PART VI.

At last the Earl of Panik arrived, whose fame had been spreading among great and small. The people had all found out that he was bringing them a new marchioness, in such pomp and state, that never before had a like splendour been seen throughout West Lombardy.

The marquis, who had arranged all these things, sent for this poor innocent Griselda; and she came with humble mind and joyful face, and no proud notions in her heart, and knelt before him and asked his will.

“Griselda,” he said, “my will is that the maiden whom I am to marry be received here as royally as it is possible in my house to be, and that everybody, according to his degree, shall be made thoroughly welcome and happy. I have no woman able to arrange my rooms fully to my liking, and therefore I want you to take everything in hand. You know of old my ways and my tastes; therefore, though your dress _is_ ragged and you look very bad, you must do your duties to the very best of your power.”

Griselda answered, “Not only, lord, am I glad to do anything for you, but I love you enough to work all my days to please you.”

And with that worde sche gan the hous to dighte, And tables for to sette, and beddes make:

And with that word she ’gan the house to deck, To set the tables and to make the beds:

begging all the chambermaids to hasten and hurry and shake and sweep smartly; and she, most serviceable of them all, got every chamber and the great hall garnished and adorned.

Abouten undern gan this lord alighte, forenoon That with him broughte these noble children tweye; two For which the peple ran to se that sighte Of hir array, so richely biseye; rich to be seen And than at erst amonges hem thay seye at first That Walter was no fool, though that hem leste he pleased To chaunge his wyf; for it was for the beste.

For sche is fairer, as thay demen alle, deem Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age. younger

Somewhat ere noonday did this earl alight, Who with him brought the unknown children fair, And all the people ran to see the sight Of their array, resplendent as they were; And soon the common thought was whispered there, That Walter was no fool for being glad To change his wife--a good exchange he had!

For she is fairer, as they notice all, Than is Griselda, tenderer of age.

And the throngs of admiring serfs stood making their light remarks, forgetful of the victim of it all, and her undeserved disgrace. They watch the fair bride and the handsome boy beside her, and every moment the marquis seems to get more popular.

O stormy poeple, unsad and ever untrewe, unsteady And undiscret and chaunging as a fane, indiscreet Delytyng ever in rombel that is newe, noise For lik the moone ay waxe ye and wane, Ay ful of clappyng, dere ynough a jane,[155] chattering Youre doom is fals, your constaunce yvil previth, judgment, ill proveth A ful gret fool is he that on yow leevith. believeth

O stormy people, light, and ever untrue, And undiscerning--changing as a fane, Delighting in new noise, because ’tis new, How like the moon do ye, too, wax and wane! Your empty praise, like worthless coin, is vain: False is your judgment, frail your constancy, Who trusts to you--a full great fool is he.

That is what the graver people in the city said when the populace were gazing up and down, glad for the novelty, to have a new lady in the castle.

Meanwhile Griselda was working busily at everything that was needed for the feast. She was nothing abashed at her clothing, though it was rude and coarse, and somewhat torn besides. She went to the gate with the rest to salute the bride, and hurried back at once to her work.

She received every one cheerfully, and in such a manner that no one had a fault to find with her; but some of them wondered who this woman was, in such shabby clothes, but who behaved with so much grace and propriety; and many praised her diligence and wisdom.

When all the great lords were about to sit down to supper, Walter called to Griselda, who was working in the hall.

Grisyld, quod he, as it were in his play, How likith the my wif and hir beauté? do you like Right wel, my lord, quod sche, for in good fay faith A fairer saugh I never noon than sche. none I pray to God yive hir prosperité; And so hope I that he wol to yow sende Plesaunce ynough unto your lyves ende. pleasantness

On thing biseke I yow, and warne also,[156] beseech That ye ne prike with no tormentynge prick This tendre mayden, as ye han doon mo: more (others) For she is fostrid in hir norischinge fostered, nourishing More tendrely, and to my supposyng: as I suppose Sche couthe not adversité endure, As couthe a pore fostrid creature. could, poorly

And whan this Walter saugh hir pacience, Hir glade cheer, and no malice at al, And he so oft hadde doon to hir offence, And sche ay sad, and constant as a wal, steady Continuyng ever hir innocence overal: This sturdy marquis gan his herte dresse direct To rewen upon hir wyfly stedefastnesse. to pity

This is ynough, Grisilde myn, quod he, Be now no more agast, ne yvel apayed, afraid, disappointed I have thy faith and thy benignité, goodness As wel as ever womman was, assayed essayed In gret estate, and pourliche[157] arrayed. poorly Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedefastnesse. And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse. kiss

And sche for wonder took of it no keepe, heed Sche herde not what thing he to hir sayde, Sche ferd as sche hadde stert out of a sleepe, fared, started Til sche out of hir masidnesse abrayde. awoke Grisild, quod he, by God that for us deyde, died Thou art my wyf, non other I ne[158] have, Ne never had, as God my soule save.

