sort was denied him, his eager brain turned to science, chemistry, and
inventions. Most of his old friends had vanished; his mother had died
many years before, protected and comforted to the last by Lord Craven,
who had taken for a motto the words "For God and for Her;" and of his
sisters, one was an abbess, the other married to the Elector of Hanover.
He lived alone and quietly at his house in Spring Gardens at the top of
Whitehall, and when he died, comparatively young, he was "generally
lamented for an honest, brave, true-hearted man, whose life had embraced
innumerable toils, and a variety of noble actions by land and by sea."
"It is an infinite pity he is not employed according to his genius," a
friend of his mother's had written to her long years before. "He is
full of spirit and action, and may be compared to steel, which is the
commanding metal if it be rightly tempered and disposed. Whatever he
wills, he wills vehemently."
And this criticism, which was true of him up to the day he died,
contains the essence of his successes and of his failures.
It was in this vaulted chapel of the Tudor kings that Oliver Cromwell
was buried with regal magnificence, his effigy robed in purple,
surrounded by a sceptre, a sword, and an imperial crown, being also
placed in the Abbey. Many of his friends and followers--Pym, the hero
of his early days; Ireton, his son-in-law; Bradshaw, the President of
the Court which had tried and condemned the King in Westminster Hall
close by--were already by his desire buried in the Abbey, as were most
of his immediate family; his old mother, who had always said "she cared
nothing for her son's grandeur, and was always afraid when she heard a
musket lest he should be shot, and his best loved daughter, Betty,
Elizabeth Claypole. The latter was such an attractive girl, and "played
the part of princess so naturally, and obliging all persons by her
civility," that Cromwell feared lest her very charms should be a snare
to her, leading her thoughts from God. His letters to her show all the
tenderest side of his strong nature. "I watch thy growth as a Seeker
after truth," he once wrote to her. "To be a Seeker is to be of the
best sect, next to a Finder. And such a one shall every happy Seeker be
at the end."
[Illustration: OLIVER CROMWELL.]
Oliver Cromwell was ever a son of strife, and two years after his death,
on the anniversary of the king's execution, his body was dragged from
the grave by order of the Restoration Parliament and publicly hung, a
similar revenge being meted out to Bradshaw and Ireton, and the
"pure-souled patriot John Pym."
So to-day we do not even know where he is buried, and only a plate in
the floor of Henry VII.'s chapel, put there by Dean Stanley, shows us
where once the great man lay.
For great he surely was, even though narrow, relentless, arbitrary, and
overbearing; great, that is to say, if high aims, honest ambitions,
dogged courage, and unswerving obedience to what he held to be the
Divine voice, count for ought in the standard we require of our public
men.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*CHAUCER*
Geoffrey Chaucer was the first English poet or writer to be buried
within the Abbey, and just as the Confessor's tomb drew kings and queens
to lie around it, so Chaucer's grave, in a way undreamed of at the time,
consecrated one part of Westminster as the Poets' Corner. And what more
fitting than that he who has been so justly named the "poet of the dawn,
the finder of our fair language, the father of English poetry," should
rest, when his life's work was ended, near to those others with whose
names our early history is studded?
He was born in London about the year 1335, the son of a merchant
vintner, and throughout his life London was to him "a city very deare
and sweete." He was well educated, though where we know not, in
classics, divinity, astronomy, philosophy, and chemistry, and naturally
spoke French fluently, as its use was general. From his boyhood he
loved reading only less than he loved nature.
"On bokes for to rede, I me delyte,
Save certeynly whan that the moneth of May
Is comen, and that I here the foules synge,
And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge,
Farwel my boke and my devocioun."
And almost equally, too, he loved to see life, to travel in foreign
countries, to study, in a kindly sympathetic spirit, human nature in all
its forms, neither criticising harshly nor condemning impatiently, but
just observing and understanding.
Those early years of his life marked a great epoch in England, for
Edward III. made the land ring with the fame of his victories at Crecy
and Poitiers; the valour of his knights and soldiers; the fair and
famous deeds done in the name of that chivalry which was then at its
height; and young Chaucer seems to have caught the reflection of all
that enthusiasm and vigour. He was the child of his age, but he heard
its sobs as well as its laughter, the rattling chains of its slaves as
well as the clanking steel and the trumpet notes of its armed men. The
Black Death and the revolt of the downtrodden peasants made a grim
setting to the picture of heart-stirring triumphs in the battle-field,
and Chaucer saw both the setting and the picture.
