs, friendly, amative, of
independent spirit,-possessed of
the true English tastes, rude, fond of women, fond
of eating and drinking, not to be


vailing light. The senate awarded the prize of eloquence to Tiberius ; 
he refused it, supposing that, thou it had 'been just, he could 
derive no advantage from a judgment partial, and that was so 
little free to judge. As we give them all advantages of honor, so 
do we soothe and authorize all their vices and defects, not only by 
approbation, but by imitation also. 
Every one of Alexander's followers carried their heads on one 
side, as he did ; and the flatterers of Dionysius run against one 
another in his presence, stumbled at, and overturned whatever was 
under foot, to show that they were as purblind as he. Natural 
imperfections have sometimes also served to recommend a man to 
favor. I have seen deafness affected : and, because the master 
hated his wife, Plutarch has seen his courtiers repudiate theirs, 
whom they loved : and, which is Set more, uncleanness and all 
manner of dissolution has been in fashion ; as also disloyalty, 
blasphemies, cruelty, heresy, superstition, irreligion, effeminacy, 
and worse if worse there be. And by an example yet more dangerous 
than that of Mithridates' flatterers, who, by how much their 
master pretended to the honor of a good physician, came to him 
to have incision and cauteries made in their limbs ; for these others 
suffered the soul, a more delicate and noble part, to be cauterized. 
But to end where I begun : the Emperor Adrian, disputing with the 
Philosopher Favorinnus about the interpretation of some word : 
Favorinnus soon yielded him e victory ; for which his friends 
rebuking him ; " You talk said he, " would you not have 
him wiser than I, who commands thirty legions ?" Augustus 
wrote verses against Asinius Pollio, and I, said Pollio, say nothing 

THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 289 
flattery) never shone out fuller or brighter, or looked more like 
itself, than at this period. 
For such an extraordinary combination and development of 
fancy and genius many causes may be assigned ; and we may seek 
for the chief of them in religion, in politics, in the circumstances 
of the time, the recent diffusion of letters, in local situation, and 
in the character of the men who adorned that period, and availed 
themselves so nobly of the advantages placed within their reach. 
I shall here attempt to give a general sketch of these causes, 
and of the manner in which they operated to mould and stamp 
the poetry Of the country at the period of which I have to treat ; 
independently of incidental and fortuitous causes, for which there 
is no accounting, but which, after all, have often the greatest share 
in determining the most important results. 
The first cause I shall mention, as contributing to this general 
effect, was the Reformation, which had just then taken place. 
This event gave a mighty impulse and increased activity to thought 
and inquiry, and agitated the inert mass of accumulated prejudices 
throughout Europe. The effect of the concussion was general ; 
but the shock was greatest in this country. It toppled down the 
full-grown intolerable abuses of centuries at a blow ; heaved the 
ground from under the feet of bigoted faith and slavish obedience ; 
and the roar and dashing of opinions, loosened from their accustomed 
hold, might be heard like the noise of an angry sea, and has 
never yet subsided. Germany first broke the spell of misbegotten 
fear, and gave the watchword ; but England joined the shout, and 
echoed it back, with her island voice, from her thousand cliffs and 
craggy shores, in a longer and a louder strain. With that cry, the 
genius of Great Britain rose, and threw down the gauntlet to the 
nations. There was a mighty fermentation : the waters were out; 
public opinion was in a state of projection. Liberty was held out 
to all to think and speak the truth. Men's brains were busy ; 
their spirits stirring; their hearts full; and their hands not idle. 
Their eyes were opened to expect the greatest things, and their 
ears burned with curiosity and zeal to know the truth, that the 
truth might make them free. The death-blow which had been 
struck at scarlet vice and bloated hypocrisy, loosened their 
13290 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. 
tongues, and made the talismans and love-tokens of Popish superstition, 
with which she had beguiled her followers and committed 
abominations with the people, fall harmless from their necks. 
The translation of the Bible was the chief engine in the great 
work. It threw open, by a secret spring, the rich treasures of 
religion and morality, which had been there locked up as in a 
shrine. It revealed the visions of the prophets, and conveyed the 
lessons of inspired teachers to the meanest of the people. It gave 
them a common interest in a common cause. Their hearts burnt 
within them as they read. It gave a mind to the people, by 
giving them common subjects of thought and feeling. It cemented 
their union of character and sentiment ; it created endless 
diversity and collision of opinion. They found objects to employ 
their faculties, and a motive in the magnitude of the consequences 
attached to them, to exert the utmost eagerness in the pursuit of 
truth, and the most daring intrepidity in maintaining it. Religious 
controversy sharpens the understanding by the subtlety and remoteness 
of the topics it discusses, and embraces the will by their 
infinite importance. We perceive in the history of this period a 
nervous masculine intellect. No levity, no feebleness, no indifference ; 
or, if there were, it is a relaxation from the intense activity 
which gives a tone to its general character. But there is a gravity 
approaching to piety; a seriousness of impression, a conscientious 
severity of argument, an habitual fervor and enthusiasm in 
their method of handling almost every subject. The debates of 
the schoolmen were sharp and subtle enough ; but they wanted 
interest and grandeur, and were besides confined to a few : they 
did not affect the general mass of the community. But the Bible 
was thrown open to all ranks and conditions "to run and read," 
with its wonderful table of contents from Genesis to the Revelations. 
Every village in England would present the scene so well 
described in Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night." I cannot think 
that all this variety and weight of knowledge could be thrown in 
all at once upon the minds of the people and not make some im- 
pression upon it, the traces of which might be discerned in the 
manners and literature of the age. For, to leave more disputable 
points, and take only the historical parts of the Old Testament, or 
the moral sentiments of the New, there is nothing like them in 


THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 
the power of exciting awe and admiration, Or of riveting sympathy. 
We see what Milton has made of the account of the Creation, 
from the manner in which he has treated it, imbued and 
impregnated with the spirit of the time of which we speak. Or 
what is there equal (in that romantic interest and patriarchal 
simplicity which goes to the heart of a country, and rouses it, as 
it were, from its lair in wastes and wildnesses) equal to the story 
Of Joseph and his Brethren, of Rachael and Laban, of Jacob's 
Dream, Of Ruth and Boaz, the descriptions in the book of Job, 
the deliverance of the Jews out of Egypt, or the account of their 
captivity and return from Babylon? There is, in all these parts 
of the Scripture, and numberless more of the same kind—to pass 
over the Orphic hymns of David, the prophetic denunciations Of 
Isaiah, or the gorgeous visions of Ezekiel—an originality, a vastness 
of conception, a depth and tenderness of feeling, and a 
touching simplicity in the mode Of narration, which he who does 
not feel need be made of no "penetrable stuff." There is something 
in the character of Christ too (leaving religious faith quite 
out of the question) of more sweetness and majesty, and more 
likely to work a change in the mind of man, by the contemplation 
of its idea alone, than any to be found in history, whether actual 
or feigned. This character is that of a sublime humanity, such as 
was never seen on earth before, nor since. This shone manifestly 
both in his words and actions. We see it in his washing the Disciples' 
feet the night before his death, that unspeakable instance 
of humility and love, above all art, all meanness, and all pride; 
and in the leave he took of them on that occasion, "My peace I 
give unto you, that peace which the world cannot give, give I 
unto you and in his last commandment, that "they should love 
one another." Who can read the account of his behavior on the 
cross, when turning to his mother he said, " Woman, behold thy 
son," and to the Disciple John, Behold thy mother," and from 
that hour that Disciple took her to his own home." without having 
his heart smote within him! We see it in his treatment of 
the woman taken in adultery, and in his excuse for the woman 
who poured precious ointment on his garment as an offering of 
devotion and love, which is here all in all. His religion was the 
religion of the heart. We see it in his discourse with the Disciples
292 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

ples as they walked together towards Emmaus, when their hearts
burned within them; in his Sermon from the Mount, in his par-
able of the good Samaritan, and in that of the Prodigal Son-in
every act and word of his life, a grace, a mildness, a dignity and
love, a patience and wisdom worthy of the Son of God. His
whole life and being were imbued, steeped, in this word, charity:
it was the spring, the well-head, from which every thought and
feeling gushed into act; and it was this that breathed a mild glory
from his face in that last agony upon the cross, "when the meek
Saviour bowed his head and died," praying for his enemies. He
was the first true teacher of morality; for he alone conceived the
idea of a pure humanity. He redeemed man from the worship
of that idol, self, and instructed him by precept and example to 
love his neighbor as himself, to forgive our enemies, to do good
to those that curse us and despitefully use us. He taught the
love of good for the sake of good, without regard to personal or
sinister views, and made the affections of the heart the sole seat
of morality, instead of the pride of the understanding or the
sternness of the will. In answering the question, "who is out
neighbor?" as one who stands in need of our assistance, and
whose wounds we can bind up, he has done more to humanize the
thoughts, and tame the unruly passions, than all who have tried
to reform and benefit mankind. The vey idea of abstract be-
[the first] nevolence, of the desire to do good because another wants our
[advance] services, and of regarding the human race as one family, the off-
spring of one common parent, is hardly to be found in any other
[of great] code or system. It was "to the Jews a stumbling-block, and to
[wear] the Greeks foolishness." The Greeks and Romans never thought
of considering others, but as they were Greeks or Romans, as they
were bound to them by certain positive ties, or, on the other
hand, as separated from them by fiercer antipathies. Their
virtues were the virtues of political machines, their vices were the
vices of demons, ready to inflict or to endure pain with obdurate
and remorseless inflexibility of purpose. But in the Christian re-
ligion "we perceive softness coming over the heart of a nation,
and the iron scales that fence and harden it melt and drop off."
It becomes malleable, capable of pity, of forgiveness, of relaxing
in its claims, and remitting its power. We strike it and it does

THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH 293

not hurt us: it is not steel or marble, but flesh and blood, clay
tempered with tears, and "soft as sinews of the new-born babe."
The Gospel was first preached to the poor, for it consulted their
wants and interests, not its own pride and arrogance. It first
promulgated the equality of mankind in the community of duties
and benefits. It denounced the iniquities of the chief-priests and
Pharisees, and declared itself at variance with principalities and
powers, for it sympathizes not with the oppressor, but the op-
pressed. It first abolished slavery, for it did not consider the power
of the will to inflict injury, as clothing it with a right to do so.
Its law is good, not power. It at the same time tended to wean
the mind from the grossness of sense, and a particle of its divine
flame was lent to brighten and purify the lamp of love!
There have been persons who, being sceptics as to the divine
mission of Christ, have taken an unaccountable prejudice to his
doctrines, and have been disposed to deny the merit of his char-
acter; but this was not the feeling of the great men in the age of
Elizabeth (whatever might be their belief), one of whom says of
him, with a boldness equal to its piety,-

"The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer;
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed."

This was old honest Deckar, and the lines ought to embalm his
memory to every one who has a sense either of religion or philos-
ophy, or humanity, or true genius. Nor can I help thinking,
that we may discern the traces of the influence exerted by relig-
ious faith in the spirit of the poetry of the age of Elizabeth, in
the means of exciting terror and pity, in the delineations of the
passions of grief, remorse, love, sympathy, the sense of shame, in
the fond desires, the longings after immortality, in the heaven of
hope and the abyss of despair it lays open to us.
The literature of this age then, I would say, was strongly influ-
enced (among other causes), first by the spirit of Christianity, and
secondly by the spirit of Protestantism.
The effects of the Reformation on politics and philosophy may
be seen in the writings and history of the next and of the follow-294          HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

ages. They are still at work, and will continue to be so. The
effects on the poetry of the time were chiefly confined to the
moulding of the character, and giving powerful impulse to the
intellect of the country. The immediate use or application that
was made of religion to subjects of imagination and fiction was not
(from an obvious ground of separation) so direct or frequent, as that
which was made of the classical and romantic literature.
   For, much about the same time, the rich and fascinating stores
of the Greek and Roman mythology, and those of the romantic
poetry of Spain and Italy, were eagerly explored by the curious,
and thrown open in translations to the admiring gaze of the vulgar.
This last circumstance could hardly have afforded so much advantage 
to the poets of that day, who were themselves, in fact, the
translators, as it shows the general curiosity and increasing interest
in such subjects as a prevailing feature of the times. There were
translations of Tasso by Fairfax, and of Ariosto by Harrington,
of Homer and Hesiod by Chapman, and of Virgil long before, and
Ovid soon after; there was Sir Thomas North's translation of
Plutarch, of which Shakspeare has made such admirable use in
his Coriolanus and Julius Caesar; and Ben Jonson's tragedies of
Catiline and Sejanus may themselves be considered as almost
literal translations into verse of Tacitus, Sallust, and Cicero's Orations 
in his consulship. Petrarch, Dante, the satirist Aretine,
Machiavel, Castiglion, and others, were familiar to our writers, and
they make occasional mention of some few French authors, as
Rosard and Du Bartas; for the French literature had not at this
stage arrived at its Augustan period, and it was the imitation of
their literature a century afterwards, when it had arrived at its 
greatest height (itself copied from the Greek and Latin), that enfeebled 
and impoverished our own. But of the time that we are
considering it might be said, without much extravagance, that
every breath that blew, that every wave that rolled to our shores,
brought with it some new accession to our knowledge, which was
engrafted on the national genius.