This is thy[159] doughter, which thou hast supposed To be my wif: that other faithfully Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed. Thow bar hem of thy body trewely. At Boloyne have I kept hem prively. Tak hem agayn, for now maistow not seye mayest thou That thou hast lorn noon of thy children tweye. lost

And folk, that other weyes han seyd of me, I warn hem wel, that I have doon this deede done For no malice, ne for no cruelté, But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede; to assay, womanhood And not to slen my children (God forbede!) forbid But for to kepe hem prively and stille quietly Til I thy purpos knewe, and al thy wille!

“Grisild,” he said to her, as if in play, “How seems my wife and her fair looks to thee?” “Right well, my lord,” said she, “for in good fay I never saw a fairer bride than she; I pray God give you both prosperity; And so I hope that He will ever send You happiness enough to your lives’ end.

“One thing I pray of you, and warn beside, That you goad not with any torturing This tender maid--like some you have sore tried For she is nurtured in her upbringing More tenderly--and such a gentle thing Might haply not adversity endure Like one whose nurture had been hard and poor.”

And when this Walter saw her patientness, Her cheerful mien, and malice none at all; Though he so oft had tried her more or less, And she still firm and constant as a wall, Continuing ever her innocence over all: This sturdy marquis ’gan his heart to chide, Touch’d by her steadfast faith that never died.

“This is enough, Griselda mine,” said he, “Be no more ill at ease, and fear no more! I have thy faith and strength and charity Tempted, as woman never was before, Both in thy wealth, and in thy rags so poor. Now do I know, dear wife, thy steadfastness:” And clasp’d her in his arms with many a kiss.

But she for wonder took no heed of him, She heard not any of the words he spoke, She seemed as one that starteth from a dream Till she from her astonishment awoke. “Griselde,” cried he, “it was a cruel joke: Thou art my wife, none other one I have, Nor ever had--as God my soul shall save!

“This is thy daughter, whom thou hast supposed To be my wife--that other faithfully Shall be my heir, as I have long disposed; For they are both thy children, verily. I kept them at Bologna privily. Take them again, thou canst not say, as once, Thou hast lost either of thy little ones.

“And folk, who otherwise have said of me, I warn them well that I have acted thus, Neither in malice nor in cruelty, Solely to prove thy patience marvellous, And not to slay my babes (God hinder us!) But to conceal them secretly apart Until I learned thy purpose and thy heart!”

You may fancy you see Griselda at this moment, standing in her rags before the glittering company, and her brain dazed with wondering whether this were some new freak, or the truth that brought unheard-of joy. But nature had been taxed too far, and all her courage could not bear up against the shock.

Whan sche this herd, aswone doun she fallith, in a swoon For pitous joy, and after her swownyng swooning Sche bothe hir yonge children to hir callith, And in hir armes, pitously wepyng, Embraseth hem, and tendrely kissyng, Ful lik a moder, with hir salte teres tears Sche bathide bothe hir visage and hir heres.[159] their hair

When she heard this, all senseless down she falleth, For piteous joy--and half unconsciously Both her young children unto her she calleth, And in her arms, weeping so piteously, Embraceth them, with kisses tenderly, Full like a mother, and the tears she sheds Bathe the fair faces and the dear loved heads.

Piteous it was to hear her humble voice, thanking Walter so fervently. “_Graunt mercy_, lord, God thank you,” cried she, “for saving me my children. Now I care not how soon I die, since your love has come back to me.