When he was about twenty he became attached to the court in a humble
capacity, but his pleasant manners and conversation, his cheerfulness
and his straightforward simplicity, soon won him promotion, so that he
was made first gentleman-in-waiting, then esquire to King Edward, who
more than once spoke of him as his "beloved valet," and who trusted him
well enough to send him on many important missions to foreign countries
as his messenger. But Chaucer's greatest and unchanging ally at court
was the king's brother, John of Gaunt. For more than forty years their
friendship remained unbroken through many ups and downs of fortune.
In 1369 John of Gaunt's first wife, Blanche, died, young, beautiful, and
beloved. Chaucer had already shown his power of writing excellent verse
by a translation he had made from a celebrated French poem "Le Roman de
la Rose," so it was only natural that John of Gaunt should turn to him
when in the sorrow of the moment he desired the goodness and charm of
his lady to be commemorated. The result was the "Book of the Duchess,"
a story told as an allegory, for Chaucer was under the spell of French
literature, which revelled in allegory. In this book he tells how one
May morning, the sun shining in at his windows, and the sound of the
"sweete foule's carolling," drew him forth into the forest, where, led
thereto by a faithful dog, he found a knight dressed in black, mourning
all in a quiet spot among the mighty trees. His hands drooped, his face
was pale, he could not be consoled. But finding the poet a sympathetic
listener, he told him the story of his sorrow.
"My lady bright
Which I heve loved with all my might,
Is from me deed, and is agone ...
That was so fair, so fresh, so free."
Years of happiness he had spent with her, this sweet lady, who yet was
so strong and helpful.
"When I hed wrong and she the right,
She wolde alwey so goodely
Forgive me so debonnairly.
In alle my youth, in alle chance,
She took me in her governaunce.
Therewith she was alway so trewe,
Our joys was ever y-liche newe."
And now she was dead. Words of comfort were of no avail. The poet
could no longer intrude on grief so overwhelming. He could only
silently sympathise, and then leave the mourning knight alone in his
sorrow, with the parting words
"Is that your los? By God, hit is routhe."
Soon after he had written this touching tribute to the memory of a woman
who had been his ideal of goodness and graciousness, Chaucer was sent on
a mission to Genoa and Florence, a journey which left its influence upon
him in a very marked manner, as he made the acquaintance of Francis
Petrarch, the Italian poet, and through him he learned to know the works
of Dante and the delightful stories of Boccaccio. A new world was
opened out to him, and eagerly he wandered through it, eyes and mind
open to every fresh vision that unfolded itself before him. From this
time forward his works were tinged with Italian influence, and thereby
became much the richer. For he lost none of his own sturdy
individuality and fresh, pure style; he only added to this more warmth,
more colouring, more romance.
On his return to England he was made Comptroller of the Customs of the
Port of London, on the understanding that he did all the accounts
himself, so important was it that this post should be filled by a man
who was both shrewd and honest; and in addition to this both the king
and John of Gaunt granted him certain allowances and privileges, so that
in worldly affairs he prospered. Good fortune, however, did not cause
him to become idle, and his poems followed each other in quick
succession. There was the "Assembly of Fowles," of course an allegory,
and written probably to celebrate the betrothal of young King Richard to
the Princess Anne of Bohemia.
"Troilus and Cresside" was a much deeper poem, full of sadness, and
Chaucer himself called it his "little Tragedie," adding the hope that
one day God might send it to him to "write some Comedie." It is in this
work that he refers to the great difficulty with which he, in common
with the other writers of his day, had to contend--the unsettled state
of the language. The struggle as to whether the French or English
tongue should prevail had been a fierce one, but it was now in its last
throes. Chaucer, through his works, helped more than any one else to
develop our language as it is to-day, and strenuously avoided those
"owre curyrows termes which could not be understood of comyn people, and
which in every shire varied." But his own words show the difficulties
which beset him.
