PART I.

CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN

KEY TO THE COVER.

The 1st Arch contains a glimpse of Palamon and Arcite fighting

desperately, yet wounded oftener and sharplier by Love’s arrows than by

each deadly stroke. The ruthless boy aloft showers gaily upon them his

poisoned shafts.

The 2nd contains Aurelius and Dorigen--that loving wife left on Breton

shores, who was so nearly caught in the trap she set for herself. Aurelius

offers her his heart aflame. It is true his attitude is humble, but she is

utterly in his power--she cannot get away whilst he is kneeling on her

dress.

The 3rd represents the Summoner led away, but this time neither to profit

nor to pleasure, by his horned companion. The wicked spirit holds the

reins of both horses in his hand, and the Summoner already quakes in

anticipation of what is in store for him.

The 4th contains the three rioters. The emblem of that Death they sought

so wantonly hangs over their heads; the reward of sin is not far off.

The 5th Arch is too much concealed by the lock to do more than suggest one

of Griselda’s babes.

The KEY, from which the book takes its name, we trust may unlock the too

little known treasures of the first of English poets. The _Daisy_, symbol

for all time both of Chaucer and of children, and thus curiously fitted to

be the connecting link between them, may point the way to lessons fairer

than flowers in stories as simple as daisies.

_CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN_

Demy 8vo, cloth limp, 2_s._ 6_d._

CHAUCER FOR SCHOOLS.

By MRS. HAWEIS, Author of ‘CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN.’

_This is a copious and judicious selection from Chaucer’s Tales, with

full notes on the history, manners, customs, and language of the

fourteenth century, with marginal glossary and a literal poetical

version in modern English in parallel columns with the original

poetry. Six of the Canterbury Tales are thus presented, in sections of

from 10 to 200 lines, mingled with prose narrative. ‘Chaucer for

Schools’ is issued to meet a widely-expressed want, and is especially

adapted for class instruction. It may be profitably studied in

connection with the maps and illustrations of ‘Chaucer for Children.’_

‘We hail with pleasure the appearance of Mrs. Haweis’s “Chaucer for

Schools.” Her account of “Chaucer the Tale-teller” is certainly the

pleasantest, chattiest, and at the same time one of the soundest

descriptions of the old master, his life and works and general

surroundings, that have ever been written. The chapter cannot be too

highly praised.’--ACADEMY.

‘The authoress is in such felicitous harmony with her task, that the young

student, who in this way first makes acquaintance with Chaucer, may well

through life ever after associate Mrs. Haweis with the rare productions of

the father of English poetry.’--SCHOOL-BOARD CHRONICLE.

‘Unmistakably presents the best means yet provided of introducing young

pupils to the study of our first great poet.’--SCOTSMAN.

‘In her “Chaucer for Schools” Mrs. Haweis has prepared a great assistance

for boys and girls who have to make the acquaintance of the poet. Even

grown people, who like their reading made easy for them, will find the

book a pleasant companion.’--GUARDIAN.

‘The subject has been dealt with in such a full and comprehensive way,

that the book must be commended to everyone whose study of early English

poetry has been neglected.’--DAILY CHRONICLE.

‘We venture to think that this happy idea will attract to the study of

Chaucer not a few children of a larger growth, who have found Chaucer to

be very hard reading, even with the help of a glossary and copious notes.

Mrs. Haweis’s book displays throughout most excellent and patient

workmanship, and it cannot fail to induce many to make themselves more

fully acquainted with the writings of the father of English

literature.’--ECHO.

‘The book is a mine of poetic beauty and most scholarly explanation, which

deserves a place on the shelves of every school library.’--SCHOOL

NEWSPAPER.

‘For those who have yet to make the acquaintance of the sweet and quaint

singer, there could not well be a better book than this. Mrs. Haweis is,

of course, an enthusiast, and her enthusiasm is contagious. Her volume

ought to be included in all lists of school books--at least, in schools

where boys and girls are supposed to be laying the foundations of a

liberal education.’--LITERARY WORLD.

‘Mrs. Haweis has, by her “Chaucer for Schools,” rendered invaluable

assistance to those who are anxious to promote the study of English

literature in our higher and middle-grade schools.... Although this

edition of Chaucer has been expressly prepared for school use, it will be

of great service to many adult readers.’--SCHOOL GUARDIAN.

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W.

[Illustration: MINE HOST ASSEMBLING THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.

KNIGHT. SQUIRE. BOY. WIFE OF BATH. PRIORESS. CHAUCER (A CLERK). FRIAR.

MINE HOST. MONK. SUMMONER. PARDONER. SECOND NUN. FRANKLIN.]

CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN

A Golden Key

BY MRS. H. R. HAWEIS

_ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT COLOURED PICTURES AND NUMEROUS WOODCUTS

BY THE AUTHOR_

[Illustration: ‘Doth now your devoir, yonge knightes proude!’]

A New Edition, Revised.

London

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY

1882

[Illustration]

CHIEFLY FOR THE USE AND PLEASURE OF MY LITTLE LIONEL, FOR WHOM I FELT THE

NEED OF SOME BOOK OF THE KIND, I HAVE ARRANGED AND ILLUSTRATED THIS

CHAUCER STORY-BOOK.

CONTENTS

FOREWORDS TO THE SECOND EDITION ix

FOREWORDS xi

CHAUCER THE TALE-TELLER 1

CANTERBURY TALES:--

CHAUCER’S PILGRIMS 17

CHAUCER’S PROLOGUE 18

THE KNIGHT’S TALE 34

THE FRIAR’S TALE 57

THE CLERK’S TALE 65

THE FRANKLIN’S TALE 84

THE PARDONER’S TALE 92

MINOR POEMS:--

COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS PURSE 100

TWO RONDEAUX 101

VIRELAI 102

GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER 104

NOTES ON THE PICTURES 107

List of Illustrations.

COLOURED PICTURES.

PAGE

I. PILGRIMS STARTING _Frontispiece_

II. DINNER IN THE OLDEN TIME _To face_ 2

III. LADY CROSSING THE STREET " 6

IV. FAIR EMELYE " 37

V. GRISELDA’S MARRIAGE " 69

VI. GRISELDA’S BEREAVEMENT " 72

VII. DORIGEN AND AURELIUS " 86

VIII. THE RIOTER " 97

CHAUCER’S PORTRAIT " 3

WOODCUTS.

PAGE

I. TOURNAMENT _Title-page_

II. TABLE 2

III. HEAD-DRESSES 2

IV. MAPS OF OLD AND MODERN LONDON _To face_ 4

V. LADIES’ HEAD-DRESSES 5

VI. SHOE 6

VII. JOHN OF GAUNT 7

VIII. SHIP 8

IX. STYLUS 10

X. THE KNIGHT 19

XI. THE SQUIRE 20

XII. THE YEOMAN 21

XIII. THE PRIORESS 22

XIV. THE MONK 24

XV. THE FRIAR 25

XVI. THE MERCHANT 26

XVII. THE CLERK 27

XVIII. THE SERJEANT-OF-LAW 28

XIX. THE FRANKLIN 28

XX. TABLE DORMANT 28

XXI. THE DOCTOR OF PHYSIC 29

XXII. THE WIFE OF BATH 29

XXIII. THE PARSON 30

XXIV. THE PLOUGHMAN 31

XXV. THE SUMMONER 31

XXVI. THE PARDONER 31

XXVII. MINE HOST 32

XXVIII., XXIX. KNIGHTS IN ARMOUR 48

FOREWORDS TO THE SECOND EDITION.

In revising _Chaucer for Children_ for a New Edition, I have fully availed

myself of the help and counsel of my numerous reviewers and

correspondents, without weighting the book, which is really designed for

children, with a number of new facts, and theories springing from the new

facts, such as I have incorporated in my Book for older readers, _Chaucer

for Schools_.

Curious discoveries are still being made, and will continue to be, thanks

to the labours of men like Mr. F. J. Furnivall, and many other able and

industrious scholars, encouraged by the steadily increasing public

interest in Chaucer.

I must express my sincere thanks and gratification for the reception this

book has met with from the press generally, and from many eminent critics

in particular; and last, not least, from those to whom I devoted my

pleasant toil, the children of England.

M. E. HAWEIS.

FOREWORDS.

To the Mother.

A Chaucer for Children may seem to some an impossible story-book, but it

is one which I have been encouraged to put together by noticing how

quickly my own little boy learned and understood fragments of early

English poetry. I believe that if they had the chance, many other children

would do the same.

I think that much of the construction and pronunciation of old English

which seems stiff and obscure to grown up people, appears easy to

children, whose crude language is in many ways its counterpart.

The narrative in early English poetry is almost always very simply and

clearly expressed, with the same kind of repetition of facts and names

which, as every mother knows, is what children most require in

story-telling. The emphasis[1] which the final E gives to many words is

another thing which helps to impress the sentences on the memory, the

sense being often shorter than the sound.

It seems but natural that every English child should know something of one

who left so deep an impression on his age, and on the English tongue, that

he has been called by Occleve “the finder of our fair language.” For in

his day there was actually no _national_ language, no _national_

literature, English consisting of so many dialects, each having its own

literature intelligible to comparatively few; and the Court and educated

classes still adhering greatly to Norman-French for both speaking and

writing. Chaucer, who wrote for the people, chose the best form of

English, which was that spoken at Court, at a time when English was

regaining supremacy over French; and the form he adopted laid the

foundation of our present National Tongue.

Chaucer is, moreover, a thoroughly religious poet, all his merriest

stories having a fair moral; even those which are too coarse for modern

taste are rather _naïve_ than injurious; and his pages breathe a genuine

faith in God, and a passionate sense of the beauty and harmony of the

divine work. The selections I have made are some of the most beautiful

portions of Chaucer’s most beautiful tales.

I believe that some knowledge of, or at least interest in, the domestic

life and manners of the 13th, 14th, and 15th centuries, would materially

help young children in their reading of English history. The political

life would often be interpreted by the domestic life, and much of that

time which to a child’s mind forms the _dryest_ portion of history,

because so unknown, would then stand out as it really was, glorious and

fascinating in its vigour and vivacity, its enthusiasm, and love of beauty

and bravery. There is no clearer or safer exponent of the life of the 14th

century, as far as he describes it, than Geoffrey Chaucer.

As to the difficulties of understanding Chaucer, they have been greatly

overstated. An occasional reference to a glossary is all that is

requisite; and, with a little attention to a very simple general rule,

anybody with moderate intelligence and an ear for musical rhythm can enjoy

the lines.

In the first place, it must be borne in mind that the _E_ at the end of

the old English words was usually a syllable, and must be sounded, as

_Aprillē_, _swootĕ_, &c.

Note, then, that Chaucer is always _rhythmical_. Hardly ever is his rhythm

a shade wrong, and therefore, roughly speaking, _if you pronounce the

words so as to preserve the rhythm_ all will be well. When the final _e_

must be sounded in order to make the rhythm right, sound it, but where it

is not needed leave it mute.[2]

Thus:--in the opening lines--

Whan that | _April_ | _le_ with | his _schowr_ | _es_ swoote when,

showers,

sweet

The drought | of Marche | hath per | cèd to | the roote pierced,

root

And bath | ud eve | ry veyne | in swich | licour such,

liquor

Of whiche | vertue | engen | drèd is | the flour. flower

(_Prologue._)

You see that in those words which I have put in italics the final E must

be sounded slightly, for the rhythm’s sake.

And _sma_ | _le fow_ | _les_ ma | ken me | lodie small birds make

That sle | pen al | the night | with o | pen yhe. sleep, all

(_Prologue._)

Again, to quote at random--

The bu | sy _lark_ | _e_ mess | ager | of day, lark, messenger

Salu | eth in | hire song | the _mor_ | _we_ gray. saluteth, her,

morning

(_Knight’s Tale._)

Ful _long_ | _e_ wern | his leg | gus, and | ful lene; legs, lean

Al like | a staff | ther was | no calf | y-sene.

(_Prologue--‘Reve.’_)

or in Chaucer’s exquisite greeting of the daisy--

Knelyng | alwey | til it | unclo | sèd was always

Upon | the _sma_ | _le_, _sof_ | _te_, _swo_ | _te_ gras. small, soft,

sweet

(_Legend of Good Women._)

How much of the beauty and natural swing of Chaucer’s poetry is lost by

translation into modern English, is but too clear when that beauty is once

perceived; but I thought some modernization of the old lines would help

the child to catch the sense of the original more readily: for my own

rendering, I can only make the apology that when I commenced my work I did

not know it would be impossible to procure suitable modernized versions by

eminent poets. Finding that unattainable, I merely endeavoured to render

the old version in modern English as closely as was compatible with sense,

and the simplicity needful for a child’s mind; and I do not in any degree

pretend to have rendered it in poetry.

The beauty of such passages as the death of Arcite is too delicate and

evanescent to bear rough handling. But I may here quote some of the lines

as an example of the importance of the final _e_ in emphasizing certain

words with an almost solemn music.

And with | that word | his _spech_ | _e fail_ | _e_ gan; speech, fail

For fro | his feete | up to | his brest | was come

The cold | of deth | that hadde | him o | ver nome; overtaken

And yet | moreo | ver in | his _ar_ | _mes_ twoo now, arms

The vi | tal strength | is lost, | and al | agoo. gone

Only | the in | tellect, | withou | ten more, without

That dwel | led in | his _her_ | _te_ sik | and sore, heart, sick

Gan _fayl_ | _e_ when | the _her_ | _te felt_ | _e_ deth. began to fail,

felt death

(_Knight’s Tale._)

There is hardly anything finer than Chaucer’s version of the story of

these passionate young men, up to the touching close of Arcite’s accident

and the beautiful patience of death. In life nothing would have reconciled

the almost animal fury of the rivals, but at the last such a resignation

comes to Arcite that he gives up Emelye to Palamon with a sublime effort

of self-sacrifice. Throughout the whole of the Knight’s Tale sounds as of

rich organ music seem to peal from the page; throughout the Clerk’s Tale

one seems to hear strains of infinite sadness echoing the strange outrages

imposed on patient Grizel. But without attention to the rhythm half the

grace and music is lost, and therefore it is all-important that the child

be properly taught to preserve it.

I have adhered generally to Morris’s text (1866), being both good and

popular,[3] only checking it by his Clarendon Press edition, and by

Tyrwhitt, Skeat, Bell, &c., when I conceive force is gained, and I have

added a running glossary of such words as are not immediately clear, on a

level with the line, to disperse any lingering difficulty.

In the pictures I have been careful to preserve the right costumes,

colours, and surroundings, for which I have resorted to the MSS. of the

time, knowing that a child’s mind, unaided by the eye, fails to realize

half of what comes through the ear. Children may be encouraged to verify

these costumes in the figures upon many tombs and stalls, &c., in old

churches, and in old pictures.

In conclusion I must offer my sincere and hearty thanks to many friends

for their advice, assistance, and encouragement during my work; amongst

them, Mr. A. J. Ellis, Mr. F. J. Furnivall, and Mr. Calderon.

Whatever may be the shortcomings of the book, I cannot but hope that many

little ones, while listening to Chaucer’s Tales, will soon begin to be

interested in the picturesque life of the middle ages, and may thus be led

to study and appreciate ‘The English Homer’[4] by the pages I have written

for my own little boy.

ACCENT OF CHAUCER.

The mother should read to the child a fragment of Chaucer with the correct

pronunciation of his day, of which we give an example below, inadequate,

of course, but sufficient for the present purpose. The whole subject is

fully investigated in the three first parts of the treatise on ‘Early

English Pronunciation, with special reference to Shakespere and Chaucer,’

by Alexander J. Ellis, F.R.S.

The _a_ is, as in the above languages, pronounced as in _âne_, _appeler_,

&c. _E_ commonly, as in _écarté_, &c. The final _e_ was probably

indistinct, as in German now, _habe_, _werde_, &c.--not unlike the _a_ in

_China_: it was lost before a vowel. The final _e_ is still sounded by the

French in singing. In old French verse, one finds it as indispensable to

the rhythm as in Chaucer,--and as graceful,--hence probably the modern

retention of the letter as a syllable in vocal music.

_Ou_ is sounded as the French _ou_.

_I_ generally as on the Continent, _ee_: never as we sound it at

present.

_Ch_ as in Scotch and German.

I quote the opening lines of the Prologue as the nearest to hand.

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote

The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote,

And bathud every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertue engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethe

Enspirud hath in every holte and heethe

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne,

And smale fowles maken melodie,

That slepen al the night with open yhe,

So priketh hem nature in here corages--&c.

Whan that Aprilla with his shōōrĕs sohta

The drŏŏkht of March hath pairsed to the rohta,

And bahthed ev’ry vīn in sweech licōōr,

Of which vairtú enjendrèd is the flōōr;

Whan Zephirŏŏs aik with his swaita braitha

Enspeered hath in ev’ry holt and haitha

The tendra croppes, and the yŏŏnga sŏŏnna

Hath in the Ram his halfa cōōrs i-rŏŏnna,

And smahla fōōles mahken melodee-a,

That slaipen al the nikht with ohpen ee-a,

So pricketh hem nahtúr in heer coràhges, &c.

It will thus be seen that many of Chaucer’s lines end with a

_dissyllable_, instead of a single syllable. _Sote_, _rote_, _brethe_,

_hethe_, &c. (having the final _e_), are words of two syllables; _corages_

is a word of three, _àges_ rhyming with _pilgrimages_ in the next line. It

will also be apparent that some lines are lengthened with a syllable too

much for strict _metre_--a licence allowed by the best poets,--which,

avoiding as it does any possible approach to a doggrel sound, has a

lifting, billowy rhythm, and, in fact, takes the place of a ‘turn’ in

music. A few instances will suffice:--

‘And though that I no wepne have in this place.’

‘Have here my troth, tomorwe I nyl not fayle,

Withouten wityng of eny other wight.’

‘As any raven fether it schon for-blak.’

‘A man mot ben a fool other yong or olde.’

I think that any one reading these lines twice over as I have roughly

indicated, will find the accent one not difficult to practise; and the

perfect rhythm and ring of the lines facilitates matters, as the ear can

frequently guide the pronunciation. The lines can scarcely be read too

slowly or majestically.

I must not here be understood to imply that difficulties in reading and

accentuating Chaucer are chimerical, but only that it is possible to

understand and enjoy him without as much difficulty as is commonly

supposed. In perusing the whole of Chaucer, there must needs be

exceptional readings and accentuation, which in detail only a student of

the subject would comprehend or care for.

The rough rule suggested in the preface is a good one, as far as the

rhythm goes: as regards the sound, I have given a rough example.

I will quote a fragment again from the Prologue as a second instance:--

Ther was also a nonne, a prioresse,

That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy;

Hire gretteste ooth nas but by Seynte Loy;

And sche was cleped Madame Eglentyne.

Ful wel sche sang the servise devyne,

Entuned in hire nose ful semyly;

And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly,

Aftur the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,

For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe.

Ther was ahlsoa a nŏŏn, a preeoressa,

That of her smeeling was fŏŏl sim-pland cooy;

Heer graitest ohth nas bŏŏt bee Sī-ent Looy,

And shay was cleppèd Màdam Eglanteena.

Fŏŏl well shay sang the _servicĕ divinä_,

Entúned in heer nohsa fŏŏl saimaly;

And French shai spahk fŏŏl fēr and faitisly,

Ahfter the scohl of Strahtford ahtta Bow-a,

For French of Pahrees was toh her ŏŏn-know-a.

Observe _simpland_ for _simple and_: simple being pronounced like a word

of one syllable. With the common English pronunciation the lines would not

scan. ‘Vernicle,’ ‘Christofre,’ ‘wimple,’ ‘chilindre,’ ‘companable,’ &c.,

are further instances of this mute _e_, and may be read as French words.

CHAUCER THE TALE-TELLER.

I.

Do you like hearing stories? I am going to tell you of some one who lived

a very long time ago, and who was a very wise and good man, and who told

more wonderful stories than I shall be able to tell _you_ in this little

book. But you shall hear some of them, if you will try and understand

them, though they are written in a sort of English different from what you

are accustomed to speak.

But, in order that you really may understand the stories, I must first

tell you something about the man who made them; and also why his language

was not the same as yours, although it was English. His name was

Chaucer--Geoffrey Chaucer. You must remember his name, for he was so great

a man that he has been called the ‘Father of English Poetry’--that is, the

beginner or inventor of all the poetry that belongs to our England; and

when you are grown up, you will often hear of Chaucer and his works.

II.

Chaucer lived in England 500 years ago--a longer time than such a little

boy as you can even think of. It is now the year 1876, you know. Well,

Chaucer was born about 1340, in the reign of King Edward III. We should

quite have forgotten all Chaucer’s stories in such a great space of time

if he had not written them down in a book. But, happily, he did write them

down; and so we can read them just as if he had only told them yesterday.

If you could suddenly spring back into the time when Chaucer lived, what a

funny world you would find! Everybody was dressed differently then from

what people are now, and lived in quite a different way; and you might

think they were very uncomfortable, but they were very happy, because they

were accustomed to it all.