O tendre, O dere, O yonge children myne,[160] Youre woful moder wende stedefastly believed That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne wild dogs Had eten yow: but God of his mercy, And your benigne fader tenderly Hath doon yow kepe. And in that same stounde preserved you, moment Al sodeinly sche swapped doun to grounde. sank

And in hir swough so sadly holdith sche swoon, firmly Hir children tuo, whan sche gan hem tembrace, to embrace them That with gret sleight and gret difficulté skill The children from her arm they gonne arace. tear away O! many a teer on many a pitous face Doun ran of hem that stooden hir bisyde, down, stood, beside Unnethe aboute hir mighte thay abyde. hardly

Waltier hir gladith, and hir sorwe slakith, cheers, sorrow Sche rysith up abaisshed from hir traunce, abashed And every wight hir joy and feste makith, everybody Til sche hath caught agayn hir continaunce; countenance Wauter hir doth so faithfully plesaunce, comforts her That it was daynté for to see the cheere dainty Bitwix hem tuo, now thay be met in feere. company

These ladys, whan that thay hir tyme save, their, saw Han taken hir, and into chambre goon, have And strippen hir out of hir rude arraye, And in a cloth of gold that brighte schon, shone With a coroun of many a riche stoon crown, stone Upon hir heed, they into hallo hir broughte, And ther sche was honoured as hir oughte. she ought to be

Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende; For every man and womman doth his might best This day in mirth and revel to despende, Til on the welken schon the sterres brighte; welkin For more solempne in every mannes sighte stately, man’s This feste was, and gretter of costage, greater, cost Than was the revel of hir mariage.

“O young, O dear, O tender children mine, Your hapless mother thought in all her wo That cruel beasts of prey and foul vermine Had slain you both; but God had mercy--lo! He and your loving father will’d it so That you should be preserved:” and said no more, But suddenly fell fainting on the floor.

And in her swoon so closely holdeth she Her new-found children in a strong embrace. That those around unclasp not easily The fingers which so firmly interlace: O! many a tear on many a pitying face Ran down in token of deep sympathy-- Scarce could they bear to watch her agony.

Walter consoleth her as she awaketh: She riseth up bewildered from her trance: Each presseth round about and merry maketh Until she hath recovered countenance. With kisses and with loving word and glance Walter doth cheer her--sweet it was to see The joy they felt--united happily.

And when they saw their time, these ladies gay Unto a chamber led her forth with them, And stript her out of all her rude array, And in apparel bright with many a gem Clad her, and, crownëd with a diadem Upon her head, they brought her to the hall, Where she was meetly honoured of them all.

Thus hath this piteous day a blissful end, Till every man and woman in the rout Striveth the day in mirth and glee to spend, Till in the darken’d sky the stars shone out; For greater and more sumptuous, without doubt, This revel was--and there was more to pay-- Than the rejoicings on her marriage-day.

Thus dwelt, for many years after, Walter and his wife in peace and joy; and I hope that the suffering of that day was the last Griselda had to bear at the hands of her capricious and wilful spouse. The pretty daughter Walter married to one of the greatest lords in Italy; and he then brought Griselda’s old father to dwell in peace and comfort in his own court.

His son succeeded to his state and rank, and married happily, though he did not tempt and torment his wife as Walter did; for the world is not so strong as it once was, and people cannot bear such treatment now!

The story is told, not that wives should imitate Griselda in humility, for it would be unbearable, even if they did; but that every one in his degree should be constant in adversity as Griselda was. For if one woman could be so submissive to a mortal man, how much more ought we to take patiently all that God sends as our lot in life.

But one word before I stop! It would be hard to find in a whole city three, or even two, Griseldas nowadays. The gold in their nature is now so mixed with base metal that in any great trial the coin would sooner break than bend.

Grisild is deed, and eek hir pacience, also And bothe at oones buried in Itayle; once For whiche I crye in open audience No weddid man so hardy be to assayle His wyves pacience, in hope to fynde Grisildes, for in certeyn he schal fayle.

Dead is Griselda, and her patience, Both buried in one grave in Italy; So I entreat in open audience No wedded man be rash enough to try His own wife’s patience, in the hope to find Griselda’s, for he’ll fail most certainly!