"And for there is so great diversite
In English, and in writing of our tong,
So pray I God that none miswrite thee
Or thee mismetre for default of tong,
And red whereso thou be, or elles song,
That thou be understood, God I beseech."
And it is just because he wrote to be understood that the charm of
Chaucer's style remains for ever fresh and entrancing.
In his "House of Fame" he had free scope for his pleasant wit,
especially when he tells of all he saw and heard in the "House of
Rumour," whither came shipmen, pilgrims, pardoners, couriers, and their
like, each bringing scraps of news, which, whether true or false, were
passed on, growing like a rolling snowball. He set fame at its true
value, and for himself only desires that in life he might be able to
"study and rite alway," while for the rest--
"It suffyceth me, as I were dedd,
That no wight have my name in honde,
I wot myself best how I stonde."
The "Legend of Good Women" was written in praise of all those maidens
and wives who loved truly and unchangingly.
Hitherto Chaucer, whose married life was not an altogether happy one,
had sung but little of love in its highest, purest form. But here, in a
prologue sparkling and radiant as the morning he describes, he tells us
how he went out to greet the daisy, the flower he loved, and would ever
love anew till his heart did die.
"Kneeling alway, til it unclosed was
Upon the swete, softe, swote gras
That was with floures swote embroidered all.
In his dream there came to him the God of Love, with his queen,
Alcestis, who, daisy-like, was clad in royal habits green--
"A fret of golde she hedde next her heer,
And upon that a white courone she beer."
She it was who made him swear that from henceforth he would "poetize of
wommen trewe in lovying," "speke wel of love," and so make a glorious
legend.
Chaucer had intended writing at least nineteen stories on the lines
decreed by Alcestis, but his days of prosperity had come to an end for
the time being, with the exile of John of Gaunt, and he became so poor
after his dismissal from the Customs, that he had to raise money on his
pension. And so the legend seems to have been laid aside.
When Henry of Lancaster became king five years later, he doubled the
pension, remembering how his father, just dead, had loved the poet; and
so the cloud, which had been heavy enough while it lasted, passed away.
But it is to those dark days that we owe the greatest of all Chaucer's
work--his "Canterbury Tales"--work, it must be remembered, which rings
and re-rings with cheerfulness, courage, sympathy, and kindliness. We
know so little of Chaucer as a man but this one fact stands out, that he
never allowed his own troubles or anxieties, or even his pressing
poverty, to over-cloud his heart or his mind. For him the sun shone
always, though he saw it not, and because of that sunshine no trace of
bitterness or harshness is to be found in his work.
In the prologue to the "Tales" Chaucer explains his plot in the most
natural and personal way. One day in the spring, he says, he was
waiting at the Tabard Inn, to rest before continuing a pilgrimage he had
set out to make to Canterbury, when twenty-nine other pilgrims, all
bound for the same destination, arrived. He soon made friends with
them, and, finding their company very entertaining, arranged to join
this party. Then came the proposal that each one should tell two tales
to enliven the journey; a good supper at the end to be the reward of the
pilgrim whose story found most favour. The jovial host of the inn
decided to join them, and one morning in early spring the procession set
out. What a motley crowd they were! Yet Chaucer, with his happy knack
of describing people just as they appeared, has made them all so real to
us, that it is easy to picture each one of them, and in so doing to get
a vivid glimpse of the men and women whom the poet was accustomed to
meet every day of his life. But for Chaucer we should know next to
nothing about the people of his day. First came the knight, who "lovede
chyvalrye," who had ridden far afield in his master's wars; a great
soldier, but tender as a woman, "a verrey parfyte gentil knight." With
him was his son, acting as his squire, great of strength, able to make
brave songs, and to sit well his horse, handsomely dressed, yet in his
manners "curteys, lowly, and servysable." His attendant was a yeoman,
sunburnt and sturdy, who carried the sheaf of arrows, which he could
dress right yeomanly. It seems likely that for a short while Chaucer
served as a soldier in France, and if so, how familiar these three must
have been to him. Then came the prioress, very "pleasant and semely,"
adopting court manners, and impressing every one with the idea that she
was so compassionate and charitable that even to see a mouse in a trap
made her weep. She had her own attendant nuns and priests. The monk
was only interested in riding, but the friar, who was licensed to hear