People had no carpets in those days in their rooms. Very few people were

rich enough to have glass windows. There was no paper on the walls, and

very seldom any pictures; and as for spring sofas and arm-chairs, they

were unknown. The seats were only benches placed against the wall:

sometimes a chair was brought on grand occasions to do honour to a

visitor; but it was a rare luxury.

The rooms of most people in those days had blank walls of stone or brick

and plaster, painted white or coloured, and here and there--behind the

place of honour, perhaps--hung a sort of curtain, like a large picture,

made of needlework, called tapestry. You may have seen tapestry hanging in

rooms, with men and women and animals worked upon it. That was almost the

only covering for walls in Chaucer’s time. Now we have a great many other

ornaments on them, besides tapestry.

The rooms Chaucer lived in were probably like every one’s else. They had

bare walls, with a piece of tapestry hung here and there on them--a bare

floor, strewn with rushes, which must have looked more like a stable than

a sitting-room. But the rushes were better than nothing. They kept the

feet warm, as our carpets do, though they were very untidy, and not always

very clean.

[Illustration]

When Chaucer wanted his dinner or breakfast, he did not go to a big table

like that you are used to: the table came to him. A couple of trestles or

stands were brought to him, and a board laid across them, and over the

board a cloth, and on the cloth were placed all the curious dishes they

ate then. There was no such thing as coffee or tea. People had meat, and

beer, and wine for breakfast, and dinner, and supper, all alike. They

helped themselves from the common dish, and ate with their fingers, as

dinner-knives and forks were not invented, and it was thought a sign of

special good breeding to have clean hands and nails. Plates there were

none. But large flat cakes of bread were used instead; and when the meat

was eaten off them, they were given to the poor--for, being full of the

gravy that had soaked into them, they were too valuable to throw away.

When they had finished eating, the servants came and lifted up the board,

and carried it off.

III.

And now for Chaucer himself! How funny you would think he looked, if you

could see him sitting in his house! He wore a hood, of a dark colour, with

a long tail to it, which in-doors hung down his back, and out of doors was

twisted round his head to keep the hood on firm. This tail was called a

liripipe.

[Illustration]

He did not wear a coat and trousers like your father’s, but a sort of

gown, called a tunic, or dalmatic, which in one picture of him is grey and

loose, with large sleeves, and bright red stockings and black boots; but

on great occasions he wore a close-fitting tunic, with a splendid belt and

buckle, a dagger, and jewelled garters, and, perhaps, a gold circlet round

his hair. How much prettier to wear such bright colours instead of black!

men and women dressed in green, and red, and yellow then; and when they

walked in the streets, they looked as people look in pictures.

[Illustration: DINNER IN THE OLDEN TIME.]

[Illustration: GEOFFREY CHAUCER.]

You may see how good and clever Chaucer was by his face; such a wise,

thoughtful, pleasant face! He looks very kind, I think, as if he would

never say anything harsh or bitter; but sometimes he made fun of people in

a merry way. Words of his own, late in life, show that he was rather fat,

his face small and fair. In manner he seemed ‘elvish,’ or shy, with a

habit of staring on the ground, ‘as if he would find a hair.’

All day he worked hard, and his spare time was given to ‘studying and

reading alway,’ till his head ached and his look became dazed. (_House of

Fame._)

Chaucer lived, like you, in London. Whether he was born there is not

known;[5] but as his father, John Chaucer, was a vintner in Thames Street,

London, it is probable that he was. Not much is known about his parents or

family, except that his grandfather, Richard Chaucer, was also a vintner;

and his mother had an uncle who was a moneyer; so that he came of

respectable and well-to-do people, though not noble.[6] Whether he was

educated at Oxford or Cambridge, whether he studied for the bar or for the

Church, there is no record to show; but there is no doubt that his

education was a good one, and that he worked very hard at his books and

tasks, otherwise he could not have grown to be the learned and cultivated

man he was. We know that he possessed considerable knowledge of the

classics, divinity, philosophy, astronomy, as much as was then known of

chemistry, and, indeed, most of the sciences. French and Latin he knew as

a matter of course, for the better classes used these tongues more than

English--Latin for writing, and French for writing and speaking; for, by

his translations from the French, he earned, early in life, a ‘balade’ of

compliment from Eustache Deschamps, with the refrain, ‘_Grant translateur,

noble Geoffroi Chaucier_.’ It is probable, too, that he knew Italian, for,

in his later life, we can see how he has been inspired by the great

Italian writers, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio.

It has recently been discovered that for a time (certainly in 1357)

Geoffrey Chaucer, being then seventeen, was a page[7] in the household of

Elizabeth, Countess of Ulster, wife of Lionel, second son of King Edward

III.; a position which he could not have held if he had not been a

well-born, or at least well-educated, person. A page in those days was

very different from what we call a page now--therefore we infer that the

Chaucer family had interest at Court; for without that, Geoffrey could

never have entered the royal service.

Most gentlemen’s sons were educated by becoming pages. They entered the

service of noble ladies, who paid them, or sometimes were even paid for

receiving them. Thus young men learned courtesy of manners, and all the

accomplishments of indoor and outdoor life--riding, the use of arms,

&c.--and were very much what an _aide-de-camp_ in the army now is.

Chaucer, you see, held a post which many a nobly-born lad must have

coveted.

There is a doubtful tradition that Chaucer was intended for a lawyer, and

was a member of the Middle Temple (a large building in London, where a

great many lawyers live still), and here, as they say, he was once fined

two shillings for beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street.

If this be true, it must have been rather a severe beating; for two

shillings was a far larger sum than it is now--equal to about sixteen

shillings of our money. Chaucer was sometimes angry with the friars at

later times in life, and deals them some hard hits in his writings with a

relish possibly founded on personal experience of some disagreeable friar.

At any rate, Chaucer never got fond of the friars, and thought they were

often bad and mischievous men, who did not always _act_ up to what they

_said_. This is called _hypocrisy_, and is so evil a thing that Chaucer

was quite right to be angry with people who were hypocrites.

IV.

Fleet Street still exists, though it was much less crowded with people in

Chaucer’s day than now. Indeed, the whole of London was very different

from our London; and, oh, so much prettier! The streets within the London

wall were probably thickly populated, and not over-healthy; but outside

the wall, streets such as Fleet Street were more like the streets of some

of our suburbs, or rather some foreign towns--the houses irregular, with

curious pointed roofs, here and there divided by little gardens, and even

green fields. I dare say, when Chaucer walked in the streets, the birds

sang over his head, and the hawthorn and primrose bloomed where now the

black smoke and dust would soon kill most green things. Thames Street was

where Chaucer long lived in London, but, at one time in his life at least,

it is certain that he occupied a tenement at Aldgate, which formed part of

an old prison; and it is probable that at another he lived in the

beautiful Savoy Palace with John of Gaunt, whilst his wife was maid of

honour. In 1393, Chaucer was living at Greenwich, near which he had work

in 1390--poor and asking his friend Scogan to intercede for him “where it

would fructify;” and at the end of his life he had a house in Westminster,

said to be nearly on the same spot on which Henry VII.’s Chapel now

stands, and close to the Abbey where he is buried.

In those days it was the fashion, when the month of May[8] arrived, for

everybody, rich and poor, to get up very early in the morning, to gather

boughs of hawthorn and laurel, to deck all the doorways in the street, as

a joyful welcoming of the sweet spring time. Chaucer alludes more than

once to this beautiful custom. The streets must have been full of

fragrance then. He also tells us how he loved to rise up at dawn in the

morning, and go into the fresh green fields, to see the daisies open. You

have often seen the daisies shut up at night, but I don’t suppose you ever

saw them opening in the morning; and I am afraid, however early you got up

in London, you could not reach the fields quick enough to see that. But

you may guess from this how much nearer the country was to the town 500

years ago. There were so many fewer houses built then, that within a walk

you could get right into the meadows. You may see that by comparing the

two maps I have made for you.

London was also much quieter. There were no railways--such things had

never been heard of. There were not even any cabs or carriages. Sometimes

a market cart might roll by, but not very often, and then everybody would

run out to see what the unaccustomed clatter was all about. People had to

walk everywhere, unless they were rich enough to ride on horseback, or

lived near the river. In that case, they used to go in barges or boats on

the Thames, as far as they could; for, strange as it may seem, even the

King had no coach then.

[Illustration: LONDON IN THE 15TH CENTURY.]

[Illustration: LONDON IN THE 19TH CENTURY.]

I am afraid Geoffrey Chaucer would not recognize that ‘dere and swete

citye of London’ in the great, smoky, noisy, bustling metropolis we are

accustomed to, and I am quite sure he would not recognize the language;

and presently I will explain what I meant by saving that though Chaucer

spoke and wrote English, it was quite different from what we speak now.

You will see, as you go on, how queerly all the words are spelt, so much

so that I have had to put a second version side by side with Chaucer’s

lines, which you will understand more readily; and when I read them to

you, you will see how different is the sound. These words were all

pronounced slowly, almost with a drawl, while we nowadays have got to talk

so fast, that no one who lived then would follow what we say without great

difficulty.

V.

Chaucer’s connection with the Court makes it probable that he lived during

the greater part of his life in London; and it is pleasant to think that

this great poet was valued and beloved in his day by the highest powers in

the land. He held, at various times, posts in the King’s household, which

brought him more or less money, such as valet of the King’s chamber, the

King’s esquire, &c.; and he found a fast friend in John of Gaunt, one of

the sons of King Edward III.

In 1359 Chaucer became a soldier, and served in the army under this King,

in an attack upon France, and was taken prisoner. It is supposed he was

detained there about a year; and, being ransomed by Edward, when he came

back to England, he married a lady named Philippa. She was probably the

younger daughter of Sir Paon de Roet, of Hainault,[9] who came over to

England in the retinue of Queen Philippa, who was also of Hainault. These

two Philippas, coming from the same place, remained friends during all the

Queen’s life; for when Chaucer married Philippa de Roet, she was one of

the Queen’s maids of honour; and, after her marriage, the Queen gave her

an annual pension of ten marks[10] (£50), which was continued to her by

the King after Queen Philippa died. Some people say Chaucer’s wife was

also the Queen’s god-daughter.[11]

[Illustration]

If you would like to know what Chaucer’s wife looked like, I will tell

you. I do not know what she was like in the face, but I can tell you the

fashion of the garb she wore. I like to believe she had long yellow hair,

which Chaucer describes so often and so prettily. Chaucer’s wife wore one

of those funny head-dresses like crowns, or rather like boxes, over a gold

net, with her hair braided in a tress, hanging down her back. She had a

close green[12] dress, with tight sleeves, reaching right down over the

hand, to protect it from the sun and wind; and a very long skirt, falling

in folds about her feet, sometimes edged with beautiful white fur, ermine,

or a rich grey fur, called vair. The colour of this grey fur was much

liked, and when people had light grey eyes, of somewhat the same colour,

it was thought very beautiful. Many songs describe pretty ladies with

‘eyes of vair.’

[Illustration]

When noble persons went to Court, they wore dresses far more splendid than

any to be seen now--dresses of all colours, worked in with flowers and

branches of gold, sometimes with heraldic devices and strange figures, and

perfectly smothered in jewels. No one has pearls, and emeralds, and

diamonds sewn on their gowns now; but in the fourteenth century, rich

people had the seams of their clothes often covered with gems. The ladies

wore close-fitting dresses, with splendid belts, or _seints_, round their

hips, all jewelled; and strings of glittering jewels hung round their

necks, and down from the belt, and on the head-dress. People did not wear

short sleeves then, but long ones, made sometimes very curiously with

streamers hanging from the elbow; a long thin gauze veil, shining with

silver and gold; and narrow pointed shoes, much longer than their feet,

which, they thought, made the foot look slender. If ladies had not had

such long shoes, they would never have showed beneath their long

embroidered skirts, and they would always have been stumbling when they

walked. It was a very graceful and elegant costume that Chaucer’s wife

wore; but the laws of England probably forbade her to wear silk, which was

reserved for nobles. When she walked out of doors, she had tall clogs to

save her pretty shoes from the mud of the rough streets; and when she rode

on horseback with the Queen, or her husband Chaucer, she sat on a pillion,

and placed her feet on a narrow board called a _planchette_. Many women

rode astride, like the “Wife of Bath” whom Chaucer speaks of.

Now, perhaps, you would like to know whether Chaucer had any little

children. We do not know much about Chaucer’s children. We know he had a

little son called Lewis, because Chaucer wrote a treatise for him when he

was ten years old, to teach him how to use an instrument he had given him,

called an _astrolabe_.[13] Chaucer must have been very fond of Lewis,

since he took so much trouble for him, and he speaks to him very kindly

and lovingly.

As Chaucer was married before 1366, it is likely that he had other

children; and some people say he had an elder son, named Thomas, and a

daughter Elizabeth.[14]

John of Gaunt, who was Chaucer’s patron as I told you, was very kind to

Thomas Chaucer, and gave him several posts in the King’s household, as he

grew up to be a man. And John of Gaunt heard that Elizabeth Chaucer wished

to be a nun; and, in 1381, we find that he paid a large sum of money for

her _noviciate_ (that is, for her to learn to be a nun) in the Abbey of

Barking.

[Illustration: A LADY CROSSING THE STREET IN THE OLDEN TIME.]

A nun is a person who does not care for the amusements and pleasures which

other people care for--playing, and dancing, and seeing sights and many

people; but who prefers to go and live in a house called a nunnery, where

she will see hardly any one, and think of nothing but being good, and

helping the poor. And, if people think they can be good best in that way,

they ought to become nuns. But I think people can be just as good living

at home with their friends, without shutting themselves in a nunnery.

Now I must leave off telling you about Chaucer’s wife and children, and go

on to Chaucer himself.

VI.

Chaucer was, as I told you, the friend of one of the sons of the King,

Edward III. Not the eldest son, who was, as you know, Edward the Black

Prince, the great warrior, nor Lionel, the third son, whom he had served

when a boy, but the fourth son, John of Gaunt, who had a great deal of

power with the King.

[Illustration: John of Gaunt.]

John of Gaunt was the same age as Chaucer.

When John of Gaunt was only 19 (the year that Chaucer went with the army

to France), he married a lady called Blanche of Lancaster, and there were

famous joustings and great festivities of every kind. In this year, it has

been supposed, Chaucer wrote a poem, ‘The Parliament of Birds,’ to

celebrate the wedding. Another long poem, called ‘The Court of Love,’ is

said to have been written by him about this time--at any rate, in very

early life.

When Chaucer came back to England, and got married himself, he was still

more constantly at Court, and there are many instances recorded of John’s

attachment to both Chaucer and Philippa all his life. Among others we may

notice his gifts to Philippa of certain ‘silver-gilt cups with covers,’ on

the 1st of January in 1380, 1381, and 1382.

It is touching to see how faithful these two friends were to each other,

and how long their friendship lasted. The first we hear of it was about

1359, the year when John married Blanche, and for forty years it remained

unbroken. Nay, it grew closer and closer, for in 1394, when John of Gaunt

and Chaucer were both middle-aged men, John married Philippa’s sister (Sir

Paon Roet’s elder daughter), so that Chaucer became John of Gaunt’s

brother.[15]

When John of Gaunt was in power he never forgot Chaucer. When he became

unpopular it was Chaucer’s turn to be faithful to him; and faithful he

was, whatever he suffered, and he did suffer for it severely, and became

quite poor at times, as you will see. Directly John came into power again

up went Chaucer too, and his circumstances improved. There are few

friendships so long and so faithful on both sides as this was.[16]

VII.

Chaucer was employed by Edward III. for many years as envoy, which is a

very important office. It can only be given to a very wise and shrewd man.

This proves the great ability of Chaucer in other things besides making

songs and telling stories. He had to go abroad, to France, Italy, and

elsewhere, on the King’s private missions; and the King gave him money for

his services, and promoted him to great honour.

On one occasion (1373) when he was sent to Florence, on an embassy, he is

supposed to have seen Petrarch, a great Italian poet and patriot, whose

name you must not forget. Petrarch was then living at Arqua, two miles

from Padua, a beautiful town in Italy; and though Petrarch was a much

older man than Chaucer--more than twenty years older--it seems only

natural that these two great men should have tried to see each other; for

they had much in common. Both were far-famed poets, and both, in a

measure, representatives of the politics, poetry, and culture of their

respective countries.

Still, some people think they could never have met, because the journey

from Florence to Padua was a most difficult one. Travelling was hard work,

and sometimes dangerous, guides being always necessary: you could not get

a carriage at any price, for carriages were not invented. In some places

there was no means of going direct from city to city at all--not even on

horseback--there being actually no roads. So that people had to go on foot

or not at all. If they went, there were rocks and rivers to cross, which

often delayed travellers a long time.

[Illustration]

Chaucer, as the King’s envoy, must have had attendants, even for safety’s

sake, with him, and much luggage, and that would of course make travelling

more difficult and expensive. He most likely went a great part of the way

by sea, in a vessel coasting along the Mediterranean to Genoa and Leghorn,

and so by Pisa to Florence: you may trace his route in a map. Doubtless,

he had neither the means nor the will to go all the way to Padua on his

own account. So you see people hold different opinions about this journey,

and no one can be quite sure whether Chaucer did see Petrarch or not.

In 1373 Chaucer wrote his ‘Life of St. Cecile;’ and about that time,

perhaps earlier, the ‘Complaint to Pity.’

VIII.

I am not going to tell you everything that the King and John of Gaunt did

for Chaucer. You would get tired of hearing about it. I will only say that

Chaucer was ‘holden in greate credyt,’ and probably had a real influence

in England; for, connected as he was with John of Gaunt, I dare say he

gave him advice and counsel, and John showed the King how shrewd and

trustworthy Chaucer was, and persuaded him to give him benefits and money.

John’s wife, Blanche of Lancaster, died in 1369, and so did his mother,

Queen Philippa. Chaucer wrote a poem called ‘The Death of Blanche the

Duchess,’ in honour of this dead Blanche. John married another wife in the

next year, and got still more powerful, and was called King of Castile, in

Spain, because his new wife was the daughter of a King of Castile. But all

this made no difference in his affection for Chaucer. He always did what

he could for Chaucer.

I will give you some instances of this.

Soon after Chaucer’s return from his journey to Florence, he received a

grant of ‘a pitcher of wine’ every day ‘from the hands of the King’s

butler.’ This seems like a mark of personal friendship more than formal

royal bounty; but it was worth a good deal of money a year. Less than two

months afterwards he received, through John of Gaunt’s goodwill, a place

under Government called ‘Comptrollership of the Customs’ of the Port of

London. This was a very important post, and required much care,

shrewdness, and vigilance; and the King made it a condition that all the

accounts of his office were to be entered in Chaucer’s own

handwriting--which means, of course, that Chaucer was to be always

present, seeing everything done himself, and never leaving the work to be

done by anybody else, except when sent abroad by the King’s own royal

command. Only three days after this, John of Gaunt himself made Chaucer a

grant of £10 a year for life, in reward for all the good service rendered

by ‘nostre bien ame Geffray Chaucer,’ and ‘nostre bien ame Philippa sa

femme,’ to himself, his duchess, and to his mother, Queen Philippa, who

was dead. This sum of money does not sound much; but it was a great deal

in those days, and was fully equal to £100 now.

The very next year the King gave Chaucer the ‘custody’ of a rich ward (a

ward is a person protected or maintained by another while under age),

named Edmond Staplegate, of Kent; and when this ward married, Chaucer

received a large sum of money (£104 = £1,040).[17]

Then Chaucer’s care in the Customs’ office detected a dishonest man, who

tried to ship wool abroad without paying the lawful duty; this man was

fined for his dishonesty, and the money, £71 4_s._ 6_d._, was made a

present to Chaucer--a sum equal to £700.

So you see it seemed as if John of Gaunt could never do enough for him;

because all these things, if not done by John himself, were probably due

to his influence with the King.

IX.

The Black Prince died about that time, and Edward III. did not long

survive him. He died in 1377. Then the Black Prince’s little son, Richard,

who was only eleven years old, became King of England; but as he was too

young to reign over the country, his three uncles governed for him. These

three uncles were John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster; the Duke of York; and

the Duke of Gloucester.

And all this time Chaucer was very well looked after, you may be sure, for

John of Gaunt was then more powerful than the King. Chaucer was still

Comptroller of the Customs; and, before long, John gave him a second post

of a similar kind, called ‘Comptroller of the Petty Customs.’

But all this good luck was not to go on for ever. The people were not so

fond of John of Gaunt as Chaucer was, because, in governing them, he was

very ambitious and severe. They got angry with everything he did, and with

everybody who remained his friend. So, of course, they did not like

Chaucer.

This was a very troublous time. The Crown (represented by the King’s

uncles) wanted one thing, and the great barons wanted another, and the

people or lower classes wanted another! These were called the three great

opposing parties, and each wanted to have all the power. At last some of

the barons sided with the King’s party, and others sided with the people;

so there were then _two_ opposing parties quarrelling and hating each

other. John of Gaunt would have liked to be King himself; but the people

were unhappy, and very discontented with his government, and he began to

have much less power in the kingdom.