Notes by the Way

The tender pathos in Chaucer’s telling of this story (which he borrowed from Petrarch, but which is really much older than his time), cannot be excelled in any story we know of. The definite human interest running all through it points to some living Griselda, but who she was, or where she came from, no one knows. Resignation, so steadfast and so willing, was the virtue of an early time, when the husband was really a ‘lord and master’; and such submission in a woman of the present civilization would be rather mischievous than meritorious. If a modern wife cheerfully consented to the murder of her children by her spouse, she would probably be consigned to a _maison de santé_, while her husband expiated his sins on the scaffold; and if she endured other persecutions, such as Griselda did, it is to be hoped some benevolent outsider would step in, if only to prevent cruelty to animals.

But it must be remembered that in the old world wives held a very different position in society, and the obedience of all the household to the lord of the castle was the chief secret of peace, discipline, and unity, as obedience to the captain of a vessel is now. We may also infer, from many hints in this Tale, the admiration felt for that kind of self-command in which people of a ruder time were so deficient. When almost everybody gave way habitually to violent emotions of all sorts, those who could rein in feeling were held in high esteem. Perhaps Walter himself may not have been wantonly cruel, but only so bewildered by these unaccustomed virtues that he could not trust their sincerity without experiments.[161]

Chaucer seems to me to have devoted especial pains to the Clerk’s Tale, relating it in the same careful versification as the history of the pious Constance (Man of Law’s Tale), the holy St. Cecilia (second Nonne’s Tale), and the Prioress’s Tale--all religious, and undoubtedly written _con amore_.

The story of Griselda winds up with real artistic power, the Clerk concluding with an ironical little song addressed to ordinary wives, so as to leave his hearers laughing, instead of depressed by the inadequate reward of patient Grizel’s virtues. This little song consists of six beautiful verses, of six lines only each, and in which every line rhymes with the corresponding line in the five other verses. Clearly great labour has been lavished on it--but I have not included it, as the ironical directions to wives to be _bad_ wives would be probably not understood by a child, and superfluous if they were.

The Franklin’s Tale.

Mine host would not suffer long delay between the stories; and as soon as the last story was at an end, he called upon the Franklin to begin.

In Armorike,[162] that is called Brittany, there was a knight named Arviragus, who loved the lady Dorigene. Much he laboured, and many a brave deed he performed for her sake. He loved her so dearly that no trouble seemed to him too great to win her love, for she was the fairest lady under the sun, and, moreover, came of high lineage. But, at last, seeing his worthiness and meek obedience, she consented to take him for her husband and her lord (such lordship as men have over their wives); and, in order that they might live more happily together, Arviragus, of his own free will, swore, as a knight, that he would never tyrannize over her, but follow her wishes in all things, as he had done ever.[163]

This kindness touched the lady deeply, and she thanked Arviragus; and, with great humility, she said, “Since of your gentillesse you proffer me so much power, I will always be a humble and true wife to you. Have here my troth, until my life shall end.”

Thus they lived happily and at peace; for those who would live long together must give in to each other.

Love wol nought ben constreigned by maystrie: mastery Whan maystrie cometh, the god of love anon soon Beteth his winges, and fare wel--he is gon!

Love will not be constrained by tyranny; When mastery cometh, the god of Love anon Beateth his wings, and farewell!--he is gone!

For women wish for liberty, and not to be kept like slaves--and so do men also, if I tell truth. And whoever is patient in love, has all the advantage. Patience is a high virtue, for it overcomes things that rigour cannot do.

Arviragus went home with his wife to his own country, not far from Penmark,[164] where they dwelt ‘in bliss and in solace.’

When a year had passed away, this knight Arviragus made ready to go to England[165] to seek fame and honour in the service of arms, and there he dwelt two years.

But Dorigene loved her husband so dearly that she wept and fell sick when she was left alone. She could not sleep or eat, and as time went on, all her friends thought she would die. They tried to amuse her all that they could. Night and day they strove to comfort her, she was so sad, and begged her to go and roam with them in the fields and on the sea-shore.

You know even a stone will show some pattern at last if you cut long enough at it: and after a while Dorigene began to try and cheer up a little. Meanwhile, Arviragus sent letters home to tell her he would speedily return, else grief had slain her heart!

Now, Dorigene’s castle stood near the sea; and sometimes she used to walk with her friends and her people on the cliffs, from whence she could see ever so many great ships and barges sailing by. But even the sea began to make her sad, for she said to herself, “Of all these ships that I see, is there not one will bring me back my lord?”