confessions, raise money, and perform the offices of the Church in a
certain district, was merry, the good friend of all rich women, and
reported to "hear confession very sweetly," being easy with the penances
he ordered. Sometimes he lisped, "to make his English sweet upon the
tongue," and when he sang to his guitar, "his eyes shone like stars on a
frosty night." The merchant sat high on his horse, and talked loudly of
his increased wealth, a great contrast to the poor clerk of Oxford, who
looked hollow, wore a threadbare cloak, and had not been worldly enough
to get a benefice. The sergeant-at-law, the landholder, the haberdasher,
carpenter, weaver, dyer, tapestry-maker, the cook, the sailor, and the
doctor, all had their special characteristics, but of these there is not
space to speak. The wife of Bath had a bold face and wore bright
clothes; had buried five husbands, all of whom she had ruled, and was
quite willing to try a sixth. The poor parson, who was "a shepherd holy
and vertuous, never despising sinful men, but teaching them the law of
Christ, which he faithfully followed," was, I think, the pilgrim whom
Chaucer most reverenced. The religion of the monks and friars revolted
him, but those poor priests, leading their simple lives of work and
worship, were to his eyes in very truth the servants of Christ, who
witnessed loyally to their Master, in spite of the contempt with which
their very poverty caused them to be treated. His brother, the
ploughman, was in his way as good a man as the priest, for he was a true
and honest labourer, who lived in charity with all, loved God, and
would, for Christ's sake, "thresh, dyke, or delve for the poor widow's
hire." The miller; the manciple, who bought the food for an Inn of
Court; the reeve or steward; the summoner to the ecclesiastical courts;
and the pardoner, with his packets of relics which he always sold
successfully, made up the party; and all having agreed to the host's
proposals as to the tales to be told, they drew lots to decide who
should begin, the choice falling on the knight, whereat all rejoiced.
"Tell us merry things," was the injunction of the host, who was
rejoicing in a spell of freedom from his wife's sharp eyes and sharper
tongue, and--
"Speak ye so plain at this time, we you pray,
That we may understande what you say."
Just as Chaucer gave to each pilgrim his own individuality, so in every
case he fitted the story to its teller. The knight had a tale of love,
romance, and adventure; the clerk chose for heroine the patient,
much-suffering Griselda; the prioress told of a child-martyr, and the
poor parson, in earnest words, drew their thoughts upward to "that
parfyt glorious pilgrimage which each and all must make to celestial
Jerusalem." Chaucer did not live to finish all the tales he had planned
out. In the year 1399 he had taken on a long lease a house at
Westminster, which stood where now is Henry VII.'s chapel, and here he
spent the last few months of his life, reading and writing contentedly
to the end, in high favour at the Palace hard by, and the centre of a
little group who loved and revered him. Probably the poor priest's tale
was his last bit of work, and that significantly ends with words
concerning the pilgrimage of man to the Heavenly City, "To thilke life
He bring us, that bought us with His precious blood. Amen."
Chaucer's wife had been dead many years, and of his children we know
nothing, except that to his son Lewis he gave an astrolabe, an
instrument for taking the height of the stars, and wrote for him a
"little treatise" on the subject, in which he craves pardon for his
"rude inditing and his superfluity of words," explaining that a child is
best taught by simple words and much repetition. But we can never think
of Chaucer as alone or solitary in his old age. Rather was the house at
Westminster a pleasant haven of rest where he anchored surrounded by his
many comrades and friends. So greatly honoured was he, that when he
died it was at once decided to bury him in the Abbey. The verses with
which I end have been called Chaucer's Creed, and some say he repeated
them just before his death. Certain it is that they guided his conduct
through life.
THE GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER
Flee from the crowd and dwell with truthfulness,
Contented with thy good, though it be small.
Treasure breeds hate and climbing dizziness;
The world is envious, wealth beguiles us all.
Care not for loftier things than to thee fall,
Counsel thyself, who counsel'st others' need,
And Truth shall thee deliver without dread.
Pain thee not all the crooked to redress,
Trusting to her who turneth as a ball;
For little meddling wins much easiness.
Beware lest thou dost kick against an awl!
Strive not, as doth a clay pot with a wall.
Judge thou thyself, who judgest others' deeds,
And Truth shall thee deliver without dread.