The people knew that John of Gaunt was obliged to go with an army into

Portugal, and they began to make plans to get their own way when his back

was turned. When he was gone, they said that John of Gaunt did not govern

them well, and had given government posts to men who did not do their

duty, and neglected their work, and Chaucer was one of them.

Then there was what was called a ‘Commission of Inquiry’ appointed, which

means a body of men who were free to examine and reform everything they

chose in the country. Their power was to last a whole year; and these men

looked into all that Chaucer had done in the ‘Customs’ offices. They did

not find anything wrong, as far as we know, but still they sent away

Chaucer in disgrace, just as if they had. And this made him very poor. It

was a harsh thing to do, and unjust, if they were not certain he had been

neglecting his work; and John of Gaunt was out of the country, and could

not help him now. This was in the year 1386.

A great deal has been said and written about this matter. Some people

still believe that Chaucer really did neglect his duties, though the

conditions that he should attend to everything himself had been so very

strict;[18] that he had probably absented himself, and let things go

wrong. But such people forget that these conditions were formally done

away with in 1385, when Chaucer was finally released from personal

drudgery at the Customs, and allowed to have a _deputy_, or person under

him to do his work.

They forget, too, how Chaucer had plunged into political matters directly

afterwards, at a time when party feeling was intensely strong, the people

and John of Gaunt being violently opposed to each other; and how Chaucer

took up the part of his friend warmly, and sat in the House of Commons as

representative of Kent, one of the largest counties of England, on purpose

to support the ministers who were on John of Gaunt’s side. This alone

would be enough to make the opposing party hate Chaucer, and this

doubtless was the reason of their dismissing him from both his offices in

the Customs as soon as ever they were able, to punish him for his

attachment to the Duke of Lancaster’s (John of Gaunt’s) cause.

[Illustration: Stylus.]

But Chaucer never wavered or changed. And his faithfulness to his friend

deserves better than the unjust suspicion that his disgrace was warranted

by neglect of his duties. Chaucer was too good, and too pious, and too

honourable a man to commit any such act. He submitted to his disgrace and

his poverty unmoved; and after the death of his wife Philippa, which

happened in the following summer, nothing is known of him for several

years, except that he was in such distress that he was actually obliged to

part with his two pensions for a sum of money in order to pay his debts.

During all the eventful years that followed Edward III.’s death, up to

this time, Chaucer had been writing busily, in the midst of his weightier

affairs. The ‘Complaint of Mars,’ ‘Boece,’ ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ the

‘House of Fame,’ and the ‘Legend of Good Women,’ all of which I hope you

will read some day, were written in this period; also some reproachful

words to his scrivener, who seems to have written out his poems for him

very carelessly. Some persons think that Chaucer’s pathetic ‘Good

Counsel,’ and his short ‘Balade sent to King Richard,’ reflect the

disappointment and sadness at his changed lot, which he must have felt;

and that, therefore, these poems were written at about the same time.

X.

In 1389 there was another great change in the government. The King, being

of age, wished to govern the country without help, and he sent away one of

his uncles, who was on the people’s side, and asked John of Gaunt to come

back to England. John of Gaunt’s son was made one of the new ministers.

Immediately Chaucer was thought of. He was at once appointed Clerk of the

King’s Works--an office of some importance--which he was permitted to hold

by deputy; and his salary was two shillings per day--that is £36 10_s._

0_d._ a-year, equal to about £370 of our money.

It seems that Chaucer kept this appointment only for two years. Why, we

cannot tell.[19] While he held this office (viz., Sept. 1390)a misfortune

befell him. Some notorious thieves attacked him, near the ‘foule Ok’ (foul

Oak), and robbed him of £20 (nearly £200 present currency) of the King’s

money, his horse, and other movables. This was a mishap likely enough to

overtake any traveller in those days of bad roads and lonely marshes, for

there was no great protection by police or soldiery in ordinary cases. The

King’s writ, in which he forgives Chaucer this sum of £20, is still

extant.

What he did, or how he lived, for some time after his retirement from the

King’s Works in 1391, is not known; but in 1394, King Richard granted him

a pension of £20 (= £200 present currency) per annum for life. This was

the year when John of Gaunt married Chaucer’s sister-in-law; but, in spite

of this rich alliance, I fear Chaucer was still in great distress, for we

hear of many small loans which he obtained on this new pension during the

next four years, which betray too clearly his difficulties. In 1398, the

King granted him letters to protect him against arrest--that is, he wrote

letters forbidding the people to whom Chaucer owed money to put him in

prison, which they would otherwise have done.

It is sad that during these latter years of his life, the great poet who

had done so much, and lived so comfortably, should have grown so poor and

harassed. He ought to have been beyond the reach of want. He had had large

sums of money; his wife’s sister was Duchess of Lancaster; his son[20] was

holding grants and offices under John of Gaunt. Perhaps he wasted his

money.[21] But we cannot know exactly how it all came about at this

distance of time. And one thing shows clearly how much courage and

patience Chaucer had; for it was when he was in such want in 1388, two

years after he had been turned out of the Customs, that he was busiest

with the greatest work of his life, called the CANTERBURY TALES. Some men

would have been too sad after so much disgrace and trouble, to be able to

write stories and verses; but I think Chaucer must have felt at peace in

his mind--he must have known that he did not deserve all the ill-treatment

he got--and had faith that God would bring him through unstained.

XI.

The CANTERBURY TALES are full of cheerfulness and fun; full of love for

the beautiful world, and full of sympathy for all who are in trouble or

misery. The beauty of Chaucer’s character, and his deep piety, come out

very clearly in these tales, as I think you will see. No one could have

sung the ‘ditties and songs glad’ about birds in the medlar trees, and the

soft rain on the ‘small sweet grass,’ and the ‘lily on her stalk green,’

and the sweet winds that blow over the country, whose mind was clouded by

sordid thoughts, and narrow, selfish aims. No one could have sung so

blithely of ‘fresh Emily,’ and with such good-humoured lenity even of the

vulgar, chattering ‘Wife of Bath,’ whose heart was full of angry feelings

towards his fellow-creatures. And no one, who was not in his heart a

religious man, could have breathed the words of patience with which Arcite

tries to comfort his friend, in their gloomy prison--or the greater

patience of poor persecuted Griselda--or the fervent love of truth and

honourable dealing, and a good life, which fills so many of his poems--or

a hundred other touching prayers and tender words of warning. There was a

large-heartedness and liberality about Chaucer’s mind, as of one who had

mixed cheerfully with all classes, and saw good in all. His tastes were

with the noble ranks among whom he had lived; but he had deep sympathy

with the poor and oppressed, and could feel kindly even to the coarse and

the wicked. He hated none but hypocrites; and he was never tired of

praising piety and virtue.

Chaucer wrote a great many short poems, which I have not told you of. Many

have been lost or forgotten. Some may come back to us in the course of

time and search. All we know of, you will read some day, with the rest of

the CANTERBURY TALES not in this book: a few of these poems I have placed

at the end of the volume; and among them one ‘To his empty Purse,’ written

only the year before his death.[22]

There is only a little more I can tell you about Chaucer’s life before we

begin the stories. We got as far as 1398, when the King gave Chaucer

letters of protection from his creditors.

About this time another grant of wine was bestowed on him, equal to about

£4 a year, or £40 of our money. In the next year, King Richard, who had

not gained the love of his subjects, nor tried to be a good King, was

deposed--that is, the people were so angry with him that they said, “You

shall not be our King any more;” and they shut him up in a tower, and made

his cousin, Henry, King of England. Now this Henry was the son of John of

Gaunt, by his first wife, Blanche, and had been very badly treated by his

cousin, the King. He was a much better man than Richard, and the people

loved him. John of Gaunt did not live to see his son King, for he died

while Henry was abroad; and it must have been a real grief to Chaucer,

then an old man of sixty,[23] when this long and faithful friend was taken

from him.

Still it is pleasant to find that Henry of Lancaster shared his father’s

friendship for Chaucer. I dare say he had been rocked on Chaucer’s knee

when a little child, and had played with Chaucer’s children. He came back

from France, after John of Gaunt’s death, and the people made him King,

and sent King Richard to the castle of Pomfret (where I am sorry to say he

was afterwards murdered).

The new King had not been on the throne four days before he helped

Chaucer. John of Gaunt himself could not have done it quicker. He granted

him an annuity of £26 13_s._ 4_d._ a year, in addition to the other £20

granted by Richard.

The royal bounty was only just in time, for poor old Chaucer did not long

survive his old friend, the Duke of Lancaster. He died about a year after

him, when Henry had been King thirteen months.

John of Gaunt was buried in St. Paul’s, by the side of his first and

best-loved wife, Blanche; Geoffrey Chaucer was buried in Westminster

Abbey.

So ended the first, and almost the greatest, English writer, of whom no

one has spoken an ill word, and who himself spoke no ill words.

Poet, soldier, statesman, and scholar, ‘truly his better ne his pere, in

school of my rules could I never find.... In goodness of gentle, manly

speech he passeth all other makers.’[24]

XII.

And now for Chaucer’s ‘speech.’ How shall I show you its ‘goodness,’ since

it is so difficult to read this old English? Wait a bit. You will soon

understand it all, if you take pains at the first beginning. Do not be

afraid of the funny spelling, for you must remember that it is not so much

that Chaucer spells differently from us, as that we have begun to spell

differently from Chaucer. He would think our English quite as funny, and

not half so pretty as his own; for the old English, when spoken, sounded

very pretty and stately, and not so much like a ‘gabble’ as ours.

I told you a little while ago, you know, that our talking is much faster

than talking was in Chaucer’s time; it seems very curious that a language

can be so changed in a few hundred years, without people really meaning to

change it. But it has changed gradually. Little by little new words have

come into use, and others have got ‘old-fashioned.’ Even the English of

_one_ hundred years ago was very unlike our own. But the English of _five_

hundred years ago was, of course, still more unlike.

XIII.

Now, I have put, as I told you, two versions of Chaucer’s poetry on the

page, side by side. First, the lines as Chaucer made them, and then the

same lines in English such as we speak. You can thus look at both, and

compare them.

I will also read you the verses in the two ways of pronouncing them,

Chaucer’s way and our way: but when you have grown a little used to the

old-fashioned English, you will soon see how much prettier and more

musical it sounds than our modern tongue, and I think you will like it

very much. Besides, it is nice to be able to see the words as Chaucer put

them, so as to know exactly how he talked.

In Chaucer’s time a great deal of French was spoken in England, and it was

mixed up with English more than it is now. The sound of old French and old

English were something the same, both spoken very slowly, with a kind of

drawl, as much as to say--“I am in no hurry. I have all day before me, and

if you want to hear what I have got to say, you must wait till I get my

words out.”

So if you wish to hear Chaucer’s stories, you must let him tell them in

his own way, and try and understand his funny, pretty language. And if you

do not pronounce the words as he meant, you will find the verses will

sound quite ugly--some lines being longer than others, and some not even

rhyming, and altogether in a jumble.

XIV.

Chaucer himself was very anxious that people should read his words

properly, and says in his verses, as if he were speaking to a human

being--

And for there is so grete dyversité great diversity

In Englissh,[25] and in writynge of our tonge, tongue

So preye I God that non miswrité thee pray

Ne thee mys-metere for defaute of tonge. (_Troilus._) defect

To _mis-metre_ is to read the _metre_ wrong; and the metre is the length

of the line. If you read the length all wrong, it sounds very ugly.

Now, suppose those lines were read in modern English, they would run

thus:--

And because there is so great a diversity

In English, and in writing our tongue,

So I pray God that none miswrite thee

Nor mismetre thee through defect of tongue.

How broken and ragged it all sounds! like a gown that is all ragged and

jagged, and doesn’t fit. It sounds much better to read it properly.

You will find that when Chaucer’s words are rightly pronounced, all his

lines are of an even length and sound pretty. I don’t think he ever fails

in this. This is called having a musical ear. Chaucer had a musical ear.

Some people who write poetry have not, and their poetry is good for

nothing. They might as well try to play the piano without a musical ear;

and a pretty mess they would make of that![26]

XV.

When you find any very hard word in Chaucer’s verses which you cannot

understand, look in the glossary and the modern version beside them; and

you will see what is the word for it nowadays. A few words which cannot be

translated within the metre you will find at the bottom of the page; but

think for yourself before you look. There is nothing like thinking for

one’s self. Many of the words are like French or German words: so if you

have learnt these languages you will be able often to guess what the word

means.

For instance, you know how, in French, when you wish to say, I _will not_

go or I _am not_ sure, two no’s are used, _ne_ and _pas_: Je _n_’irai

_pas_, or je _ne_ suis _pas_ sûr. Well, in Chaucer’s time two no’s were

used in English. He would have said, “I _n_’ill _nat_ go,” and “I _n_’am

_nat_ sure.”

There are many lines where you will see two no’s. “I n’am nat precious.”

“I ne told no deintee.” “I wol not leve no tales.” “I ne owe hem not a

word.” “There n’is no more to tell,” &c. Sometimes, however, _ne_ is used

by itself, without _not_ or _nat_ to follow. As “it n’is good,” “I n’ill

say--or sain,” instead of “it is not good--I will not say.”

And, as in this last word sain (which only means _say_), you will find

often an _n_ at the end of words, which makes it difficult to understand

them; but you will soon cease to think that a very alarming difficulty if

you keep looking at the modern version. As, “I shall nat _lien_” (this

means _lie_). “I wol nat _gon_” (_go_): “_withouten_ doubt” (_without_).

“Ther wold I _don_ hem no pleasance” (_do_); “thou shalt _ben_ quit”

(_be_). “I shall you _tellen_” (_tell_).

And I think you will also be able to see how much better some old words

are for expressing the meaning, than our words. For instance, how much

nicer ‘flittermouse’ is than ‘bat.’ That is an old North-country word, and

very German (Fledermaus). When you see a little bat flying about, you know

it is a bat because you have been told: but ‘flitter-mouse’ is better than

bat, because it means ‘floating mouse.’ Now, a bat _is_ like a mouse

floating in the air. The word expresses the movement and the form of the

creature.

Again--the old word ‘herteles’ (heartless), instead of without courage,

how well it expresses the want of courage or spirit: we often say people

have no heart for work, or no heart for singing, when they are sad, or

ill, or weak. Heartless does not always mean cowardly; it means that the

person is dejected, or tired, or out of spirits. We have left off using

the word heartless in that sense, however, and we have no word to express

it. When _we_ say heartless, we mean cruel or unkind, which is a perfectly

different meaning.

Again, we have no word now for a meeting-time or appointment, as good as

the old word ‘steven:’ we use the French word ‘_rendezvous_’ as a noun,

which is not very wise. ‘Steven’ is a nice, short, and really English word

which I should like to hear in use again.

One more instance. The word ‘fret’ was used for devouring. This just

describes what we call ‘nibbling’ now. The moth fretting a garment--means

the moth devouring or nibbling a garment.

This is a word we have lost sight of now in the sense of _eating_; we only

use it for ‘complaining’ or ‘pining.’ But a _fretted_ sky--and the _frets_

on a guitar--are from the old Saxon verb _frete_, to eat or devour, and

describe a wrinkly uneven surface, like the part of a garment fretted by

the moth. So you must not be impatient with the old words, which are

sometimes much better for their purpose than the words we use nowadays.

CANTERBURY TALES.

CHAUCER’S PILGRIMS.

Some of Chaucer’s best tales are not told by himself. They are put into

the mouths of other people. In those days there were no newspapers--indeed

there was not much news--so that when strangers who had little in common

were thrown together, as they often were in inns, or in long journeys,

they had few topics of conversation: and so they used to entertain each

other by singing songs, or quite as often by telling their own adventures,

or long stories such as Chaucer has written down and called the

‘_Canterbury Tales_.’

The reason he called them the ‘_Canterbury Tales_’ was because they were

supposed to be told by a number of travellers who met at an inn, and went

together on a pilgrimage to a saint’s shrine at Canterbury.

But I shall now let Chaucer tell you about his interesting company in his

own way.

He begins with a beautiful description of the spring--the time usually

chosen for long journeys, or for any new undertaking, in those days.

When you go out into the gardens or the fields, and see the fresh green of

the hedges and the white May blossoms and the blue sky, think of Chaucer

and his Canterbury Pilgrims!

[Illustration]

Chaucer’s Prologue.

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote When, sweet

The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, root

And bathud every veyne in swich licour, such liquor

Of which vertue engendred is the flour; flower

Whan Zephirus[27] eek with his swete breeth also, breath

Enspirud hath in every holte and heeth grove

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne young

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, run

And smale fowles maken melodie, small birds make

That slepen al the night with open yhe, sleep, eye

So priketh hem nature in here corages:-- pricketh them,

their impulses

Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, long, go

And palmers[28] for to seeken straunge strondes, seek, shores

To ferne halwes, kouthe[29] in sondry londes; distant saints

And specially from every schires ende

Of Engelond, to Canturbury they wende, go

The holy blisful martir[30] for to seeke, blessed, seek

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. them, sick

When April hath his sweetest showers brought

To pierce the heart of March and banish drought,

Then every vein is bathéd by his power,

With fruitful juice engendering the flower;

When the light zephyr, with its scented breath,

Stirs to new life in every holt and heath

The tender crops, what time the youthful sun

Hath in the Ram his course but half-way run;

And when the little birds make melody,

That sleep the whole night long with open eye,

So Nature rouses instinct into song,--

Then folk to go as pilgrims greatly long,

And palmers hasten forth to foreign strands

To worship far-off saints in sundry lands;

And specially from every shire’s end

Of England, unto Canterbury they wend,

Before the blessed martyr there to kneel,

Who oft hath help’d them by his power to heal.

It happened that one day in the spring, as I was resting at the Tabard[31]

Inn, in Southwark, ready to go on my devout pilgrimage to Canterbury,

there arrived towards night at the inn a large company of all sorts of

people--nine-and-twenty of them: they had met by chance, all being

pilgrims to Canterbury.[32] The chambers and the stables were roomy, and

so every one found a place. And shortly, after sunset, I had made friends

with them all, and soon became one of their party. We all agreed to rise

up early, to pursue our journey together.[33]

But still, while I have time and space, I think I had better tell you who

these people were, their condition and rank, which was which, and what

they looked like. I will begin, then, with

The Knight.

[Illustration]

A KNIGHT[34] ther was and that a worthy man, there, valuable

That from the tyme that he ferst bigan

To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, ride

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. frankness

Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre, war

And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre, further

As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse,

And evere honoured for his worthinesse.

A knight there was, and that a worthy man,

Who from the time in which he first began

To ride afield, loved well all chivalry,

Honour and frankness, truth and courtesy.

Most worthy was he in his master’s war,

And thereto had he ridden, none more far,

As well in Christian as in heathen lands,

And borne with honour many high commands.

He had been at Alexandria when it was won: in Prussia he had gained great

honours, and in many other lands. He had been in fifteen mortal battles,

and had fought in the lists for our faith three times, and always slain

his foe. He had served in Turkey and in the Great Sea. And he was always

very well paid too. Yet, though so great a soldier, he was wise in

council; and in manner he was gentle as a woman. Never did he use bad

words in all his life, to any class of men: in fact

He was a verray perfight, gentil knight.

He was a very perfect, noble knight.

As for his appearance, his horse was good, but not gay. He wore a gipon of

fustian, all stained by his habergeon;[35] for he had only just arrived

home from a long voyage.

The Squire.

[Illustration]

With him ther was his sone, a yong SQUYER, there, son

A lovyer, and a lusty bacheler,[36] merry

With lokkes crulle as they were layde in presse. locks curled

Of twenty yeer he was of age I gesse. guess

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,

And wondurly delyver, and gret of strengthe. wonderfully

nimble, great

And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachie,[37] had been

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and in Picardie,

And born him wel, as in so litel space, little

In hope to stonden in his lady grace.[38] stand

Embrowdid[39] was he, as it were a mede

Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede.

Syngynge he was, or flowtynge al the day; playing on the

flute

He was as fressh as is the moneth of May.

Schort was his goune, with sleeves long and wyde.

Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. could, horse

He cowde songes wel make and endite, relate

Justne and eek daunce, and wel purtray and write. also, draw

pictures

With him there was his son, a gay young squire,

A bachelor and full of boyish fire,

With locks all curl’d as though laid in a press,

And about twenty years of age, I guess.

In stature he was of an even length,

And wonderfully nimble, and great of strength.

And he had followed knightly deeds of war

In Picardy, in Flanders, and Artois,

And nobly borne himself in that brief space,

In ardent hope to win his lady’s grace.

Embroidered was he, as a meadow bright,

All full of freshest flowers, red and white;

Singing he was, or flute-playing all day,

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his gown, his sleeves were long and wide,

Well he became his horse, and well could ride;

He could make songs, and ballads, and recite,

Joust and make pretty pictures, dance, and write.

As for the young squire’s manners--

Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable,

And carf[40] byforn his fadur at the table. carved

Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,

And carved before his father at the table.