At other times she would sit and look down from the brink of the cliff; but when she saw the grisly black rocks that wrecked so many ships, her heart quaked with fear, and she sank on the green grass, and cried, with deep sighs of grief, “Would to God that all these black rocks were sunk into the earth, for my lord’s sake!” and the piteous tears fell from her eyes.

Her friends soon saw it did her no good looking at the sea, but only made her worse. So they led her by rivers, and in beautiful green places, where they danced, and played at chess and tables.[166]

So on a day, right in the morwe tyde, morning Unto a gardyne that was ther besyde, In which that thay hadde made here ordinaunce Of vitaile, and of other purvyaunce, victual They gon and pleyen hem al the longe day. go, play And this was on the sixte morwe of May,[167] Which May had peynted with his softe schoures This gardyn ful of leves and of floures.

So on a day, before the sun was high, Unto a garden fair that was hard by (Wherein they had spread forth their meat and drink, And every comfort that the heart could think), They went--and sported all the whole long day, And this was on the sixth sweet morn of May, When May had painted, with his tender showers, This garden full of fragrant leaves and flowers.

The odour of flowers and the fresh scene would have made any heart light that ever was born except one burdened by great sickness or great sorrow. After dinner they began to dance and sing--all save Dorigene, whose heart was sad. He whom she loved best was not among them.

There danced, among others, a squire before Dorigene, who was handsomer, and more radiant in array, and fresher than a May morning. He sang and danced better than anybody ever danced before, or will again! And, besides, he was young, strong, and virtuous, and rich and wise, and held in great esteem.

This squire, whose name was Aurelius, had long loved the Lady Dorigene, but she knew nothing of it. He did not dare to tell her his grief, and could only sing songs, in which he complained in a general way that he loved some one who regarded him not.

He made a great many songs in this strain.

But at last, on this day it happened, as Aurelius was her neighbour, and a man of worship and honour, Dorigene fell a-talking with him; and when he saw a chance, Aurelius said to her, “Madam, I wish when Arviragus went over the sea, I had gone whither I could never come back! For well I know you do not care for me. Madam, forget Arviragus: and love me a little, or I shall die!”

Dorigene looked at him, and said, “Is this your will? I never knew what you meant. But now, this is my answer: I cannot forget my Arviragus, and I do not care for any one but him!”

But afterwards she said in play, “Aurelius, I will love you when you have taken away all the rocks and stones that hinder the ships from sailing. And when you have made the coast so clear that there is not a single stone to be seen, then I will love you best of any man.” For she well knew the rocks could never be moved.

But Aurelius was sorely grieved. “Is there no other grace in you?” said he. “No, by that Lord who made me,” Dorigene answered. “Madam, it is an impossibility,” he said; “I must die.”

Then came Dorigene’s other friends, who knew nothing of this. They roamed up and down the green alleys, and betook themselves to new sports and new revels; but Aurelius did not mingle with them. He went sorrowfully to his own home, for it seemed as though he felt his heart grow cold.

He was so sad that he fell sick, and so suffered a long, long time, telling his trouble to nobody in the world; except to his brother, who was a clerk,[168] and who was very sorry for him.

His breast was hole withouten for to sene, see But in his herte ay was the arwe kene. ever

His breast was whole without, to every eye, But in his heart the arrow keen did lie.

And well you know that it is a perilous cure when a wound is healed outwardly only!

Meanwhile, Arviragus came home from England to his faithful wife, and there were great rejoicings, and feasts, and jousting; and these two were so glad to see each other that they thought of nothing else. Dorigene cared nothing at all for Aurelius; and Arviragus had no suspicion that Aurelius had spoken to her of love.

Now Aurelius’ brother was a very learned man; and as he saw Aurelius got no better, he was very unhappy about him. At last he remembered that he had once seen at Orleans, in France, a book on conjuring,[169] which had been left in his way. This book was full of all sorts of curious tricks which were performed by the ‘tregetoures’ or jugglers of that day. He was glad when he thought of this book, feeling sure he saw a chance of curing Aurelius.

