Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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].

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.

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.