   What also gave an unusual impetus to the mind of men at this
period was the discovery of the New World, and the reading of
voyages and travels. Green islands and golden sands seemed to

THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH.              295

arise, as by enchantment, out of the bosom of the watery waste,
and invite the cupidity, or wing the imagination of the dreaming
speculator. Fairy land was realized in new and unknown worlds.
"Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales, thrice happy
isles," were found floating, "like those Hesperian gardens famed
of old," beyond Atlantic seas, as dropt from the zenith. The
people, the soil, the clime, everything gave unlimited scope to
the curiosity of the traveller and reader. Other manners might
be said to enlarge the bounds of knowledge, and new mines of
wealth were tumbled at our feet. It is from a voyage to the
Straits of Magellan that Shakspeare has taken the hint of Prospero's 
Enchanted Island, and of the savage Caliban with his god
Setebos. Spenser seems to have had the same feeling in his mind
in the production of his Faery Queen.

   Fancy's air-drawn pictures after history's waking dream showed
like clouds over mountains; and from the romance of real life to
the idlest fiction the transition seemed easy. Shakspeare, as well
as others of his time, availed himself of the old Chronicles, and of
the traditions or fabulous inventions contained in them in such
ample measure, and which had not yet been appropriated to the
purposes of poetry or the drama. The stage was a new thing; and 
those who had to supply its demands laid their hands upon whatever 
came within their reach: they were not particular as to the
means, so that they gained the end. Lear is founded upon an old
ballad; Othello on an Italian novel; Hamlet on a Danish, and
Macbeth on a Scotch, tradition: one of which is to be found in
Saxo-Grammaticus, and the last in Hollinshed. The ghost-scenes 
and the witches in each are authenticated in the old Gothic
history. There was also this connecting link between the poetry
of this age and the supernatural traditions of a former one, that
the belief in them was still extant, and in full force and visible
operations among the vulgar (to say no more) in the time of our
authors. The appalling and wild chimeras of superstition and
ignorance, "those bodiless creations that ecstacy is very cunning
in," were inwoven with existing manners and opinions, and all
their effects on the passions of terror or pity might be gathered
from common and actual observation—might be discerned in the296               HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.

workings of the face, the expressions of the tongue, the writhings
of a troubled conscience. "Your face, my Thane, is as a book
where men may read strange matters." Midnight and secret
murders too, from the imperfect state of the police, were more
common; and the ferocious and brutal manners that would stamp
the brow of the hardened ruffian or hired assassin, more incorrigible 
and undisguised: the portraits of Tyrrel and Forrest were,
no doubt, done from the life. We find that the ravages of the
plague, the destructive rage of fire, the poisoned chalice, lean
famine, the serpent's mortal sting, and the fury of wild beasts were
the common topics of their poetry, as they were common occurrences 
in more remote periods of history. They were the strong
ingredients thrown into the cauldron of tragedy, to make it "thick
and slab." Man's life was (as it appears to me) more full of traps
and pitfalls; of hair-breadth accidents by flood and field; more
waylaid by sudden and startling evils; it trod on the brink of hope
and fear; stumbled upon fate unawares; while the imagination,
close behind it, caught at, and clung to, the shape of danger, or
"snatched a wild and fearful joy" from its escape. The accidents
of nature were less provided against; the excesses of the passions
and of lawless power were less regulated, and produced more
strange and desperate catastrophes. The tales of Boccaccio are
founded on the great pestilence of Florence, Fletcher the poet
died of the plague, and Marlow was stabbed in a tavern quarrel.
The strict authority of parents, the inequality of ranks, or the 
hereditary feuds between different families, made more unhappy
loves or matches.

      "The course of true love never did run even."

   Again, the heroic and martial spirit which breathes in our elder
writers was yet in considerable activity in the reign of Elizabeth.
"The age of chivalry was not then quite gone, nor the glory of
Europe extinguished forever." Jousts and tournaments were still 
common with the nobility in England and in foreign countries:
Sir Philip Sydney was particularly distinguished for his proficiency 
in these exercises, (and indeed fell a martyr to his ambition 
as a soldier,) and the gentle Surrey was still more famous,
on the same account, just before him. It is true, the general use


THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH.               297

of fire-arms gradually superseded the necessity of skill in the
sword, or bravery in the person: and as a symptom of the rapid
degeneracy in this respect, we find Sir John Suckling soon after
boasting of himself as one—

      "Who prized black eyes, and a lucky hit
      At bowls, above all the trophies of wit."