The Yeoman.

[Illustration]

A YEMAN had he, and servantes nomoo no more

At that tyme, for him luste ryde soo; it pleased him

And he was clad in coote and hood of grene.

A shef of pocok arwes[41] bright and kene, arrows

Under his belte he bar ful thriftily, bore

Wel cowde he dresse his takel yomanly; arrow

His arwes drowpud nought with fetheres lowe,[42] arrows

And in his hond he bar a mighty bowe. bore

A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage. v. notes, p. 111.

Of woode-craft cowde he wel al the usage; knew

Upon his arme he bar a gay bracer,[43] bore

And by his side a swerd, and a bokeler,[44] buckler

And on that other side a gay daggere,

Harneysed wel, and scharp at poynt of spere; dressed well

A Cristofre on his brest of silver schene. ornament

representing

St. Christopher

An horn he bar, the bawdrik[45] was of grene:

A forster was he sothely, as I gesse. forester, truly

A yeoman had he (but no suite beside:

Without attendants thus he chose to ride,)

And he was clad in coat and hood of green.

A sheaf of peacock-arrows bright and keen,

Under his belt he carried thriftily;

Well could he dress an arrow yeomanly!

None of his arrows drooped with feathers low

And in his hand he held a mighty bow.

A knot-head had he, and a sunburnt hue,

In woodcraft all the usages he knew;

Upon his arm a bracer gay he wore,

And by his side buckler and sword he bore,

While opposite a dagger dangled free;

Polished and smart, no spear could sharpe be.

A silver ‘Christopher’ on his breast was seen,

A horn he carried by a baldrick green:

He was a thorough forester, I guess.

The Prioress.

[Illustration]

Ther was also a Nonne, a PRIORESSE,

That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy; her

Hire grettest ooth[46] ne was but by seynt Loy, oath

And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. called

Ful wel sche sang the servíse devyne,

Entuned in hire nose[47] ful semyly, seemly

And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly, elegantly

Aftur the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, school

For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. her unknown

At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle; meat, taught

Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, let

Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe.[48] wetted

Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe, carry

That no drope ne fil uppon hire breste. fell

In curtesie was sett al hire leste. courtesy,

pleasure

Hire overlippe wypude sche so clene,[49]

That in hire cuppe ther was no ferthing sene scrap

Of grees, whan sche dronken hadde hire draught. had drunk

Ful semely aftur hire mete sche raught. seemly

And sikurly sche was of gret disport, assuredly

And ful plesant, and amyable of port,

And peyned hire to counterfete cheere ways

Of court, and ben estatlich of manere, stately, manner

And to ben holden digne of reverence. worthy

But for to speken of hire conscience, speak

Sche was so charitable and so pitous[50]

Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.

Of smale houndes hadde sche, that sche fedde small hounds

With rostud fleissh, and mylk, and wastel breed.[51]

But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed, them

Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte: rod

And al was conscience and tendre herte.

Ful semely hire wymple[52] i-pynched was:

Hire nose tretys: hire eyen grey as glas: well-proportioned,

eyes, glass

Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed;

But sikurly sche hadde a faire forheed. surely

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe: broad, think

For hardily sche was not undurgrowe. certainly,

undergrown

Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. neat

Of smal coral aboute hire arme sche baar small

A peire of bedes[53] gaudid al with grene; set of beads

And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, jewel, bright

On which was first i-writen a crowned A, written

And after that, _Amor vincit omnia_.[54]

There also was a Nun, a Prioress,

Who of her smiling was most simple and coy;

Her greatest oath was only ‘by St. Loy,’

And she was calléd Madame Eglantine.

Full well she sang the services divine,

Entunéd through her nose melodiously,

And French she spoke fairly and fluently,

After the school of Stratford atte Bow,

For French of Paris--_that_ she did not know.

At meal-times she was very apt withal;

No morsel from her lips did she let fall,

Nor in her sauce did wet her fingers deep;

Well could she lift a titbit, and well keep,

That not a drop should fall upon her breast;

To cultivate refinement was her taste.

Her upper lip she ever wiped so clean

That in her drinking-cup no scrap was seen

Of grease, when she had drank as she thought good.

And gracefully she reach’d forth for her food.

And she was very playful, certainly,

And pleasant, and most amiable to see.

And mighty pains she took to counterfeit

Court manners, and be stately and discreet,

And to be held as worthy reverence.

But then to tell you of her conscience!

She was so charitable and piteous

That she would weep did she but see a mouse

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled;

And little dogs she had, which oft she fed

With roasted meat, and milk, and finest bread;

But sore she wept if one of them were dead,

Or, haply, with a rod were smitten smart.

And all was conscience and tender heart!

Most daintily her wimple plaited was:

Her nose was straight; her eyes were grey as glass;

Her mouth was little, and so soft and red!

Besides, she had a very fine forehead,

That measured nigh a span across, I trow!

For certainly her stature was not low.

And very dainty was the cloak she wore;

Around her arm a rosary she bore,

Of coral small, with little gauds of green,

And thereon hung a golden locket sheen,

On which was graven first a crownéd A,

And after, _Amor vincit omnia_.

The Prioress was attended by another nun, who acted as her chaplain, and

three priests.

The Monk.

[Illustration]

A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrie,[55] mastery

An out-rydere, that lovede venerye; hunting

A manly man, to ben an abbot able. be

Ful many a deynte hors hadde he in stable: dainty horse

And whan he rood, men might his bridel heere[56] when, hear

Gyngle in a whistlyng wynd as cleere, jingling, clear

And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle,

Ther as this lord was keper of the selle. where, religious

house

A monk there was--one sure to rise no doubt,

A hunter, and devoted rider out;

Manly--to be an abbot fit and able,

For many a dainty horse had he in stable;

And when he rode, his bridle you could hear

Jingle along a whistling wind as clear

And quite as loud, as doth the chapel bell,

Where this good monk is keeper of the cell.

This jolly monk cared for little else but hunting, though this has never

been considered a proper pursuit for the clergy. He was indifferent to

what was said of him, and spared no cost to keep the most splendid

greyhounds and horses for hard riding and hare-hunting. I saw his sleeves

edged with the rare fur _gris_ at the wrist, and that the finest in the

land; his hood was fastened under his chin with a curious gold pin, which

had a love-knot in the largest end. His pate was bald and shiny, his eyes

rolled in his head; his favourite roast dish was a fat swan.[57]

The Friar.

[Illustration]

A FRERE ther was, a wantoun and a merye, friar

A lymytour,[58] a ful solempne man. solemn

In alle the ordres foure[59] is noon that can Is able to do

So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. dalliance

* * * * *

Ful wel biloved and famulier was he familiar

With frankeleyns[60] overal in his cuntre, country

And eek with worthi wommen of the toun: also, rich

* * * * *

Ful sweetly herde he confessioun,

And plesaunt was his absolucioun;[61]

He was an esy man to yeve penance easy

Ther as he wiste to han a good pitance; when, knew

For unto a poure ordre for to geve poor

Is signe that a man is wel i-schreve. shriven

For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, boast

He wiste that a man was repentaunt. knew

For many a man so hard is of his herte, heart

He may not wepe though him sore smerte; he may smart

Therfore in-stede of wepyng and prayeres,

Men moot yive silver to the poure freres. may

A friar there was, so frisky and so merry--

A limitour, a most important man,

In the four orders there is none that can

Outdo him in sweet talk and playfulness.

* * * * *

He was most intimate and popular

With all the franklins dwelling near and far,

And with the wealthy women of the town.

* * * * *

So sweetly did he hear confession ay;

In absolution pleasant was his way.

In giving penance, very kind was he

When people made it worth his while to be;

For giving largely to some order poor

Shows that a man is free from sin, be sure,

And if a man begrudged him not his dole,

He knew he was repentant in his soul.

For many a man so hard of heart we see,

He cannot weep, however sad he be;

Therefore, instead of weeping and long prayers,

Men can give money unto the poor friars.

He carried a number of pretty pins and knives about him that he made

presents of to people; and he could sing well, and play on the rotta.[62]

He never mingled with poor, ragged, sick people--it is not respectable to

have anything to do with such, but only with rich people who could give

good dinners.

Somwhat he lipsede for his wantownesse,

To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge; tongue

Somewhat he lispéd for his wantonness,

To make his English sweet upon his tongue;

and when he played and sang, his eyes twinkled like the stars on a frosty

night.

The Merchant.

[Illustration]

A MARCHAUNT was ther with a forked berd, beard

In motteleye, and highe on hors he sat, motley, horse

Uppon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat. Flemish beaver

A merchant was there with a forkéd beard,

In motley dress’d--high on his horse he sat,

And on his head a Flemish beaver hat.

The Clerk.

[Illustration]

A CLERK[63] ther was of Oxenford also, Oxford

That unto logik hadde longe ygo. logic, gone

As lene was his hors as is a rake, lean, horse

And he was not right fat, I undertake;

But lokede holwe, and therto soburly. looked hollow

Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy. uppermost short

cloak

For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, got

Ne was so worldly for to have office,

For him was lever have at his beddes heede he would

Twenty bookes, clothed in blak or reede,

Of Aristotil, and his philosophie,

Than robus riche, or fithul, or sawtrie. robes

A clerk of Oxford was amid the throng,

Who had applied his heart to learning long.

His horse, it was as skinny as a rake,

And _he_ was not too fat, I’ll undertake!

But had a sober, rather hollow look;

And very threadbare was his outer cloak.

For he as yet no benefice had got:

Worldly enough for office he was not!

For liefer would he have at his bed’s head

A score of books, all bound in black or red,

Of Aristotle, and his philosophy,

Than rich attire, fiddle, or psaltery.

Yet although the poor scholar was so wise and diligent, he had hardly any

money, but all he could get from his friends he spent on books and on

learning; and often he prayed for those who gave him the means to study.

He spoke little--never more than he was obliged--but what he did speak was

always sensible and wise.

Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, tending to

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. would, learn

Full of true worth and goodness was his speech,

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

Then there was a

Serjeant-of-Law.

[Illustration]

Nowher so besy a man as he ther nas, was not

And yit he seemede besier than he was.

* * * * *

He roode but hoomly in a medlé coote mixed fabric

Gird with a seynt of silk, with barres smale. belt

Never has been a busier man than he,

Yet busier than he was, he seemed to be.

* * * * *

He rode but homely-clad, in medley coat,

Girt with a belt of silk, with little bars.

The Franklin.

[Illustration: The Franklin.]

[Illustration: Table Dormant.]

A FRANKELEIN was in his compainye;

Whit was his berde, as is the dayesye. daisy

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn,

Wel loved he in the morwe a sop of wyn. morning

* * * * *

Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, baked meats

(pies)

Of flessch and fissch, and that so plentevous

Hit snewed[64] in his hous of mete and drynke, snowed

Of alle deyntees that men cowde thynke. could think of

After the sondry sesouns of the yeer sundry

So chaungede he his mete and his soper. supper

* * * * *

His table dormant[65] in his halle alway

Stood redy covered al the longe day.

There was a Franklin in his company,

And white his beard was, as the daisies be.

With ruddy tints did his complexion shine;

Well loved he in the morn a sop of wine.

* * * * *

Without good meat, well cooked, was ne’er his house,

Both fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,

It seemed as though it snowed with meat and drink,

And every dainty that a man could think.

According to the seasons of the year

He changed his meats and varied his good cheer.

* * * * *

His table-dormant in his hall alway

Stood ready furnished forth throughout the day.

He was the most hospitable of men, and very well-to-do. He kept open

house, for everybody to come and eat when they liked. He had often been

sheriff and knight of the shire; for he was very highly thought of.

An anlas and gipser al of silk all

Heng at his gerdul, whit as morne mylk.

A dagger and a hawking-pouch of silk

Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.

A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Webber (weaver), a Dyer, and a Tapiser

(tapestry-maker) came next, with the Cook they brought with them, a

Shipman, a Doctor of Physic, and a ‘worthy[66] woman,’ called the Wife of

Bath, because she lived near that city.

[Illustration: The Doctor of Physic.]

[Illustration: The Wife of Bath.]

The Wife of Bath.

She was so expert in weaving cloth, that there was no one who could come

up to her; and she thought so much of herself, that if another woman even

went up to the church altar before her, she considered it a slight upon

her. The Wife of Bath was middle-aged, and somewhat deaf: she had had five

husbands, but they had all died--she was such a shrew: and she had taken

pilgrimages to Cologne and Rome, and many other places; for she had plenty

of money, as one might see by her showy dress.

Hire hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, hose

Ful streyte yteyd, and schoos ful moyst and newe.

Bold was hire face, and fair and rede of hew.

Her stockings were of finest scarlet red,

All straitly tied, and shoes all moist and new.

Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.

She was well wimpled with fine kerchiefs, and her hat was as broad as a

buckler or a target.

The Parson.

[Illustration]

Then came the poor Parson--poor in condition, but ‘rich in holy thought

and work’--who was so good, and staunch, and true, so tender to sinners

and severe to sin, regarding no ranks or state, but always at his post, an

example to men.

Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asondur, wide

But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thondur, ceased

In siknesse nor in meschief to visite

The ferrest in his parissche, moche and lite, furthest

Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf.

* * * * *

But Cristes lore and his apostles twelve

He taught, and ferst he folwed it himselve.[67] followed

Wide was his parish, the houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness and in woe to visit all

Who needed--far or near, and great and small--

On foot, and having in his hand a staff.

* * * * *

Christ’s and the twelve apostles’ law he taught,

But first himself obey’d it, as he ought.

The Ploughman.

Then the parson’s brother, who was only a Ploughman, and worked hard in

the fields, kind to his neighbours, ever honest, loving God above all

things. He wore a tabard, and rode on a mare.[68]

There was also a Miller, a Manciple, a Reve, a Summoner, a Pardoner, and

myself [Chaucer].

[Illustration: The Ploughman.]

[Illustration: The Summoner.]

[Illustration: The Pardoner.]

The Summoner.

The Summoner[69] was a terrible-looking person, and rode with the

Pardoner, who was his friend: the Pardoner singing a lively song, and the

Summoner growling out a bass to it, with a loud, harsh voice. As for his

looks, he had

A fyr-reed cherubynes face,[70]

For sawceflem he was with eyghen narwe. pimply

A ‘fiery-cherubin’ red face,

For pimply he was, with narrow eyes.

Children were sore afraid of him when they saw him, he was so repulsive,

and so cruel in extorting his gains. He was a very bad man: for though it

was his duty to call up before the Archdeacon’s court anybody whom he

found doing wrong, yet he would let the wickedest people off, if they

bribed him with money; and many poor people who did nothing wrong he

forced to give him their hard earnings, threatening else to report them

falsely to the Archdeacon. He carried a large cake with him for a buckler,

and wore a garland big enough for the sign-post of an inn.[71]

The Pardoner.

The Pardoner[72] was a great cheat too, and so the friends were well

matched; he had long thin hair, as yellow as wax, that hung in shreds on

his shoulders. He wore no hood, but kept it in his wallet: he thought

himself quite in the tip-top of fashion.

Dischevele, sauf his cappe, he rood al bare. except

Suche glaryng eyghen hadde he, as an hare. such, eyes

A vernicle[73] hadde he sowed on his cappe;

His walet lay byforn him in his lappe. before

* * * * *

But trewely to tellen atte laste, truly

He was in churche a noble ecclesiaste.

Wel cowde he rede a lessoun or a storye,[74]

But altherbest he sang an offertorie: best of all

For wel he wyste, whan that song was songe knew, when

He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge, preach, whet

To wynne silver, as he right wel cowde: win

Therfore he sang ful meriely and lowde.

Dishevell’d, save his cap, he rode barehead:

Such glaring eyes, like to a hare, he had!

A vernicle was sewed upon his cap;

His wallet lay before him, in his lap.

* * * * *

But honestly to tell the truth at last,

He was in church a noble ecclesiast.

Well could he read a lesson or a story,

But ever best he sang the offertory:

For well he knew that after he had sung,

For preaching he must polish up his tongue,

And thus make money, as he right well could:

Therefore he sang full merrily and loud.

Now I have told you as much as I can what people came into the Tabard Inn

that night, and why they were all travelling together, and where they were

going.

[Illustration: Mine Host.]

Our host made us very welcome, and gave us a capital supper. He was a

thoroughly good fellow, our host--a large, stout man, with bright,

prominent eyes, sensible and well behaved, and very merry.

After supper, he made us all laugh a good deal with his witty jests; and

when we had all paid our reckonings, he addressed us all:--

And sayde thus: Lo, lordynges, trewely truly

Ye ben to me right welcome hertily:

For by my trouthe, if that I schal not lye, shall, lie

I ne saugh this yeer so mery a companye saw

At oones in this herbergh, as is now. inn (auberge)

Fayn wolde I do yow merthe, wiste I how.

And of a merthe I am right now bythought,

To doon you eese, and it schal coste nought. do, ease

And said to us: “My masters, certainly

Ye be to me right welcome, heartily:

For by my truth, and flattering none, say I,

I have not seen so large a company

At once inside my inn this year, as now!

I’d gladly make you mirth if I knew how.

And of a pleasant game I’m just bethought

To cheer the journey--it shall cost you nought!

“Whoever wants to know how, hold up your hands.” We all held up our hands,

and begged him to say on.

“Well, my masters,” said he, “I say that each of you shall tell the rest

four stories--two on the way to Canterbury, and two on the way home. For

you know it is small fun riding along as dumb as a stone. And whichever in

the party tells the best story, shall have a supper at this inn at the

cost of the rest when you come back. To amuse you better, I will myself

gladly join your party, and ride to Canterbury at my own expense, and be

at once guide and judge; and whoever gainsays my judgment shall pay for

all we spend by the way. Now, tell me if you all agree, and I will get me

ready in time to start.”

We were all well pleased; and the next morning, at daybreak, our clever

host called us all together, and we rode off to a place called the

Watering of St. Thomas.[75] There we halted, and drew lots who should tell

the story first, knight, clerk, lady prioress, and everybody.

The lot fell to the knight, which every one was glad of; and as soon as we

set forward, he began at once.

Notes by the Way.

One of the things most deserving of notice in reading Chaucer is his

singularly strong grasp of character. In the ‘Canterbury Tales’ this is

self-evident, and the succinct catalogue of the thirty-one pilgrims, which

in feebler hands would have been dry enough, is a masterpiece of

good-humoured satire, moral teaching, and, above all, photographic

portraits from life. You will notice that Chaucer meant to make his

‘Canterbury Tales’ much longer than he lived to do. His innkeeper proposes

that each of the pilgrims shall tell four stories. Only twenty-four of

these exist.

You will never find any character drawn by Chaucer acting, speaking, or

looking inconsistently. He has always well hold of his man, and he turns

him inside out relentlessly. He very seldom analyzes thought or motives,

but he shows you what _is_ so clearly, that you know what _must_ be

without his telling you.

The good-humoured _naïveté_ of mine host, like all his class, never

forgetful of business in the midst of play, is wonderfully well hit off;

for the innkeeper clearly would be the gainer by this pleasant stratagem:

and he prevents any one’s giving him the slip by going with them to

Canterbury and back. The guests are glad enough of his company, for he

could be especially useful to them on the way.

The stories, also, will be found perfectly characteristic of the

tellers--there is no story given to a narrator whose rank, education, or

disposition make it inconsistent. Each tells a tale whose incidents savour

of his natural occupation and sympathies, and the view each takes of right

or wrong modes of conduct is well seen in the manner as well as the

matter.

Chaucer’s personal distrust of and contempt for the contemporary Church

and its creatures was the natural and healthy aversion of a pure mind and

a sincerely religious heart to a form of godliness denying the power

thereof--a Church which had become really corrupt. It is significant of

his perfect artistic thoroughness that, with this aversion, he never puts

an immoral or unfitting tale into the mouth of nun or friar; for it would

be most unlikely that these persons, whatever their private character

might be, would criminate themselves in public.

The Knight’s Tale.

Once upon a time, as old stories tell us, there was a duke named Theseus,

lord and governor of Athens, in Greece, and in his time such a conqueror

that there was none greater under the sun. Full many a rich country owned

his sway.

That with his wisdam and his chivalrie,

He conquered al the regne of Femynye, kingdom, Amazons

That whilom was i-cleped Cithea; once, called

And wedded the fresshe quene Ipolita,[76] fresh

And brought her hoom with him to his contre, country

With mochel glorie and gret solempnite; much, solemnity

And eek hire yonge suster Emelye. also, sister

And thus with victorie and with melodye music

Lete I this noble duk to Athenes ryde, duke

And al his ost, in armes him biside. arms

What with his wisdom and his chivalry

The kingdom of the Amazons won he,

That was of old time naméd Scythia,

And wedded the fresh Queen Ipolita,

And brought her to his own land sumptuously,

With pomp and glory, and great festivity;

And also her young sister Emelye.

And thus with victory and with melodie

Let I this noble duke to Athens ride,

And all his glittering hosts on either side.

And, certainly, if it were not too long to listen to, I would have told

you fully how the kingdom of the Amazons was won by Theseus and his host.