All that is sent receive with cheerfulness:
To wrestle with this world inviteth fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth! pilgrim, forth! Forth, beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God for all!
Cast by ambition, let thy soul thee lead,
And Truth shall thee deliver, without dread.
[Illustration: CHAUCER'S TOMB.]
*CHAPTER XV*
*SPENSER, ADDISON, AND THE POETS' CORNER*
Chaucer was buried in the year 1400, and it was close upon two hundred
years before another great poet, Edmund Spenser, "followed here the
footing of his feet." During much of this interval England had been in
a state of unrest and excitement. First the Wars of the Roses, then the
Reformation, with the bitter persecutions that followed it, had stirred
men to the very core. Their eyes had been dazzled by the sudden and
vehement changes which had followed each other. English blood had flown
freely, English life had been offered up on English soil, not only in
the great battles of the Civil War, but on scaffolds and in fiery names.
It had not been an age for poets or writers. Of the few who have left
their mark on our literature during that time, John Wycliffe had not
even been allowed to rest in peace after death, for his body was taken
from its grave and burnt, and his ashes were thrown into the river
Swift, while both Sir Thomas More and the Earl of Surrey had been
executed at the command of Henry VIII. One important piece of work had
indeed been commenced and carried on during those days of storm which
affected both earlier and later writers, and which was distinctly
connected with the Abbey. For in the year 1477, William Caxton had
settled with his printing press in the Almonry at Westminster, and had
issued his famous advertisement, in which he had made known the fact
"that if it should plese ony man, spiritual or temporal, to bye ony pyes
of two and three commemoracions of Salisbro's use, enpryntid after the
forme of this present lettre, which been wel and truly correct, lete hym
come to Westmonester into the Almonerye at the Red Pale, and he shal
have them good chepe." He had learned his art in Cologne and Bruges,
having lived for nearly thirty years in the latter place, where he
traded as a merchant, and during those years he had translated a number
of books into English. Why he settled on Westminster when at last he
returned to England as a middle-aged man, we know not, unless it was
that he fancied he should find quiet and security under the walls of the
Abbey, or that the abbots and monks, as the patrons of learning, would
prove themselves good friends to him. But here he came, and here from
his study, "where lay many and diverse paunflettis and bookys," this
wonderful man, who was master-printer, translator, corrector, and
editor, worked and directed his apprentices. Over a hundred different
books were issued from this press, among them being "The Canterbury
Tales," the "fayre and ornate termes" of which gave Caxton "such greate
playsir," that he desired to make them widely known. Many people, some
friends, some strangers, found their way, full of curiosity and
interest, to the quaint house, which was marked by a large white shield
with a red bar, there to watch Master Caxton and his workmen at their
strange new craft, and many shook their heads, declaring that "so many
books could never find purchasers." But the wise printer heeded them
not. He worked with a will from morn till eve, and marked his hours by
the Abbey bells. It was not only Chaucer's writings that he gave to the
public, but many other works which without him would long have remained
unknown or forgotten, and more than any one else he helped to fix the
language which Chaucer had used, by himself using the same in all his
translations. His busy life came to an end in 1491, and he was buried
in the Church of St. Margaret's, Westminster. But at the sign of the
Red Pale his favourite apprentice, Wynken de Worde, carried on the
master's work with the same extraordinary industry, producing no fewer
than five hundred separate books up to the time of his death in 1535.
This date brings us to within about twenty years of the time when Edmund
Spenser, Walter Raleigh, and Philip Sidney, the singing birds and
knightly spirits of the Elizabethan Court, were born. Like Chaucer,
Spenser was a Londoner and he describes his birthplace as
"The merry London, my most kyndly nurse,
That to me gave this life's first active source."
He proudly declared that "he took his name from an ancient house," but
we know little of his immediate family. His boyhood was spent at
Smithfield, then within easy reach of woods and fields, and he has given
us a glimpse of it in these words, which show that he was a boy very
much like all other boys:--
"Whilome in youth, when flowed my joy full spring
Like swallow swift, I wandered here and there
for heat of headlesse lust me did so sting,
That I oft doubted daunger, had no fear:
I went the wastefull woodes and forrest wide
Withouten dread of wolves to bene espied.