   It was comparatively an age of peace,

      "Like strength reposing on his own right arm;"

but the sound of civil combat might still be heard in the distance,
the spear glittered to the eye of memory, or the clashing of armor 
struck on the imagination of the ardent and the young.

   Lastly, to conclude this account; what gave a unity and common 
direction to all these causes, was the natural genius of the
country, which was strong in these writers in proportion to their
strength. We are a nation of islanders, and we cannot help it;
nor mend ourselves if we would. We are something in ourselves,
nothing when we try to ape others. Music and painting are not
our forte; for what we have done in that way has been little, and
that borrowed from others with great difficulty. But we may 
boast of our poets and philosophers. That's something. We
have had strong heads and sound hearts among us. Thrown on
one side of the world, and left to bustle for ourselves, we have
fought out many a battle for truth and freedom. That is our natural 
style; and it were to be wished we had in no instance departed 
from it. Our situation has given us a certain cast of
thought and character; and our liberty has enabled us to make
the most of it. We are of a stiff clay, not moulded into every
fashion, with stubborn joints not easily bent. We are slow to
think, and therefore impressions do not work upon us till they act
in masses.  We are not forward to express our feelings, and therefore 
they do not come from us till they force their way in the
most impetuous eloquence. Our language is, as it were, to begin
anew, and we make use of the most singular and boldest combinations 
to explain ourselves. Our wit comes from us, "like
birdlime, brains and all." We pay too little attention to form
                                               13*298                   HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. 

and method, leave our works in an unfinished state, but still the 
materials we work in are solid and of nature's mint; we do not 
deal in counterfeits. We both under and over-do, but we keep 
an eye to the prominent features, the main chance. We are more 
for weight than show; care only about what interests ourselves, 
instead of trying to impose upon others by plausible appearances, 
and are obstinate and intractable in not conforming to common 
rules, by which many arrive at their ends with half the real waste 
of thought and trouble. We neglect all but the principal object, 
gather our force to make a great blow, bring it down, and relapse 
into sluggishness and indifference again. Materiam superabat 
opus, cannot be said of us; we may be accused of grossness, but 
not of flimsiness; of extravagance, but not of affectation; of want of 
art and refinement, but not of a want of truth and nature.  Our
literature, in a word, is Gothic and grotesque ; unequal and irregular;
not cast in a previous mould, nor of one uniform texture,
but of great weight in the whole, and of incomparable value in 
the best parts. It aims at an excess of beauty or power, hits or 
misses, and is either very good indeed, or absolutely good for 
nothing. This character applies in particular to our literature in 
the age of Elizabeth, which is its best period, before the introduction 
of a rage for French rules and French models ; for whatever 
may be the value of our own original style of composition, there 
can be neither offence nor presumption in saying that it is at least 
better than our second-hand imitation of others understanding 
(such as it is and must remain to be good for anything) is not 
a thoroughfare for commonplaces, smooth as the palm of one's 
hand, but full of knotty joints and jutting excrescences, rough, 
uneven, overgrown with brambles ; and I like this aspect of the 
mind, (as some one said of the country,) where nature keeps a
good deal of the soil in her own hands. Perhaps the genius of
our poetry has more of Pan than of Apollo ; "but Pan is a god,
Apollo is no more!"

Chaucer, Spenser, & Milton, were full-blooded
   Cockneys—Shakespeare alone was
      not a Londer—although a long resident
         parents citizens of London.
Geoffrey Chaucer, born 1328,
                                  died 1400 aged 72

Contemporary of Froissart, Walter De Mauny,
Kind Edward and Queen Phillippa.

Supposed to have seen, and conversed familiarly
with Petrarch

Received in the 39th and 44th years of his
   age two grants, or annuities, from the
   king. --

Cultivated his own growth out of that of the
   Italian and Provencal poets. --

Appointed by the king comptroller of the customs
   of wool, wool=fells and hides—income £1000
                                                           about equal to
                                                           [?]15,000 now

After death of Edward 3rd— held similar favor
   and kindness, under Richard 2?

Wickliffe was his contemporary & friend.

Chaucer sat in Parliament 1386

Personally (aged 30) "of a fair and beautiful complexion, 
   his lips red and full, his size
   a just medium, his air polished and
   graceful." [he was] Married, at [30] 37, to 
   the daughter of a Hainault knight.

1356   The first English book "Sir John Mandeville's
Travels."—

1385 — Polychronicon — a sort of jumble of history.
          —For to those dates there was no English
          Literature—hardly even for many years afterward.
          —The English language was not thought of as
          fit for the learned, or for poets.—