And of the great battle there was for the time between Athens and the

Amazons; and how Ipolita--the fair, hardy queen of Scythia--was besieged;

and about the feast that was held at the wedding of Theseus and Ipolita,

and about the tempest at their home-coming. But all this I must cut short.

I have, God wot, a large feeld to ere; plough

And wayke ben the oxen in my plough. weak

I have, God knows, a full wide field to sow,

And feeble be the oxen in my plough.

I will not hinder anybody in the company. Let every one tell his story in

turn, and let us see now who shall win the supper!

I will describe to you what happened as Theseus was bringing home his

bride to Athens.

This duk, of whom I make mencioun,

Whan he was comen almost unto the toun, come

In al his wele and in his moste pryde, prosperity

He was war, as he cast his eyghe aside, aware

Wher that ther knelede in the hye weye kneeled

A compagnye of ladies, tweye and tweye, two

Ech after other, clad in clothes blake; each, black

But such a cry and such a woo they make, woe

That in this world nys creature lyvynge,

That herde such another weymentynge,

And of that cry ne wolde they never stenten, cease

Til they the reynes of his bridel henten. caught

What folk be ye that at myn hom comynge

Pertourben so my feste[77] with cryinge? perturb

Quod Theseus; Have ye so gret envye

Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crie?

Or who hath yow misboden or offendid? injured

And telleth me, if it may ben amendid;

And why that ye ben clad thus al in blak? black

The oldest lady of hem alle spak.... them

This duke aforesaid, of deserved renown,

When he had almost come into the town

In all his splendour and in all his pride,

Perceivéd, as he cast his eyes aside,

A company of ladies, in a row,

Were kneeling in the highway--two by two,

Each behind each, clad all in black array;

But such an outcry of lament made they,

That in this world there is no living thing

That e’er heard such another outcrying;

Nor would they cease to wail and to complain

Till they had caught him by his bridle-rein.

“What folk are ye who at my home-coming

Perturb my festival with murmuring,”

Quoth Theseus. “Or do you envy me

Mine honour that ye wail so woefully?

Or who hath injured you, or who offended?

Tell me, if haply it may be amended,

And why are all of you in black arrayed?”

The oldest lady of them all then said--

“Lord, to whom fortune has given victory, and to live ever as a conqueror,

we do not grudge your glory[78] and honour, but we have come to implore

your pity and help. Have mercy on us in our grief. There is not one of us

that has not been a queen or duchess; now we are beggars, and you can help

us if you will.

“I was wife to King Capaneus, who died at Thebes[79]: and all of us who

kneel and weep have lost our husbands there during a siege; and now Creon,

who is king of Thebes, has piled together these dead bodies, and will not

suffer them to be either burned or buried.”

And with these words all the ladies wept more piteously than ever, and

prayed Theseus to have compassion on their great sorrow.

The kind duke descended from his horse, full of commiseration for the poor

ladies. He thought his heart would break with pity when he saw them so

sorrowful and dejected, who had been lately of so noble a rank.

He raised them all, and comforted them, and swore an oath that as he was a

true knight, he would avenge them on the tyrant king of Thebes in such a

fashion that all the people of Greece should be able to tell how Theseus

served Creon!

The duke sent his royal bride and her young sister Emelye on to the town

of Athens, whilst he displayed his banner, marshalled his men, and rode

forth towards Thebes. For himself, till he had accomplished this duty, he

would not enter Athens, nor take his ease for one half-day therein.

The duke’s white banner bore the red statue of Mars upon it; and by his

banner waved his pennon, which had the monster Minotaur (slain by Theseus

in Greece) beaten into it in gold. Thus rode this duke--thus rode this

conqueror and all his host--the flower of chivalry--till he came to

Thebes.

To make matters short, Theseus fought with the King of Thebes, and slew

him manly as a knight in fair battle, and routed his whole army. Then he

destroyed the city, and gave up to the sorrowful ladies the bones of their

husbands, to burn honourably after their fashion.

When the worthy duke had slain Creon and taken the city, he remained all

night in the field. During the pillage which followed, it happened that

two young knights were found still alive, lying in their rich armour,

though grievously wounded. By their coat-armour[80] the heralds knew they

were of the blood-royal of Thebes; two cousins, the sons of two sisters.

Their names were Palamon and Arcite.

These two knights were carried as captives to Theseus’ tent, and he sent

them off to Athens, where they were to be imprisoned for life; no ransom

would he take.

Then the duke went back to Athens crowned with laurel, where he lived in

joy and in honour all his days, while Palamon and Arcite were shut up in a

strong tower full of anguish and misery, beyond all reach of help.

Thus several years passed.

This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,

Till it fel oones in a morwe of May morning

That Emelye, that fairer was to seene see

Than is the lilie on hire stalkes grene,

And fresscher than the May with floures newe-- flowers

For with the rose colour strof hire hewe, strove, hue

I n’ot which was the fayrere of hem two--

Er it were day as sche was wont to do,

Sche was arisen, and al redy dight; dressed

For May wole han no sloggardye a nyght. sloth

The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,

And maketh him out of his sleepe sterte,

And seith, Arys, and do thin observaunce.[81] arise, thine

This maked Emelye han remembraunce

To don honour to May, and for to ryse. do

I-clothed was sche fressh for to devyse.[82] clothed

Hire yolwe heer was browdid in a tresse, yellow

Byhynde hire bak, a yerde long I gesse.

And in the gardyn at the sonne upriste

Sche walketh up and doun wher as hire liste. pleased

Sche gadereth floures, party whyte and reede,

To make a sotil gerland[83] for hire heede,

And as an aungel hevenly sche song.

Thus passeth year by year, and day by day,

Till it fell once upon a morn of May

That Emelye--more beauteous to be seen

Than is the lily on his stalk of green,

And fresher than the May with flowers new

(For with the rose’s colour strove her hue

I know not which was fairer of the two)

Early she rose as she was wont to do,

All ready robed before the day was bright;

For May time will not suffer sloth at night;

The season pricketh every gentle heart,

And maketh him out of his sleep to start,

And saith, Rise up, salute the birth of spring!

And therefore Emelye, remembering

To pay respect to May, rose speedily:

Attired she was all fresh and carefully,

Her yellow hair was braided in a tress

Behind her back, a full yard long, I guess,

And in the garden as the sun uprose

She wandered up and down where as she chose.

She gathereth flowers, partly white and red,

To make a cunning garland for her head,

And as an angel heavenly she sang.

[Illustration: FAIR EMELYE GATHERING FLOWERS.

‘The fairnesse of the lady that I see

Yonde in the gardyn romynge to and fro.’]

The great tower, so thick and strong, in which these two knights were

imprisoned, was close-joined to the wall of the garden.

Bright was the sun, and clear, that morning, as Palamon, by leave of his

jailor, had risen, and was roaming about in an upper chamber, from which

he could see the whole noble city of Athens, and also the garden, full of

green boughs, just where fresh Emelye was walking.

This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon, kept pacing to and fro in this

chamber, wishing he had never been born; and it happened by chance that

through the window, square and barred with iron, he cast his eyes on

Emelye.

He started and cried out aloud, “Ah!” as though he were stricken to the

heart.

And with that cry Arcite sprang up, saying, “Dear cousin, what ails you?

You are quite pale and deathly. Why did you cry out? For God’s love be

patient with this prison life since it cannot be altered. What is Heaven’s

will we must endure.”

Palamon answered, “Cousin, it is not that--not this dungeon made me cry

out--but I was smitten right now through the eye into my heart. The

fairness of a lady that I see yonder in the garden, roaming to and fro,

made me cry out. I know not whether she be woman or goddess: but I think

it is Venus herself!”

And he fell down on his knees and cried, “Venus, if it be thy will thus to

transfigure thyself in the garden, help us to escape out of the tower.”

Then Arcite looked forth and saw this lady roaming to and fro, and her

beauty touched him so deeply that he said, sighing, “The fresh beauty of

her will slay me. And if I cannot gain her mercy, I am but dead, and there

is an end.”

But Palamon turned furiously on him, and said, “Do you say that in earnest

or in play?”

“Nay,” cried Arcite, “in earnest by my faith--God help me, I am in no mood

for play.”

“It were no great honour to thee,” cried Palamon, “to be false and a

traitor to me, who am thy cousin and thy brother, sworn as we are both, to

help and not hinder one another, in all things till death part us. And now

you would falsely try to take my lady from me, whom I love and serve, and

ever shall till my heart break. Now, certainly, false Arcite, you shall

not do it. I loved her first, and told thee, and thou art bound as a

knight to help me, or thou art false!”

But Arcite answered proudly, “Thou shalt be rather false than I--and thou

_art_ false, I tell thee, utterly! For I loved her with real love before

you did. You did not know whether she were woman or goddess. Yours is a

religious feeling, and mine is love as to a mortal; which I told you as my

cousin, and my sworn brother. And even if you _had_ loved her first, what

matters it? A man loves because he can’t help it, not because he wishes.

Besides, you will never gain her grace more than I, for both of us are

life-long captives. It is like the dogs who fought all day over a bone;

and while they were fighting over it, a kite came and carried it off.”

Long the two knights quarrelled and disputed about the lady who was out of

their reach. But you shall see what came to pass.

There was a duke called Perithous, who had been fellow and brother in

arms[84] of Duke Theseus since both were children, and he came to Athens

to visit Theseus. These two dukes were very great friends: so much so that

they loved no one so much as each other.

Now, Duke Perithous had known Arcite at Thebes, years before, and liked

him, and he begged Theseus to let Arcite out of prison.

Theseus consented, but only on the condition that Arcite should quit

Athens; and that he should lose his head, were he ever found there again.

So Arcite became a free man, but he was banished the kingdom.

How unhappy then Arcite was! He felt that he was worse off than ever. “Oh,

how I wish I had never known Perithous!” cried he. “Far rather would I be

back in Theseus’ prison, for _then_ I could see the beautiful lady I

love.”

O dere cosyn Palamon, quod he,

Thyn is the victorie of this aventure, thine, chance

Ful blisfully in prisoun maistow dure; may’st thou

endure

In prisoun? certes nay, but in paradys!

Wel hath fortune y-torned the the dys. thee

“O my dear cousin, Palamon,” cried he,

“In this ill hap the gain is on thy side.

Thou blissful in thy prison may’st abide!

In prison? truly nay--but in paradise!

Kindly toward thee hath fortune turn’d the dice.”

So Arcite mourned ever, because he was far away from Athens where the

beautiful lady dwelt, and was always thinking that perhaps Palamon would

get pardoned, and marry the lady, while he would never see her any more.

But Palamon, on the other hand, was so unhappy when his companion was

taken away, that he wept till the great tower resounded, and his very

fetters were wet with his tears.

“Alas, my dear cousin,” he sighed, “the fruit of all our strife is

thine!--You walk free in Thebes, and think little enough of my woe, I

daresay. You will perhaps gather a great army and make war on this

country, and get the beautiful lady to wife whom I love so much! while I

die by inches in my cage.”

And with that his jealousy started up like a fire within him, so that he

was nigh mad, and pale as ashes. “O cruel gods!” he cried, “that govern

the world with your eternal laws, how is man better than a sheep lying in

the fold? For, like any other beast, man dies, or lives in prison, or is

sick, or unfortunate, and often is quite guiltless all the while. And when

a beast is dead, it has no pain further; but man may suffer after death,

as well as in this world.”

Now I will leave Palamon, and tell you more of Arcite.

Arcite, in Thebes, fell into such excessive sorrow for the loss of the

beautiful lady that there never was a creature so sad before or since. He

ceased to eat and drink, and sleep, and grew as thin and dry as an arrow.

His eyes were hollow and dreadful to behold, and he lived always alone,

mourning and lamenting night and day. He was so changed that no one could

recognize his voice nor his look. Altogether he was the saddest picture of

a man that ever was seen--except Palamon.

One night he had a dream. He dreamed that the winged god Mercury stood

before him, bidding him be merry; and commanded him to go to Athens, where

all his misery should end.

Arcite sprang up, and said, “I will go straight to Athens. Nor will I

spare to see my lady through fear of death--in her presence I am ready

even to die!”

He caught up a looking-glass, and saw how altered his face was, so that no

one would know him. And lie suddenly bethought him that now he was so

disfigured with his grief, he might go and dwell in Athens without being

recognized, and see his lady nearly every day.

He dressed himself as a poor labourer, and accompanied only by a humble

squire, who knew all he had suffered, he hastened to Athens.

He went to the court of Theseus, and offered his services at the gate to

drudge and draw, or do any menial work that could be given him. Well could

he hew wood and carry water, for he was young and very strong. Now, it

happened that the chamberlain of fair Emelye’s house took Arcite into his

service.

Thus Arcite became page of the chamber of Emelye the bright, and he called

himself Philostrate.

Never was man so well thought of!--he was so gentle of condition that he

became known throughout the court. People said it would be but right if

Theseus promoted this Philostrate, and placed him in a rank which would

better display his talents and virtues.

At last Theseus raised him to be squire of his chamber, and gave him

plenty of gold to keep up his degree. Moreover, his own private rent was

secretly brought to him from Thebes year by year. But he spent it so

cunningly that no one suspected him. In this crafty way Arcite lived a

long time very happily, and bore himself so nobly both in peace and war

that there was no man in the land dearer to Theseus.

Now we will go back to Palamon.

Poor Palamon had been for seven years in his terrible prison, and was

quite wasted away with misery. There was not the slightest chance of

getting out; and his great love made him frantic. At last, however, one

May night some pitying friend helped him to give his jailor a drink which

sent him into a deep sleep: so that Palamon made his escape from the

tower. He fled from the city as fast as ever he could go, and hid himself

in a grove; meaning afterwards to go by night secretly to Thebes, and beg

all his friends to aid him to make war on Theseus. And then he would soon

either die or get Emelye to wife.

Now wol I torn unto Arcite agayn, turn

That litel wiste how nyh that was his care, know, near

Til that fortune hadde brought him in the snare.

The busy larke, messager of day,

Salueth in hire song the morwe gray; saluteth

And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte,

That al the orient laugheth of the lighte,

And with his stremes dryeth in the greves rays, groves

The silver dropes, hongyng on the leeves. leaves

And Arcite, that is in the court ryal royal[85]

With Theseus, his squyer principal, squire

Is risen, and loketh on the merye day.

And for to doon his observaunce to May, do, ceremony

Remembryng on the poynt of his desir,

He on his courser, stertyng as the fir, starting, fire

Is riden into the feeldes him to pleye fields, play

Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye.

And to the grove of which that I yow tolde, you

By aventure his wey he gan to holde, chance, began

To maken him a garland of the greves, make

Were it of woodebynde or hawethorn leves, leaves

And lowde he song ayens the sonne scheene: sang, against

O May,[86] with al thy floures and thy greene,

Welcome be thou, wel faire freissche May!

I hope that I som grene gete may. some, may get

And fro his courser, with a lusty herte, heart

Into the grove ful hastily he sterte, started

And in a pathe he romed up and doun, roamed

Ther as by aventure this Palamoun where, chance

Was in a busche, that no man might him see,

For sore afered of his deth was he. afraid, death

Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite:

God wot he wolde han trowed it ful lite. knows, guessed,

little

For soth is seyd, goon sithen many yeres, truly, gone,

since

That feld hath eyen, and the woode hath eeres. eyes, ears

Now will I tell you of Arcite again,

Who little guess’d how nigh him was his care

Until his fortune brought him in the snare.

The busy lark, the messenger of day,

Saluteth in her song the morning grey;

And fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright,

That all the orient laugheth for the light;

And in the woods he drieth with his rays

The silvery drops that hang along the sprays.

Arcite--unknown, yet ever waxing higher

In Theseus’ royal court, now chiefest squire--

Is risen, and looketh on the merry day:

And, fain to offer homage unto May,

He, mindful of the point of his desire,

Upon his courser leapeth, swift as fire,

And rideth to keep joyous holiday

Out in the fields, a mile or two away.

And, as it chanced, he made towards the grove,

All thick with leaves, whereof I spake above,

Eager to weave a garland with a spray

Of woodbine, or the blossoms of the may.

And loud against the sunshine sweet he sings,

“O May, with all thy flowers and thy green things,

Right welcome be thou, fairest, freshest May!

Yield me of all thy tender green to-day!”

Then from his courser merrily he sprang,

And plunged into the thicket as he sang;

Till in a path he chanced to make his way

Nigh to where Palamon in secret lay.

Sore frighted for his life was Palamon:

But Arcite pass’d, unknowing and unknown;

And neither guess’d his brother was hard by;

But Arcite knew not any man was nigh.

So was it said of old, how faithfully,

‘The woods have ears, the empty field can see.’

A man should be prudent, even when he fancies himself safest: for

oftentimes come unlooked-for meetings. And little enough thought Arcite

that his sworn brother from the tower was at hand, sitting as still as a

mouse while he sang.

Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fill,

And songen al the roundel lustily,

Into a studie he fel sodeynly, reverie

As don thes loveres in here queynte geeres, curious fashions

Now in the croppe,[87] now doun in the breres, briars

Now up, now doun, as boket in a welle.

Now when Arcite long time had roam’d his fill,

And sung all through the rondel lustily,

He fell into dejection suddenly,

As lovers in their strange way often do,

Now in the clouds and now in abject wo,

Now up, now down, as bucket in a well.

He sat down and began to make a kind of song of lamentation. “Alas,” he

cried, “the day that I was born! How long, O Juno, wilt thou oppress

Thebes? All her royal blood is brought to confusion. I myself am of royal

lineage, and yet now I am so wretched and brought so low, that I have

become slave and squire to my mortal foe. Even my own proud name of Arcite

I dare not bear, but pass by the worthless one of Philostrate! Ah, Mars

and Juno, save me, and wretched Palamon, martyred by Theseus in prison!

For all my pains are for my love’s sake, and Emelye, whom I will serve all

my days.”

Ye slen me with youre eyen, Emelye;

Ye ben the cause wherfore that I dye: be

Of al the remenant of myn other care remnant

Ne sette I nought the mountaunce of a tare, amount

So that I couthe don aught to youre pleasaunce! were able to

“You slay me with your eyes, O Emelye!

You are the cause wherefore I daily die.

For, ah, the worth of all my other woes

Is not as e’en the poorest weed that grows,

So that I might do aught to pleasure you!”

Palamon, hearing this, felt as though a cold sword glided through his

heart. He was so angry that he flung himself forth like a madman upon

Arcite:--

And seyde: False[88] Arcyte--false traitour wikke, wicked

Now art thou hent, that lovest my lady so,

For whom that I have al this peyne and wo,

And art my blood, and to my counseil sworn, counsel

As I ful ofte have told the heere byforn, before now

And hast byjaped here duke Theseus, tricked

And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus;

I wol be deed, or elles thou schalt dye. dead, else

Thou schalt not love my lady Emelye,

But I wil love hire oonly and no mo; more

For I am Palamon, thy mortal fo. foe

And though that I no wepne have in this place, weapon

But out of prisoun am astert by grace, escaped

I drede not, that outher thou schalt dye, fear

Or thou ne schalt not loven Emelye.

Ches which thou wilt, for thou schalt not asterte. escape

This Arcite, with ful dispitous herte, there

Whan he him knew, and hadde his tale herde,

As fers as a lyoun, pulleth out a swerde, fierce

And seide thus: By God that sitteth above,

Nere it that thou art sike and wood for love, were it not

And eek that thou no wepne hast in this place, also

Thou schuldest nevere out of this grove pace, step

That thou ne schuldest deyen of myn hond. die

For I defye the seurté and the bond defy

Which that thou seyst that I have maad to the; sayest

What, verray fool, thenk wel that love is fre!

And I wol love hire mawgré al thy might. In spite of

But, for thou art a gentil perfight knight, because

And wilnest to dereyne hire by batayle, art willing

Have heere my trouthe, to morwe I nyl not fayle, pledge

Withouten wityng of eny other wight, without knowledge

That heer I wol be founden as a knight, will, found

And bryngen harneys[89] right inough for the;

And ches the best, and lef the worst for me.

And mete and drynke this night wil I brynge

Inough for the, and clothes for thy beddynge.

And if so be that thou my lady wynne, win

And sle me in this wode, ther I am inne, wood

Thou maist wel have thy lady as for me.

This Palamon answerde, I graunt it the.

Crying, “False, wicked traitor! false Arcite!

Now art thou caught, that lov’st my lady so,

For whom I suffer all this pain and wo!

Yet art my blood--bound to me by thy vow,

As I have told thee oftentimes ere now--

And hast so long befool’d Duke Theseus

And falsely hid thy name and nurture thus!

For all this falseness thou or I must die.

Thou shalt not love my lady Emelye--

But I will love her and no man but I,

For I am Palamon, thine enemy!

And tho’ I am unarmed, being but now

Escap’d from out my dungeon, care not thou,

For nought I dread--for either thou shalt die

Now--or thou shalt not love my Emelye.

Choose as thou wilt--thou shalt not else depart.”

But Arcite, with all fury in his heart,

Now that he knew him and his story heard,

Fierce as a lion, snatch’d he forth his sword,

Saying these words: “By Him who rules above,

Were’t not that thou art sick and mad for love,

And hast no weapon--never should’st thou move,

Living or like to live, from out this grove,

But thou shouldest perish by my hand! on oath

I cast thee back the bond and surety, both,

Which thou pretendest I have made to thee.

What? very fool! remember love is free,

And I will love her maugré all thy might!

But since thou art a worthy, noble knight,

And willing to contest her in fair fight,

Have here my troth, to-morrow, at daylight,

Unknown to all, I will not fail nor fear

To meet thee as a knight in combat here,

And I will bring full arms for me and thee;

And choose the best, and leave the worst for me!

And I will bring thee meat and drink to-night,

Enough for thee, and bedding as is right:

And if the victory fall unto thine hand,

To slay me in this forest where I stand,

Thou may’st attain thy lady-love, for me!”

Then Palamon replied--“I grant it thee.”

Then these, who had once been friends, parted till the morrow.

O Cupide, out of alle charite! all

O regne that wolt no felaw have with the! kingdom

Ful soth is seyd, that love ne lordschipe truly, nor

Wol not, thonkes, have no felaschipe. willingly,

fellowship

Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun. find

Arcite is riden anon unto the toun

And on the morwe, or it were dayes light, before

Ful prively two harneys hath he dight, prepared

Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne sufficient

The batayl in the feeld betwix hem tweyne. field, them, two

And on his hors alone as he was born, carried

He caryed al this harneys him byforn; before

And in the grove, at tyme and place i-sette,

This Arcite and this Palamon ben mette. be

Tho chaungen gan here colour in here face, then, their

Right as the honter in the regne of Trace kingdom

That stondeth in the gappe with a spere,

Whan honted is the lyoun or the bere,

And hereth him come ruschyng in the greves, groves

And breketh bothe the bowes and the leves, breaking

And thenketh, Here cometh my mortel enemy,

Withoute faile, he mot be deed or I; without

For eyther I mot slen him at the gappe,

Or he moot slee me, if it me myshappe:

So ferden they, in chaungyng of here hew, their hue

As fer as eyther of hem other knewe. far, them

Ther nas no good day, ne no saluyng; was not, saluting

But streyt withouten wordes rehersyng,

Everich of hem helpeth to armen other, each, helped

As frendly, as he were his owen brother; own

And thanne with here scharpe speres stronge

They foyneden ech at other wonder longe, foined

Tho it semede that this Palamon then, seemed

In his fightyng were as a wood lyoun, mad

And as a cruel tygre was Arcite:[90]

As wilde boores gonne they to smyte, began

That frothen white as fome, for ire wood, their madness

Up to the ancle faught they in here blood.[91] their

And in this wise I lete hem fightyng dwelle;

And forth I wol of Theseus yow telle. you

O god of love, that hast no charity!

O realm, that wilt not bear a rival nigh!

Truly ’tis said, that love and lordship ne’er

Will be contented only with a share.

Arcite and Palamon have found it so.

Arcite is ridden soon the town unto:

And, on the morrow, ere the sun was high,

Two harness hath he brought forth privily,

Meet and sufficing for the lonely fight

Out in the battle-field mid daisies white.

And riding onward solitarily

All this good armour on his horse bore he:

And at the time and place which they had set

Ere long Arcite and Palamon are met.

To change began the colour of each face--

Ev’n as the hunter’s, in the land of Thrace,

When at a gap he standeth with a spear,

In the wild hunt of lion or of bear,

And heareth him come rushing through the wood,

Crashing the branches in his madden’d mood,

And think’th, “Here com’th my mortal enemy,

Now without fail or he or I must die;

For either I must slay him at the gap,

Or he must slay me if there be mishap.”

So fared the knights so far as either knew,

When, seeing each, each deepen’d in his hue.

There was no greeting--there was no ‘Good day,’

But mute, without a single word, straightway

Each one in arming turn’d to help the other,

As like a friend as though he were his brother.

And after that, with lances sharp and strong,

They dash’d upon each other--lief and long.

You might have fancied that this Palamon,

Fighting so blindly, were a mad liòn,

And like a cruel tiger was Arcite.

As two wild boars did they together smite,

That froth as white as foam for rage--they stood

And fought until their feet were red with blood.

Thus far awhile I leave them to their fight.

And now what Theseus did I will recite.

Then something happened that neither of them expected.

It was a bright clear day, and Theseus, hunting with his fair queen

Ipolita, and Emelye, clothed all in green, came riding by after the hart,

with all the dogs around them; and as they followed the hart, suddenly

Theseus looked out of the dazzle of the sun, and saw Arcite and Palamon in

sharp fight, like two bulls for fury. The bright swords flashed to and fro

so hideously that it seemed as though their smallest blows would fell an

oak. But the duke knew not who they were that fought.[92]

Theseus smote his spurs into his horse, and galloped in between the

knights, and, drawing his sword, cried, “Ho![93] No more, on pain of

death! By mighty Mars, he dies who strikes a blow in my presence!” Then

Theseus asked them what manner of men they were, who dared to fight there,

without judge or witness, as though it were in royal lists?[94]

You may imagine the two men turning on Theseus, breathless and bloody with

fight, weary with anger, and their vengeance still unslaked.

This Palamon answerde hastily,

And seyde: Sire, what nedeth wordes mo? need

We han the deth deserved bothe tuo. two

Tuo woful wrecches ben we, tuo kaytyves wretches,

captives

That ben encombred of oure owne lyves, encumbered by

And as thou art a rightful lord and juge

Ne yeve us neyther mercy ne refuge. give us not

And sle me first, for seynte charite; holy

But sle my felaw eek as wel as me. also

Or sle him first; for, though thou know him lyte, little

This is thy mortal fo, this is Arcite,

That fro thy lond is banyscht on his heed

For which he hath i-served to be deed. deserved

For this is he that come to thi gate

And seyde, that he highte Philostrate. was named

Thus hath he japed the ful many a yer, befooled

And thou hast maad of him thy cheef squyer. made

And this is he that loveth Emelye.

For sith the day is come that I schal dye,

I make pleynly my confessioun,

That I am thilke woful Palamoun, that

That hath thy prisoun broke wikkedly. wickedly

I am thy mortal foo, and it am I

That loveth so hoote Emelye the brighte,

That I wol dye present in hire sighte.

Therfore I aske deeth and my juwyse; sentence

But slee my felaw in the same wyse, slay

For bothe we have served to be slayn.

This worthy duk answerde anon agayn,

And seyde: This is a schort conclusioun:

Your owne mouth, by your confessioun, own

Hath dampned you bothe, and I wil it recorde. condemned

It needeth nought to pyne yow with the corde.[95]

Ye schul be deed by mighty Mars the reede! dead

And Palamon made answer hastily,

And said--“O Sire, why should we waste more breath?

For both of us deserve to die the death.

Two wretched creatures are we, glad to die

Tired of our lives, tired of our misery--

And as thou art a rightful lord and judge

So give us neither mercy nor refùge!

And slay me first, for holy charity--

But slay my fellow too as well as me!

--Or slay him first, for though thou little know,

This is Arcite--this is thy mortal foe,

Who from thy land was banished on his head,

For which he richly merits to be dead!

Yea, this is he who came unto thy gate,

And told thee that his name was Philostrate--

Thus year by year hath he defied thine ire--

And thou appointest him thy chiefest squire

--And this is he who loveth Emelye!

“For since the day is come when I shall die,

Thus plain I make confession, and I own

I am that miserable Palamon

Who have thy prison broken wilfully!

I am thy mortal foe,--and it is I

Who love so madly Emelye the bright,

That I would die this moment in her sight!

Therefore I ask death and my doom to-day--

But slay my fellow in the selfsame way:--

For we have both deservëd to be slain.”

And angrily the duke replied again,

“There is no need to judge you any more,

Your own mouth, by confession, o’er and o’er

Condemns you, and I will the words record.

There is no need to pain you with the cord.

Ye both shall die, by mighty Mars the red!”

Then the queen, ‘for verray wommanhede,’ began to weep, and so did Emelye,

and all the ladies present. It seemed pitiful that two brave men, both of

high lineage, should come to such an end, and only for loving a lady so

faithfully. All the ladies prayed Theseus to have mercy on them, and

pardon the knights for their sakes. They knelt at his feet, weeping and

entreating him--

And wold have kist his feet ther as he stood,

Till atte laste aslaked was his mood;

For pite renneth sone in gentil herte, runneth

And though he first for ire quok and sterte, shook

He hath considerd shortly in a clause

The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause:

And although that his ire hire gylt accusede, their

Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excusede. them

And would have kissed his feet there as he stood,

Until at last appeasëd was his mood,

For pity springeth soon in gentle heart.

And though he first for rage did quake and start,

He hath considered briefly in the pause

The greatness of their crime, and, too, its cause;

And while his passion had their guilt accused,

Yet now his calmer reason both excused.

Everybody had sympathy for those who were in love;[96] and Theseus’ heart

‘had compassion of women, for they wept ever in on’ (continually).

So the kindly duke softened, and said to all the crowd good-humouredly,

“What a mighty and great lord is the god of love!”

Lo, her this Arcite and this Palamoun, here

That quytely weren out of my prisoun, freely (quit)

And might have lyved in Thebes ryally, royally

And witen I am here mortal enemy, know, their

And that here deth lith in my might also, their, lieth

And yet hath love, maugré here eyghen tuo,

I-brought hem hider bothe for to dye.

Now loketh, is nat that an heih folye? look, high

Who may not ben a fole, if that he love? be

Byholde for Goddes sake that sitteth above,

Se how they blede! be they nought wel arrayed!

Thus hath here lord, the god of love, hem payed them

Here wages and here fees for here servise. their

And yet they wenen for to ben ful wise, think

That serven love, for ought that may bifalle. serve

But this is yette the beste game of alle,

That sche, for whom they have this jolitee, fun

Can hem therfore as moche thank as me. can them, much

Sche woot no more of al this hoote fare, knows

By God, than wot a cuckow or an hare. knows

But al moot ben assayed, hoot or colde; must be tried

A man moot ben a fool other yong or olde; must be, either

I woot it by myself ful yore agon:

For in my tyme a servant was I on. one

“Here are this Arcite and this Palamon,

Safe out of prison both, who might have gone

And dwelt in Thebes city royally,

Knowing I am their mortal enemy,

And that their death within my power lies:

Yet hath blind Love, in spite of both their eyes,

Led them both hither only to be slain!

Behold the height of foolishness most plain!

Who is so great a fool as one in love?

For mercy’s sake--by all the gods above,

See how they bleed! a pretty pair are they!

Thus their liege lord, the god of love, doth pay

Their wages, and their fees for service done;

And yet each thinks himself a wise man’s son

Who serveth Love, whatever may befall.

But this is still the greatest joke of all,

That she, the cause of this rare jollity,

Owes them about as many thanks as I!

She knew no more of all this hot to-do,

By Mars! than doth a hare or a cuckoo!

But one must have one’s fling, be’t hot or cold;

A man will play the fool either young or old.

I know it by myself--for long ago

In my young days I bowed to Cupid’s bow.”

This is as if he should say, “These two foolish boys have got nothing from

their liege lord, the god of love, but a very narrow escape with their

heads. And Emelye herself knew no more of all this hot business than a

cuckoo! But I, too, was young once, and in love, and so I won’t be hard

upon them!” “I will pardon you,” he added, “for the queen’s sake and

Emelye’s, but you must swear to me never to come and make war on me at any

time, but be ever my friends in all that you may for the future.”

And they were very thankful and promised as he commanded.

Then Theseus spoke again, in a kind, half laughing way:--

To speke of real lynage and riches, speak, royal

Though that sche were a quene or a prynces, princess

Ilk of yow bothe is worthy douteles each

To wedden, when time is, but natheles marry,

nevertheless

I speke as for my suster Emelye,

For whom ye have this stryf and jelousye,

Ye woot youreself, sche may not wedde two know

At oones, though ye faughten ever mo; once, fought

That oon of yow, or be him loth or leef, unwilling or

willing

He mot go pypen in an ivy leef;[97] must

This is to say, sche may nought now have bothe,

Al be ye never so jelous, ne so wrothe. angry

“And as for wealth and rank, and royal birth,

Although she were the noblest upon earth,

Each of you both deserves to wed your flame

Being of equal worth; but all the same

It must be said, my sister Emelye

(For whom ye have this strife and jealousy),

You see yourselves full well that she can never

Wed two at once although ye fought for ever!

But one of you, whether he likes or no,

Must then go whistle, and endure his wo.

That is to say, she cannot have you both,

Though you be never so jealous or so wroth.”

With that he made them this offer--that Palamon and Arcite should each

bring in a year’s time (50 weeks) a hundred knights, armed for the

lists,[98] and ready to do battle for Emelye; and whichever knight won,

Palamon and his host or Arcite and his host, should have her for his wife.

Who looks happy now but Palamon? and who springs up with joy but Arcite!

Every one was so delighted with the kindness of Theseus that they all went

down on their knees to thank him--but of course Palamon and Arcite went on

their knees most.

Now, would you like to know all the preparations Theseus made for this

great tournament?

First, the theatre for the lists had to be built, where the tournament was

to take place. This was built round in the form of a compass, with

hundreds of seats rising up on all sides one behind another, so that

everybody could see the fight, and no one was in anybody’s way. The walls

were a mile round, and all of stone, with a ditch running along the

outside. At the east and at the west stood two gates of white marble, and

there was not a carver, or painter, or craftsman of any kind that Theseus

did not employ to decorate the theatre. So that there never was such a

splendid place built in all the earth before or since.

Then he made three temples: one over the east gate for Venus, goddess of

love; one over the west gate for Mars, who is god of war; and towards the

north, he built a temple all of alabaster and red coral; and that was for

Diana. All these beautiful things cost more money than would fill a big

carriage.

Now I will tell you what the temples were like inside.

First, in the Temple of Venus were wonderful paintings of feasts, dancing,

and playing of music, and beautiful gardens, and mountains, and people

walking about with the ladies they liked. All these were painted on the

walls in rich colour.

There was a statue of Venus besides, floating on a sea of glass, and the

glass was made like waves that came over her. She had a citole in her

hand, which is an instrument for playing music on; and over her head doves

were flying. Little Cupid was also there, with his wings, and his bow and

arrows, and his eyes blinded, as he is generally made.

Then, in the Temple of Mars, who is the god of war, there were all sorts

of dangers and misfortunes painted. Battles, and smoke, and forests all

burning with flames, and men run over by carts, and sinking ships, and

many other awful sights. Then a smith forging iron--swords and knives for

war.

The statue of Mars was standing on a car, armed and looking as grim as

possible: there was a hungry wolf beside him.

As for the Temple of Diana, that was very different from Venus’s. Venus

wishes everybody to marry the one they love. Diana does not want any one

to marry at all, but to hunt all day in the fields. So the pictures in

Diana’s Temple were all about hunting, and the merry life in the forest.

Her statue showed her riding on a stag, with dogs running round about, and

underneath her feet was the moon. She was dressed in the brightest green,

and she had a bow and arrows in her hand.

Now you know all about the splendid theatre and the three temples.

At last the day of the great tournament approached!

Palamon and Arcite came to Athens as they had promised, each bringing with

him a hundred knights, well armed; and never before, since the world

began, was seen a sight so magnificent. Everybody who could bear arms was

only too anxious to be among the two hundred knights--and proud indeed

were those who were chosen! for you know, that if to-morrow there should

be a like famous occasion, every man in England or anywhere else, who had

a fair lady-love, would try to be there.

All the knights that flocked to the tournament wore shining armour

according to their fancy. Some wore a coat of mail, which is chain-armour,

and a breast-plate, and a gipon: others wore plate-armour, made of broad

sheets of steel; some carried shields, some round targets. Again, some

took most care of their legs, and carried an axe; others bore maces of

steel.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

It was on a Sunday, about nine o’clock in the morning, when all the lords

and knights came into Athens.

With Palamon came the great Licurgus, King of Thrace; with Arcite came the

mighty King of India, Emetrius: and I must give you the exact account of

how these two kings looked, which is most minute. I should not wonder if

these were the likenesses of Palamon and Arcite themselves.[99]

First, then, comes--

Ligurge himself, the grete kyng of Trace;

Blak was his berd, and manly was his face.

The cercles of his eyen in his heed eyes

They gloweden bytwixe yolw and reed, between

And lik a griffoun loked he aboute,

With kempe heres[100] on his browes stowte; stout

His lymes grete, his brawnes hard and stronge, limbs, muscles

His schuldres brood, his armes rounde and longe. shoulders

And as the gyse was in his contre, guise

Ful heye upon a chare of gold stood he, high, car

With foure white boles in a trays. bulls, the traces

In stede of cote armour on his harnays,[101]

With nales yolwe, and bright as eny gold,

He had a bere skyn, cole-blak for-old. very old

His lange heer y-kempt byhynd his bak, long hair combed

As eny raven fether it schon for blak. shone

A wrethe of gold arm-gret, and huge of wighte,

Upon his heed, set ful of stoones brighte,

Of fyne rubies and of fyn dyamauntz. diamonds

Aboute his chare ther wenten white alauntz,[102]

Twenty and mo, as grete as eny stere, steer (bullock)

To hunt at the lyoun or at the bere,

And folwed him, with mosel fast i-bounde, muzzle

Colerd with golde, and torettz[103] fyled rounde. spikes, filled

Licurge himself, the mighty king of Thrace;

Black was his beard, and manly was his face,

The circles of his eyes within his head

Glow’d of a hue part yellow and part red,

And like a griffon lookëd he about,

With hair down-combed upon his brows so stout;

His limbs were great, his muscles hard and strong,

His shoulders broad, his arms were round and long.

According to the fashion of his land,

Full high upon a car of gold stood he,

And to the car four bulls were link’d, milk-white.

’Stead of coat-armour on his harness bright,

With yellow nails and bright as any gold,

A bear’s skin hung, coal-black, and very old.

His flowing hair was comb’d behind his back,

As any raven’s wing it shone for black.

A wreath of gold, arm-thick, of monstrous weight,

Crusted with gems, upon his head was set,

Full of fine rubies and clear diamonds.

About his car there leapëd huge white hounds,

Twenty and more, as big as any steer,

To chase the lion or to hunt the bear,

And follow’d him, with muzzles firmly bound,

Collar’d in gold, with golden spikes around.

The other portrait has a less barbaric splendour about it.

The gret Emetreus, the kyng of Ynde, India

Uppon a steede bay, trapped in steel,

Covered with cloth of gold dyapred wel, diapered like

Cam rydyng lyk the god of armes, Mars.

His coote armour was of a cloth of Tars,[104]

Cowched of perlys whyte, round and grete. overlaid

His sadil was of brend gold new i-bete; burnished

A mantelet[105] upon his schuldre hangyng mantle

Bret-ful of rubies reed, as fir sparclyng. cram-full, fire

His crispe her lik rynges was i-ronne, run

And that was yalwe, and gliteryng as the sonne. yellow-brown

His nose was heigh, his eyen bright cytryn,

His lippes rounde, his colour was sangwyn,

A fewe freknes in his face y-spreynd, sprinkled

Betwixe yolwe and somdel blak y-meynd, somewhat, mixed

And as a lyoun he his lokyng caste. looking

Of fyve and twenty yeer his age I caste. suppose

His berd was wel bygonne for to sprynge;

His voys was as a trumpe thunderynge.

Upon his heed he wered of laurer grene laurel

A garlond freische and lusty for to sene.

Upon his hond he bar for his deduyt[106] hand, delight

An egle tame, as eny lylie whyt. eagle, any

The great Emetrius, the Indian King,

Upon a bay steed trapp’d in shining steel,

Covered with cloth of gold from head to heel,

Came riding like the god of armies, Mars;

His coat-armour was made of cloth of Tars,

O’erlaid with pearls all white and round and great:

His saddle was of smooth gold, newly beat.

A mantlet on his shoulder as he came,

Shone, cramm’d with rubies sparkling like red flame,

And his crisp hair in shining rings did run,

Yellow it was, and glittering as the sun.

His nose was high, his eyes were bright citrine,

His lips were round, his colour was sanguine,

With a few freckles scattered here and there,

’Twixt black and yellow mingling they were,

And lion-like his glance went to and fro.

His age was five and twenty years, I trow.

A downy beard had just begun to spring,

His voice was like a trumpet thundering.

Upon his head he wore a garland green,

Of laurel, fresh, and pleasant to be seen.

Upon his wrist he bore for his delight

An eagle, tame, and as a lily white.

There was a great festival, and the dancing, and minstrelsy, and feasting,

and rich array of Theseus’ palace were most wondrous to behold. I should

never have time to tell you

What ladies fayrest ben, or best daunsynge, be

Or which of hem can carole[107] best and singe, sing

Ne who most felyngly speketh of love;

What haukes sitten on the perche above, sit

What houndes liggen on the floor adoun. lie

What ladies danced the best, or fairest were,

Or which of them best sung or carol’d there;

Nor who did speak most feelingly of love,

What hawks were sitting on the perch above,

What hounds lay crouching on the floor adown.

Then there were the temples to visit, to ask grace and favour from the

gods. Palamon went to the Temple of Venus, the goddess of love, and prayed

her to help him to gain his lady. Venus promised him success.

Arcite thought it more prudent to go to the god of war, Mars; so he

sacrificed in his temple, and prayed for victory in the lists. Mars

promised him the victory.

But Emelye did not wish to marry either of her lovers. She went to the

temple of Diana early in the morning, and asked the goddess to help her

_not_ to get married! She preferred her free life, walking in the woods

and hunting. She made two fires on Diana’s altar: but Diana would not

listen to her, and both the fires went out suddenly, with a whistling

noise, and Emelye was so frightened that she began to cry. Then Diana told

her she was destined to marry one of these poor knights who had suffered

so much for her, and so she must make up her mind to it.

Emelye then departed: but Mars and Venus had a great dispute, because, as

you know, they had promised success to each of the two knights, and

Emelye could not marry both. Now, you shall see how each of them managed

to gain a victory.

All Monday was spent in jousting and dancing, and early on Tuesday began

the great tourney.

Such a stamping of horses and chinking of harness![108] Such lines and

crowds of horsemen! There you might see armour so rare and so rich,

wrought with goldsmith’s work, and embroidery, and steel! Helmets and

hauberks and trappings--squires nailing on the spearheads, and buckling

helmets--rubbing up the shields, and lacing the plates with thongs of

leather. Nobody was idle.

The fomy stedes on the golden bridel

Gnawyng, and faste the armurers also

With fyle and hamer prikyng to and fro;

Yemen on foote, and communes many oon commons many a

one

With schorte staves, thikke as they may goon. go

The foamy steeds upon the golden bridle

Gnawing, and fast the armourers also

With file and hammer pricking to and fro;

Yeomen on foot, and flocking thro’ the land

Commons with short staves, thick as they can stand.

Pipes, trumpets, drums, and clarions were heard, that serve to drown the

noise of battle with music--little groups of people gathered about the

palace, here three--there ten--arguing the merits of the two Theban

knights. Some said one thing, some another. Some backed the knight with

the black beard, others the bald one, others the knight with close hair.

Some said, “_He_ looks grim, and will fight!” and “_He_ hath an axe that

weighs twenty pound!”

Duke Theseus sits at a window, like a god on his throne. The masses of

people are pressing towards him to see him, and to salute him humbly, and

to hear his commands, and his decree!

A herald on a tall scaffold shouts out “_Ho!_” till all the noise of the

people is hushed, and when all is quiet, he tells them the duke’s will:--

“My lord hath of his wisdom considered that it were destruction to gentle

blood to fight in this tourney, as in mortal battle. Therefore, to save

life, he now changes his first purpose.

“No arrows, pole-axe, or short knife shall be brought into the lists, no

short sword, either in the hand or worn at the side. No man shall ride

more than one course with a sharp spear. Whoso comes to harm shall be

taken, and not slain, but brought to the stake, there to abide according

to order. And should a chieftain on either side be taken, or slay his

fellow, no longer shall the tourney last. God speed you, go forth, and lay

on fast! Fight your fill with mace and longsword!”[109]

The shouts of all the people rang right up to the sky, “God save such a

good lord, who will have no bloodshed!”

Up go the trumpets and the music, and through the broad city, all hung

with cloth of gold, the crowds ride to the lists. The noble duke rode

first, and the Theban knights on either side, afterwards came the queen

and fair Emelye, and then all the company followed according to their

rank.

When they came to the lists, everybody pressed forward to the seats.

Arcite goes in at the west gate by Mars’ temple, with a red banner, and

all his hundred knights. At the same moment Palamon enters the east gate

by Venus’ temple, with his white banner and brave host. Never was there

such a sight. The two companies were so evenly matched there was no

choosing between them. Then they ranged themselves in two ranks; the names

were read out, that there might be no cheating in the numbers; the gates

were shut, and loud was the cry, “Do now your devoir, young knights

proud!”

The heralds have ceased to ride up and down. The trumpets ring out--in go

the spears steadily to the rests--the sharp spur is in the horse’s side.

There you may see who can joust and who can ride--there the shafts of the

spears shiver on the thick shields--he feels the thrust right through the

body. Up spring the lances twenty foot high, out fly the swords like

silver--helmets are crushed and shivered--out bursts the blood in stern,

red streams! See, the strong horses stumble--down go all--a man rolls

under foot like a ball. See, he fences at his foe with a truncheon, and

hustles him while his horse is down. He is hurt through the body, and is

dragged off to the stake--and there he must stay. Another is led off to

that other side. All the humane orders of Theseus are forgotten.

From time to time Theseus stops the fray to give time for refreshment and

drink, should the combatants need it.

Often have these two Thebans fought before now; each has often unhorsed

the other. But in spite of Theseus’ commands, never was tiger bereft of

its young so cruel in the hunt, as Arcite in his jealousy was on Palamon.

Never was hunted lion, mad with hunger, so eager for blood as Palamon for

Arcite’s life. See, they are both bleeding.

As the day went by, many in the field were carried away by excitement. The

strong King Emetrius flew at Palamon as he fought with Arcite, and ran his

sword into him. Then there was a frightful uproar. Emetrius could not

govern himself, and was dragged off to the stake by the force of twenty

men, and while trying to rescue Palamon, the great King Licurge was borne

down; and King Emetrius, despite his strength, was flung out of his saddle

a sword’s length, so violently Palamon hit at him; but he was carried to

the stake for all that, and this tumult put an end to the tourney,

according to the rule Theseus had made.

How bitterly wretched was Palamon, now that he could not ride any more at

his foe! Only by an unfair attack had he lost ground. Theseus, seeing them

all fighting together wildly, cried out “_Ho!_” and stopped the tourney.

Then he said, “I will be a true judge, and impartial. Arcite of Thebes

shall have Emelye, who, by good luck, has fairly won her!”

Shouts of delight answered Theseus, till it seemed as if the theatre would

fall with the noise.

It is said that Venus was so disappointed at Palamon, her knight, losing,

that she wept, and went for help to her father, the god Saturn. Saturn

said to her, “Daughter, hold thy peace; Mars has had his way, but you

shall yet have yours!”

Now you shall see what happened.

This fierce Arcite, hearing the duke’s decision, and the cries and yells

of the heralds and all the people, raised his visor and spurred his horse

along the great place and looked up at Emelye. And Emelye looked down at

him kindly (for women always follow the favour of fortune), and smiled.

It was in this sweet moment, when he was off his guard, that something

startled his tired and excited horse, and it leapt aside and foundered as

it leapt, and before Arcite could save himself, he was flung down, and his

breast-bone smashed against the saddle-bow--so that he lay as dead, his

face black with the sudden rush of blood.

Poor Arcite! to lose all, just in the moment of supreme joy and victory!

He was carried out of the lists, broken-hearted, to Theseus’ palace, where

his harness was cut off him, and he was laid in a beautiful bed. He was

still conscious, and always asking piteously for Emelye.

As for Duke Theseus, he came back to the town of Athens in great state and

cheer. Were it not for this unlucky accident at the end, there had not

been a single mishap, and as the leeches said Arcite would soon be well

again, _that_ was no such great disaster. None had been actually killed,

though many had been grievously wounded: which was very gratifying. For

all the broken arms could be mended, and the bruises and cuts healed with

salves and herbs and charms.

There had even been no discomfiture, for falls did not count as shame, nor

was it any disgrace to be dragged to a stake with kicks and hootings, and

held there hand and foot all alone, whilst one’s horse was driven out by

the sticks of the grooms. That was no disgrace, for it was not cowardice;

and such things _must_ happen at a tourney. And so all the people made

mirth.

The duke gave beautiful gifts to all the foreign knights, and there were

ever so many more shows and feasts for the next three days, and the two

mighty kings had the greatest honour paid them, till all men had gone home

to their houses.

So there was an end of the great battle.

But Arcite did not get well so soon as they thought he would. His wound

swelled up, and the sore increased at his heart more and more. He was so

injured that the balms and the salves gave him no ease, and nature could

not do her part. And when nature cannot work, farewell physic! there is no

more to be done but carry the man to the churchyard.

In short, Arcite was evidently dying, and he sent for Emelye, who held

herself his wife, and for Palamon, his cousin, and they both came to his

bedside.

Then he told Emelye all the sorrow that was in his heart, at losing her

whom he had loved so dearly; and how he still loved her, and wanted her to

pray for him when he was dead.

Allas, the woo! allas, the peynes stronge pains

That I for you have suffred, and so longe! suffered

Allas, the deth! allas, myn Emelye! death

Allas, departyng of our compainye! separating

Allas, myn hertes queen! allas, my wyf!

Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!

What is this world? what asken men to have? ask

Now with his love, now in his colde grave

Allone, withouten eny compainye! any

Farwel, my swete foo! myn Emelye![110] foe

And softe tak me in youre armes tweye, two

For love of God, and herkneth what I seye. hearken

“Alas, the woe! alas, the trials strong

That I for you have borne--and, ah, so long!

Alas, to die! alas, mine Emelye!

Alas, that we so soon part company!

Alas, my heart’s one queen! alas, my wife!

Ah, my heart’s lady, ender of my life!

What is life worth? what do men yearn to have?

Now with his darling--now in his cold grave,

Alone, alone, and with no company!

Farewell, my sweet foe--farewell, Emelye,

And softly take me in your arms to-day

For love of God, and listen what I say.”

Then Arcite pointed to Palamon, and said--

I have heer with my cosyn Palamon

Had stryf and rancour many a day agon

For love of yow, and for my jelousie.

* * * * *

So Jupiter have of my soule part,

As in this world right now ne knowe I non

So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

That serveth you, and wol don al his lyf.

And if that evere ye schul ben a wyf, shall

Foryet not Palamon, the gentil man. forget

And with that word his speche faille gan, began to fail

For fro his feete up to his brest was come

The cold of deth, that hadde him overnome.[111]

And yet moreover in his armes two already

The vital strengthe is lost, and al ago. gone

Only the intellect, withouten more, without

That dwellede in his herte sik and sore,

Gan fayllen, when the herte felte deth; began to fail

Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth. darkened, failed

But on his lady yit caste he his eye;

His laste word was--_Mercy, Emelye_.

“I have here with my cousin Palamon

Had strife and hatred days and years agone

For love of you, and for my jealousy.

* * * * *

So Jupiter have of my soul a part,

As in the whole wide world now know I none

So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

Who served you well, and will do all his life.

Therefore, if ever you shall be a wife,

Forget not Palamon, that noble man.”

And with that word his speech to fail began,

For from his feet up to his breast was come

The cold of death, that hath him overcome.

And now moreover, in his arms at last

The vital strength is lost, and all is past.

Only the intellect, all clear before,

That lingered in his heart so sick and sore,

Began to falter when the heart felt death,

Then his two eyes grew dark, and faint his breath,

But on his lady yet cast he his eye;

And his last word was--“_Mercy, Emelye_.”

He was dead.

Emelye was carried away from Arcite, fainting; and the sorrow she felt is

more than I can tell. Day and night she wept, for she had learned to love

Arcite as much as if he had been already her husband, so that she was nigh

to dying.

All the city mourned for him, young and old. Theseus, and Palamon, and

everybody was filled with grief. Never had there been such sorrow.

Theseus had a splendid bier made, for Arcite to be burned according to the

custom, with the greatest honours. Huge oak trees were cut down on purpose

to burn on his pile. Arcite’s body was covered with cloth of gold, with

white gloves on his hands, his sword by his side, and a wreath of laurel

on his head. His face was uncovered, so that all the people might see him,

when he was carried forth from the great hall of the palace.

Theseus ordered that Arcite should be burned in that very grove where

Palamon and Arcite had first fought for love of Emelye, on that sweet May

morning a year ago. So the funeral pile was raised in that grove.

Three beautiful white horses, covered with glittering steel harness and

the arms of Arcite, bore all his armour and weapons before him to the

spot.

The whole city was hung with black, and the noblest Greeks in the land

carried the bier. Duke Theseus, and his old father Egeus, and Palamon,

walked beside it, carrying in their hands golden cups, full of milk and

wine and blood, to throw upon the pile. Then came Emelye, weeping, with

fire in her hand, as the custom was, wherewith to set light to the pile.

With great care and ceremony the wood and straw were built up around the

body, so high that they seemed to reach to the sky, and cloth of gold and

garlands of flowers were hung all round it.

Poor Emelye fainted when she set fire to the pile, in the course of the

funeral service, for her grief was more than she could bear. As soon as

the fire burned fast, perfumes and jewels were flung in, and Arcite’s

shield, spear, and vestments, and the golden cups. Then all the Greeks

rode round the fire to the left, three times shouting, and three times

rattling their spears; and three times the women cried aloud.

And when all was over, Emelye was led home; and there were curious

ceremonies performed, called the lykewake, at nightfall.

* * * * *

Long afterwards, Theseus sent for Palamon. The mourning for Arcite was

over in the city, but Palamon came, still wearing his black clothes, quite

sorrowful.

Then Theseus brought Emelye to Palamon, and reminded them both of Arcite’s

dying words. He took Emelye’s hand and placed it in the hand of Palamon.

Then Palamon and Emelye were married, and they lived happy ever after.

For now is Palamon in alle wele, welfare

Lyvynge in blisse, in richesse, and in hele; health

And Emelye him loveth so tendrely,

And he hire serveth al so gentilly, nobly

That nevere was ther no word hem bitweene there, between

Of jelousye, or any other teene. affliction

Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye,

And God save al this fayre compainye. fair

For now this Palamon hath all the wealth,

Living in bliss, in riches, and in health;

And Emelye loveth him so tenderly,

And he doth cherish her so faithfully,

That all their days no thought they had again

Of jealousy, nor any other pain.

Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye,

And God save all this kindly company!

Notes by the Way.

The outline of the foregoing Tale was borrowed by Chaucer from Boccaccio’s

‘Theseida:’ but the treatment and conception of character are wholly his

own.

It is a common thing to say of the Knight’s Tale that with all its merits

the two principal actors, Arcite and Palamon, are very much alike, and

constantly may be mistaken for each other. It seems to me that to say such

a thing is a proof of not having read the tale, for the characters of the

two men are almost diametrically opposed, and never does one act or speak

as the other would do.

Notice, therefore, the striking contrast all through the story between the

characters. From the first, Arcite in the prison is seen to be cooler and

more matter-of-fact than Palamon, whose violent nature suffers earliest

from imprisonment, mentally, perhaps morally; and whom we find pacing

restlessly about, and ceaselessly bemoaning his fate, while Arcite is

probably sitting still in philosophic resignation.

Palamon is clearly a man of violent, uncontrolled passions--reckless, even

rash, and frantically jealous. Arcite’s is by far the stronger

mind--wise, clever, cool, but quite as brave and fervent as his friend.

Every incident brings out their character in strong relief. To Palamon it

is given to see Emelye first. He mistakes her for Venus, and prays to her

as such--his mind being probably slightly disordered by the privations of

mediæval prison life, as a mind so excitable would soon become. Arcite

recognizes her instantly as a woman, and claims her calmly. Palamon ‘flies

out,’ reproaches him bitterly, violently, with the term most abhorrent to

the chivalrous spirit of the time--‘false.’ Arcite answers with passion,

but he is matter-of-fact in the midst of it, reminding his friend how

little consequence it is to either of them, for both are perpetual

prisoners; and he can even wind up with a touch of humour, quoting the two

fighting dogs and the kite.

On his release from prison, Arcite follows out successfully a most

difficult _rôle_, concealing his identity in the midst of Theseus’ court,

and in the agitating presence of his lady, at the risk of his life--_for

years_: a stratagem requiring constant _sang-froid_ and self-control,

which would have been as impossible to Palamon, as mistaking a beautiful

woman for a divine vision would have been to Arcite. He does not forget

Palamon during this time, though powerless to help him. He is unselfish

enough to pray Juno for him, in his soliloquy in the wood.

At the meeting of the rivals in the wood, Palamon, mastered at once by

rage, bids Arcite fight with him, that instant, regardless of his

(Palamon’s) being unarmed: he fears nothing, he only wants to fight.

Arcite, also furious, can nevertheless see the common-sense side of the

affair, and the need for fair play and proper accoutrements; and

enumerates very sensibly the arms and other necessaries he will bring

Palamon, including (so matter-of-fact is he) _food and bedding for the

night_.

When the combatants are discovered in their illegal and unwitnessed fight,

Palamon does not fear death. He is only anxious that, whether he be dead

or alive, Arcite shall not have Emelye; and reiterates his entreaty that

Arcite may be slain too--before or after, he doesn’t care which, as long

as he is slain.

Palamon’s intense jealousy, which could face death cheerfully, but not the

yielding up of his beloved to another man, and his anxiety that Arcite

should not survive him, are of course less ignoble than they seem if

viewed in the light of the times. It was this same jealousy which prompted

him to betray Arcite as soon as he got the chance--forgetting that Arcite

had not betrayed _him_, the day before, when he was in his power. But

Chaucer himself once or twice refers to his mind being unhinged--‘wood for

love’--which claims our forbearance.

Again, the _appearance_ of Licurge (taken as Palamon’s portrait) is very

characteristic. His eye is fierce, his get-up is mighty, barbaric,

bizarre; but Emetrius (Arcite) appears in a much more usual way. Licurge

mounts a chariot drawn by bulls--Emetrius rides on horseback, like an

ordinary knight. Licurge is enveloped in a bear’s hide--Emetrius is

properly caparisoned.

It is also noteworthy that Palamon entreats _Venus_ for success, for he

can think of nothing but his love: Arcite thinks it more prudent to

address Mars, since he has got to win Emelye by fight--he has _considered_

the question, you see; and it is therefore (I think) that the preference

is given to Palamon in marrying Emelye, because society so exalted the

passion of love in those days, while Arcite is made to suffer for his very

prudence, which _might_ argue a less absorbing passion.

It was a master-thought to make Arcite die by an accident, so that neither

of the rivals vanquished the other, and Palamon escapes the possible

reproach of winning his happiness by slaying his friend.

The sympathy, however, remains with Arcite. His character is beautifully

developed. It is not inconsistent with his power of self-control and brave

heart, noble throughout, that he is able to make such a sacrifice on his

death-bed as to give Emelye to Palamon. It is a sign of forgiveness of

Palamon, who, at the point of death, showed no such generosity; and the

greatness of the sacrifice must be estimated by remembering the mediæval

view of love and love-matters.

I do not think that Palamon could have done that, any more than he could

have concealed his identity in Theseus’ court.[112]

The Friar’s Tale.

This worthy Friar (Chaucer says), as he rode along with the rest of the

company, kept looking askance at the Summoner, whom he evidently regarded

as an enemy,[113] and though, as yet, for common civility’s sake, he had

not said anything to him which could cause a regular quarrel, it was quite

plain there was little love lost between them.

When his turn came to tell his story, he saw a chance of annoying the

Summoner, which he didn’t mean to lose; and, disagreeable as the Summoner

was, it is not very surprising.

But if it like to this companye,

I wil yow of a Sompnour telle a game; joke

Pardé, ye may wel knowe by the name,

That of a Sompnour may no good be sayd;

I pray that noon of yow be evel apayd. disappointed

“But if agreeable to the company,

I’ll tell you of a Summoner such a game

Belike you may imagine from the name,

That of a Summoner can no good be said.

I pray that none of you be ill repaid!”

The Summoner, who was inoffensive enough just then, whatever he might have

been at other times, was not very well pleased at having his trade spoken

of in such terms, and felt that it was all a hit at himself; and mine

host, to prevent further squabbling, breaks in with--“Now, Friar, it is

not very courteous to speak at a companion in that style; a man of your

calling ought to know better:--

In companye we wol have no debaat:

Telleth your tale, and let the Sompnour be. tell

Nay, quoth the Sompnour, let him saye to me

What so him list; whan it cometh to my lot

By God I schal him quyten every grot. requite, groat

I schal him telle which a gret honour great

Is to ben a fals flateryng lymytour! be, false

“In company we will have no debate,

Tell on your tale, and let the Summoner be.”

“Nay,” cried the Summoner, “let him say of me

What he may choose. When my turn comes, good lack!

All he has said I’ll pay him fairly back!

I’ll tell him what a pretty trade is his,

Beggar and flattering limitor that he is!”

Mine host cries out, “Peace, no more of this!” and begs the Friar to go

on.

* * * * *

Once upon a time there was an archdeacon in my country who punished with

great severity all kinds of misdoings.

He had a Summoner ready to his hand, who worked under this strict

archdeacon with equal severity. A slyer fellow was there none in England;

and most cunningly he watched the people in secret, so as to find out how

best to catch them tripping.

I shall not spare this Summoner here, though he be mad as a hare with it

all; for Summoners have no jurisdiction over us Friars, you know, and

never will have, all the days of their lives. We are out of their power!

[“So are other refuse of the people[114] besides Friars!” interrupted

the angry Summoner, when he heard that.

“Peace, with bad luck to you!” cries mine host, also getting angry;

“and let the Friar tell his story. Now tell on, master, and let the

Summoner gale!”[115]]

This false thief--this Summoner--used to find out, in all sorts of

underhand ways, what people did, right or wrong, by spying in secret, and

by keeping people to spy for him. And when he found out anybody doing

wrong, he would threaten to summon them before the court, and they used to

bribe him with money to let them off. If they were too poor to bribe him,

he would make the archdeacon punish them; but if they had enough money to

give him, he did not care how many bad things they did, and never told the

archdeacon. This was very unjust and wicked, as it encouraged people to do

wrong; and the Summoner grew quite rich in this evil way, for he kept all

the money himself, and did not give it to the archdeacon. He was, you see,

a thief as well as a spy;

For in this world nys dogge for the bowe[116]

That can an hurt dere from an hol y-knowe, whole

No dog on earth that’s trainëd to the bow

Can a hurt deer from an unhurt one know,

better than this cunning man knew what everybody was about,--

And for that was the fruyt of al his rent, because

Therfore theron he set all his entent. thereon, purpose

And so bifel, that oones on a day befell, once

This Sompnour, ever wayting on his pray,

Rod forth to sompne a widew, an old ribibe,[117]

Feynyng a cause, for he wolde han a bribe.

And happede that he say bifore him ryde saw

A gay yeman under a forest syde.

A bowe he bar, and arwes bright and kene;

He had upon a courtepy of grene; short cloak

An hat upon his heed with frenges blake. head

Sir, quoth this Sompnour, heyl and wel overtake. overtaken

Welcome, quod he, and every good felawe. fellow

Whider ridestow under this grene schawe? ridest thou, wood

(Sayde this yiman) wiltow fer to-day?

This Sompnour him[118] answerd and sayde, Nay:

Here faste by, quod he, is myn entent purpose

To ryden, for to reysen up a rent raise

That longith to my lordes dueté. duty

And, since that was the source of all his pelf,

To winning gain he did devote himself.

And so it chanc’d that, once upon a day,

This Summoner, ever waiting for his prey,

Rode forth to summon a widow, a poor soul,

And feign’d a cause, that he might get a dole.

It happen’d that he saw before him ride

A yeoman gay, along the forest side.

A bow he bore, and arrows, bright and keen;

He had on a short upper cloak of green;

A black-fringed hat upon his head was set.

The Summoner cried out, “Hail, sir, and well met!”

“Welcome,” quoth he, “and every one as good!

And whither ridest thou in this green wood?

(The yeoman said) and is it far you go?”

The Summoner made answer, and said, “No:

Close handy here my errand lies,” quoth he,

“I ride to raise a rent that’s owing me,

Belonging to my master’s property.”

“Art thou a bailiff, then?” asks the yeoman. The Summoner was ashamed to

say what he really was, so he said, “Yes.”

“Good,” said the stranger. “Thou art a bailiff and I am another. Let us be

friends. I am unknown in this country; but if you will come and see me in

my country, I have plenty of gold and silver in my chest, and I will share

it all with you.”

“Thank you,” said the greedy Summoner; and they shook hands, and promised

to be staunch friends and sworn brothers till they died! And thus they

rode on together.

The Summoner, who was always inquisitive and asking questions, was very

anxious to know where he could find this amiable new friend, who was so

free with his money.

Brother, quoth he, wher now is your dwellyng,

Another day if that I schulde yow seeche? seek

“Brother,” quoth he, “your dwelling now, where is’t,

If I some future day the place could reach?”

Notice the cunning yeoman’s answer:--

This yiman him answered in softe speche:

Brother, quod he, fer in the north[119] contre,

Wheras I hope somtyme I schal the se; where

Er we depart I schal the so wel wisse, separate, teach

That of myn hous ne schaltow never misse. shalt thou, miss

The yeoman answered him in softest speech:

“Brother,” quoth he, “far in the north countree,

Whereat I hope sometime I shall thee see.

Before we part I shall direct thee so,

Thou canst not fail my dwelling-place to know.”

You will see later why he was so anxious to bring the Summoner to his own

dwelling.

Now, brother, quod this Sompnour, I yow pray you

Teche me, whil that we ryden by the way, ride

Syn that ye ben a baily as am I, since, be

Som subtilte, as tel me faithfully subtilty

In myn office how I may moste[120] wynne. my

And spare not for consciens or for synne, refrain

But, as my brother, tel me how do ye?

“Now, brother,” said the Summoner, “I pray,

Teach me while we are riding on our way,

Since you a bailiff are, as well as I,

Some subtle craft, and tell me faithfully

How in my office I most gold may win,

And hide not aught for conscience or for sin,

But as my brother, tell me how do ye?”

The strange yeoman is delighted at these questions, and you will see that

in his answer he pretends to describe himself, but he is really describing

all the Summoner does!

Now, by my trouthe, brothir myn, sayde he,

As I schal telle the a faithful tale.

My wages ben ful streyt and eek ful smale; narrow, small

My lord to me is hard and daungerous, severe

And myn office is ful laborous, laborious

And therfor by extorciouns[121] I lyve.

Forsoth I take al that men wil me yive, give

Algate by sleighte or by violence, always, cunning

Fro yer to yer I wynne my despence,

I can no better telle faithfully.

Now, certes, quod this Sompnour, so fare I.

I spare not to take, God it woot, knows

But-if it be to hevy or to hoot.[122] unless

What I may gete in counseil prively, get

No more consciens of that have I; conscience

Nere myn extorcions I mighte not lyven, were it not for

Ne of such japes I wil not be schriven. games, shriven

Stomak ne conscience know I noon.

I schrew thes schrifte-fadres, everichoon. curse

Wel be we met, by God and by seint Jame!

But, leve brother, telle me thy name?

Quod this Sompnour. Right[123] in this menewhile

This yeman gan a litel for to smyle. began

Brothir, quod he, woltow that I the telle? wilt thou

I am a feend, my dwellyng is in helle,

And her I ryde about my purchasyng, here

To wite wher men wol yive me eny thing. know

My purchas is theffect of all my rent. the effect

Loke how thou ridest for the same entent

To wynne good, thou rekkist never how,

Right so fare I, for ryde I wolde now

Unto the worldes ende for a praye. prey

A, quod the Sompnour, _benedicite_, what say ye?[124] ah

“Now, by my troth, my brother dear,” quoth he,

“I will be frank with you, and tell you all:

The wages that I get are very small,

My master’s harsh to me, and stingy too,

And hard is all the work I have to do;

And therefore by extortion do I live.

Forsooth, I take what any one will give;

Either by cunning or by violence

From year to year I snatch my year’s expense.

No better can I tell you honestly.”

“Now, truly,” cried the Summoner, “so do I!

I never spare to take a thing, God wot,

Unless it be too heavy or too hot.

What I can grasp by counsel privily,

No scruples in that matter trouble me.

Without extortion I could ne’er subsist,

So in my pranks I ever will persist;

Stomach nor conscience truly I have none.

I hate all these shrift-fathers, every one!

Well met are we, our ways are just the same.

But, my dear fellow, tell me now your name?”

The Summoner entreated him. Meanwhile

That yeoman broke into a little smile.

“Brother,” he answered, “wilt thou have me tell?

--I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,

And here I ride about my purchasing

To know what men will give me anything.

Such gains make up the whole of all my rent.

Look how thou journeyest for the same intent

To reap thy gains, thou carest never how!

Just so I do--for I will journey now

Unto the wide world’s end to get my prey.”

“Mercy!” the Summoner cried, “what is’t ye say?”

He is rather aghast at this awful confession, bad as he admits himself to

be. He had sincerely thought it was a real yeoman; and when he says to

him, with a strange and evil smile, “Shall I tell you?--_I am a fiend, my

dwelling is in hell_,” the horrible candour strikes him dumb for a minute.

He rather wishes he wasn’t his sworn brother. But he very soon gets over

this, thinking of the gold and silver, and begins to talk quite friendly.

I wende ye were a yemen trewely: truly

Ye have a mannes schap as wel as I. shape

“I thought you were a yeoman, verily:

Ye have a human shape as well as I.”

“Have you then a distinct form in hell like what I see?”

“No, certainly,” says the fiend, “there we have none, but we take a form

when we will.”

Or ellis make yow seme that we ben schape It seem to you

Somtyme like a man, or like an ape;

Or lik an aungel can I ryde or go;

It is no wonder thing though it be so.

“Or else we make you think we have a shape,

Sometimes like to a man, or like an ape;

Or like an angel I can ride or go;

It is not wondrous that it should be so.”

“Why, a common conjurer can deceive you any day, and I have tenfold more

cunning than a conjurer!”

“Why,” said the Summoner, quite interested, “do you have several shapes,

and not only one?”

“We borrow whatever shape is best to catch our prey,” said the evil one.

“What makes you take all that trouble?” says the Summoner.

Ful many a cause, lieve sir Sompnour, dear

Sayde this feend. But al thing hath a tyme;

The day is schort, and it is passed prime,[125]

And yit ne wan I nothing in this day; won

I wol entent to winning, if I may, attend

And not entende our thinges to declare.

“Full many a cause, my good sir Summoner,”

Replied the fiend. “But all things have a time;

The day is short, and it is now past prime,

Yet have I not won anything to-day;

I’ll give my mind to winning, if I may,

And not our privy doings to declare.”

For you see the fiend was more intent upon his business than even the

Summoner. However, he goes on to say, that sometimes he is obliged to

work under the great God, without whose sufferance he could never have any

power at all.

For somtyme we ben Goddis instrumentes God’s

And menes to don his comaundementes, means

When that Him list, upon His creatures, He chooses

In divers acts and in divers figures. various

“Sometimes God uses us as instruments

And means, to work out His all-wise intents:

When on us this divine command He lays,

We serve in divers forms and divers ways.”

“But you needn’t be in such a hurry,” he says to the Summoner. “You’ll

know more than you like perhaps before long.”

But oon thing warne I the, I wol not jape, one, jest

Thou wilt algates wite how we ben schape. always know

Thou schalt herafterward, my brother deere,

Com wher the nedith not of me to leere,[126] come, learn

For thou schalt by thin oughn experience own

Conne,[127] in a chayer, reden of this sentence be able, to

counsel, meaning

Bet than Virgile[128] when he was on lyve, better, alive

Or Daunt also. Now let us ryde blyve, quickly

For I wol holde companye with the

Til it be so that thou forsake me.

“But of one thing I warn thee, not in play,

That thou shalt know what we are like, some day.

Thou shalt hereafter come, my brother dear,

Whither thou wilt not need of me to hear;

For thou shalt learned be--nay, specially wise

By self-experience--in these mysteries:

Wiser than Virgil ere from earth he past,

Or Dante either. Let us now ride fast,

For I will keep companionship with thee

Till thou desirest to depart from me.”

A pleasant prospect! However, the Summoner was quite content, so long as

the silver and gold were shared with him. He declares he will never

forsake his sworn brother, though he be a fiend, and promises to share all

his own goods with the evil one! adding--

Tak thou thi part, and that men wil the yyven, thee, give

And I schal myn, thus may we bothe lyven; mine, live

And if that eny of us have more than other, either

Let him be trewe, and part it with his brother.

I graunte, quod the devel, by my fay.

And with that word thay riden forth hir way. ride

“Take thou thy part, whatever men will give,

And I will do the same, so both shall live;

And if the one get more than doth the other,

Let him be true and share it with his brother.”

“I grant it,” said the devil, “by my fay.”

With that, they rode together on their way.

As they proceeded they saw right at the town’s end a cart laden with hay.

The road was heavy with mud, so that the cart stuck. The carter smote his

horses, and cried like mad, “Hait! go on![129] The fiend take you--what a

labour I have with you. The fiend have it all, cart, horse, and hay!”

The Summoner, hearing this, remembered he was to have half of all the evil

one’s goods, and whispered to him, “Don’t you hear what the carter says?

Take it all quick--he has given it you--hay, and cart, and the three

horses!”

“Nay,” said the evil one, “he does not _mean_ what he says. He is only in

a passion. Ask him yourself, or else wait and see what comes next.”

The carter whacked his horses, and they began to stoop and pull the cart

out, and then he said, “Hait! bless you--good Dobbins--well pulled, my own

grey boy! Now is my cart out of the mud.”

“There, brother, what did I tell you?” says the fiend. “Now, you see the

churl said one thing, but he thought another. Let us go on; I shall get

nothing here.”

With that they went a little way outside the town. The Summoner began to

whisper to his companion, “Here there lives an old beldame who would

almost as soon lose her head as give up a penny of her goods. But I mean

to have twelve pence[130] out of her, though she should go mad; or else

I’ll haul her up before the court. And yet, all the same, I know no harm

of her. But if you want a lesson how to extort your gains in your country,

you may take example of me!”

The Summoner goes and raps at the old widow’s gate. “Come out, you old

crone. I dare say you are in mischief there!” he cried.

“Who knocks?” said the old woman. “God save you, sir. What is your will?”

“I’ve a bill of summons against you. On pain of cursing, see that you are

to-morrow before the archdeacon, to answer to the court.”

“God help me,” says the poor old woman, in great distress. “I have been

ill a long time, and cannot walk so far, and to ride[131] would kill me,

my side pricks so. May I not ask for a libel,[132] and answer there by my

procurator whatever there is against me?”

“Yes,” says the Summoner, “pay me--let’s see--twelve pence, and I will let

you off. I shall not get much profit out of that. My master gets it, and

not I. Make haste and give me twelve pence--I can’t wait.”

“Twelve pence!” said the poor widow. “Now, heaven help me out of this. I

have not so much as twelve pence in the whole wide world. You know that I

am old and poor. Rather give me alms.”

“Nay, then,” cries the hard-hearted Summoner, “I will not let you off,

even if you die of it.”

“Alas!” says she, “I am not guilty.”

“Pay me!” cried he, “or I will carry off your new pan besides, which you

owe me, for when you were summoned to the court before, I paid for your

punishment!”

“You lie,” cried the poor old woman. “I was never summoned before to that

court in all my life; and I have done no wrong. May the evil one catch you

for your wickedness, and carry you away, and my pan too!”

And when the fiend heard her curse the Summoner on her knees, he came

forward and said, “Now, good mother, are you in earnest when you say

that?”

“May the devil fetch him, pan and all, before he dies, if he doesn’t

repent!”

“Repent!” cries the wicked Summoner, “I don’t mean to repent anything I

do, I can tell you. I wish I had everything you possess besides--even

every rag you have on!”

“Now, brother,” says the evil one, “don’t be angry; for you and this pan

are mine by right. This very night you shall go with me to hell, and you

will soon know more about our mysteries than a master of divinity!”

And with that word the foule fend him hente; caught

Body and soule, he with the devyl wente,

Wher as the Sompnours han her heritage; their

And God, that maked after His ymage made

Mankynde, save and gyde us alle and some,

And leene this Sompnour good man to bycome. grant

With that the foul fiend took him for his own,

Body and soul he’s with the devil gone,

Whither these Summoners have their heritage

And God, who did create in His image

Mankind, protect and guide us all our days,

And lead this Summoner here to mend his ways.

Lordings, I could have told you, if I had time, all the pains and

punishments which came to this wicked Summoner in hell. But let us all

pray to be kept from the tempter’s power. The lion lies in wait always to

slay the innocent, if he can. Dispose your hearts ever to withstand the

evil fiend who longs to make you his slaves! He will not tempt you above

what you can bear, for Christ will be your champion and your knight.[133]

And pray that this Summoner with us, may repent of his misdeeds before the

devil carries him away.

Notes by the Way.

Legends of the kind told by the Friar were very popular in the mediæval

times, believed in by some as they were laughed at by others. Mr. Wright

conjectures that this tale was translated from some old fabliau. The Friar

evidently counted on the unpopularity of this class of men, the Summoners,

when he held his fellow-traveller up to general ignominy in this way. It

seems a breach of civility and fair-play to modern minds, but the

Summoners were in reality hated universally for their extortion or for

their secret power among the people. As you have seen, the host begins by

calling for justice, but the popular feeling was but too clearly on the

Friar’s side from the first, and mine host shares it. (_Vide_ notes, pp.

31, 57.)

This Tale would appear by no means to discourage swearing; but mark the

distinction drawn between a hearty, deliberate malediction, and the rapid

unmeaning oath which sowed the common talk. The lesson was probably the

more forcible through the absence of any hypercritical censure of ‘strong

language’--censure which would have been vain indeed, in an age when

common oaths were thought as much less of, as positive cursing was more

of, than in the present day.

The rough moral deduced was admirably suited to the coarse and ignorant

minds of the lower orders.

The Clerk’s Tale.

This Sompnour in his styrop up he stood,

Upon the Frere his herte was so wood mad

That lyk an aspen leef he quok for ire. quaked

Lordyngs, quod he, but oon thing I desire;

I yow biseke that of your curtesye,

Syn ye han herd this false Frere lye,

As suffrith me, I may my tale telle. pray suffer

This Frere bosteth that he knowith helle,

And God it wot, that is but litel wonder,[134]

Freres and feendes been but litel asonder.[135]

Sir Clerk of Oxenford, our hoste sayde, Oxford

Ye ryde as stille and coy as doth a mayde[136]

Were newe spoused, syttyng at the bord;[137]

This day ne herde I of your mouth a word.

I trow ye study aboute som sophyme. sophism

But Salomon saith, everythyng hath tyme.

For Goddis sake as beth of better cheere, be

It is no tyme for to stodye hiere. study

Up in his stirrups did the Summoner start,

For with this Friar such rage was in his heart,

That like an aspen-leaf he shook for ire.

“Lordings,” cried he, “but one thing I desire,

And I beseech you of your courtesy,

Since you have heard this falsest Friar lie,

Suffer me, pray, my story now to tell.

This Friar boasts of how he knoweth hell;

Heav’n knows, that if he does it is no wonder,

For fiends and Friars are not far asunder.”

“Sir Clerk of Oxford,” then our landlord said

“You ride as shy and quiet as a maid

Newly espous’d, who sits beside the board;

All day we have not had from you a word.

I guess, some subtle lore you’re studying.

But Solomon says there’s time for everything.

Prithee, rouse up, and be of better cheer,

It is no time for your deep studies here.

“Do not give us a sermon, or something so learned that we cannot

understand it.

Spekith so playn at this tyme, we yow praye,

That we may understonde that ye saye.

“Speak to us very plainly, now, we pray,

That we may understand the whole you say.”

This worthy Clerk answered pleasantly, “Host, I am under your orders, so I

will obey you, and tell you a tale which I learned at Padua, of a worthy

clerk, who has been proved by his words and work.

He is now deed and nayled in his chest, coffin

Now God yive his soule wel good rest! give

Fraunces Petrark,[138] the laureat poete,

Highte this clerk, whos rethorique swete was named

Enlumynd al Ytail of poetrie, Italy

As Linian[139] did of philosophie,

Or lawue, or other art particulere; law

But deth, that wol not suffre us duellen here,

But as it were a twyncling of an ye, eye

Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle schul we dye.

“Now he is dead, and nailéd in his chest,

I pray to God to give his spirit rest!

Francis Petrarch, the poet laureate,

This clerk was call’d, whose rhetoric sweet did late

Illume all Italy with poetry,

As Linian did with his philosophy,

And law, and other noble arts as well;

But death, that will not suffer us here to dwell,

But, as it were, a twinkling of an eye,

Hath slain them both, and we, too, all shall die.”

PART I.

To the west of Italy there is a territory called Saluces,[140] which once

belonged to a marquis very much beloved by all his people. They all obeyed

and respected him, both lords and commoners, and he was very happy.

Besides, he was the noblest born of any one in Lombardy--handsome, and

strong, and young--courteous to all, and discreet enough, except in some

things where he was not quite perfect! and his name was Walter.

The worst fault of him was the careless sort of life he led. He did

nothing but hunt, and hawk, and amuse himself, instead of attending to

more serious duties. This made his people very sorry, and they thought if

Walter had a wife he would get more steady, and not waste his time so

sadly.

One day all his people went in a great crowd to see him; and the wisest

one among them said--“O noble marquis, your goodness gives us courage to

come to you and tell you what we want. Do not be angry, but deign to

listen to us, for we all love you. The only thing needed to make us quite

happy is for you to marry. We pray you, then, to let us find you a nice

wife, and we will choose the noblest and best in the land.”

Walter listened, and then answered--“My dear people, you know I am very

comfortable as I am, and enjoy my liberty: I don’t want a wife. But if it

makes you any happier, I will try and get one as soon as I can. As for

choosing me one, pray don’t take so much trouble. I would much rather do

that for myself. Only remember that when I am married, you must always

show the greatest honour and respect to whoever she may be. For since I

consent to give up my freedom to please you, you must not find fault with

any one whom I choose.”

All the people promised they would be quite content with any wife he

liked, for they were so much afraid he would not marry at all if they

didn’t.

Then, to make quite sure, they begged him to fix exactly the day when the

wedding should take place, and he did so, promising to get everything

ready, according to their request. And the people thanked him on their

knees and went away.