And whan this boke was in his remembraunce, Anon for joye his herte gan for to daunce, immediately And to him selve he sayde pryvely, My brother shal be warisshed hastely, cured For I am siker that ther ben sciences sure By whiche men maken dyverse apparences, various Swiche as thise subtile tregetoures pleyen, For oft at festes have I wel herde seyen That tregettoures withinne an halle large Han made come in a water and a barge, And in the halle rowen up and doun. Sometyme hath semed come a grym leoun, seemed, grim And sometyme floures spring as in a mede,[170] Sometyme a vine, and grapes white and rede, Sometyme a castel al of lym and ston, And whan hem liked voyded it anon. dispersed Thus semeth it to every mannes sight.

And when this book came, by a lucky chance, Into his mind, his heart began to dance, And to himself he whispered privily, “My brother shall be healed full speedily, For I am sure that there be sciences By which men raise divers appearances, Such as the cunning jugglers do in play; For oftentimes at feasts have I heard say That jugglers playing in a hall so large, Have seemed to bring in waters and a barge, And in the hall they row it to and fro. Sometimes a lion fierce will come and go, Sometimes, as in a meadow, flowers upspring, Sometimes a vine, with rich fruit clustering, Sometimes a castle all of lime and stone, And when they wish, at once the whole is gone! Thus seemeth it to be, in all men’s sight.”

Therefore he thought that if he could find any old friend at Orleans, who knew anything of magic, he might help Aurelius to win the beautiful Dorigene.

He went to his brother’s bed, and gave him so much hope that he sprang up at once and started off to Orleans.

When they were nearly arrived at the city, they met a young clerk, roaming by himself, who greeted them in Latin, saying, to their great wonder, “I know the cause that brings you here,” and, ere they went a step farther, he told them all that was in their minds!

This clerk was, you see, a magician, and having saved them the trouble of explaining their business, he brought them to his house, where he feasted them in splendid style, and showed them many wonderful visions.

He schewed hem, er they went to soupere, supper Forestes, parkes, full of wilde dere; There[171] saw he hartes with hir hornes hie, The gretest that were ever seen with eie! He saw of hem an hundred slain with houndes, And som with arwes blede of bitter woundes. He saw, when voided were the wilde dere, departed Thise faukoneres upon a faire rivere, That with hir haukes han the heron slein. hawks Tho saw he knyhtes justen in a pleyn; joust And after this he dide him such plesaunce, That he him schewed his lady in a daunce, On which himself he dauncéd, as him thouht. And when this mayster that this magique wrouht, Sawh it was tyme, he clapped his hondes tuo, two And, fare wel! al the revel is y-do! done And yet remued they never out of the hous While they saw alle this sightes mervelous; But in his studie, ther his bookes be, They saten stille, and no wighte but they thre.

He made appear, before they went to meat, Forests and parks, with wild deer fair and fleet; There saw he harts that tossed their antlers high, The greatest that were ever seen with eye! He saw a hundred of them slain by hounds, While some with arrows bled of bitter wounds, And when the wild deer were no longer there, Came falconers upon a river fair, Who, with their falcons, have the heron slain; Then saw he knights all jousting in a plain; And after this he gave him such pleasance, That he could see his lady in a dance, In which himself was dancing, as he thought. And when this master, who the magic wrought, Saw it was time, he clapped his hands, and eh! Farewell! for all the revel fades away! And yet they never moved from out the house, While they did see these visions marvellous; But in his study, where his volumes lay, They sat alone, and no man else but they.

Therefore, after all these wondrous sights, inside the magician’s study, there was no doubt that he could make the rocks disappear on the coast of Brittany!

Aurelius asked him how much money he should give him to perform that feat, and the magician said he must have no less than a thousand pounds;[172] but Aurelius said he would give him the whole world if he could; and it was agreed that for this sum he should make the rocks vanish, and that without delay!

The next morning, at daybreak, Aurelius, his brother, and the magician, went to the sea-side of Brittany, where the feat was to be done: it was the cold frosty month of December.

Aurelius paid the magician every attention in his power, and entreated him to hasten to alleviate his misery; he rather ungraciously added, that he would slit his heart with his sword if he didn’t.

The cunning sorcerer made as much haste as he could with his spells and trickeries to make all the rocks sink, or seem to sink, before the eyes of all that looked at them, right underground; at last he succeeded. By his magic arts it really did seem to everybody, for a week or two, that the rocks were all gone.

Aurelius thanked him with joy, and then hastened to the castle, where he knew he should see Dorigene, to remind her of what she had promised.

“My sovereign lady,” he said, saluting her humbly--

Ye wot right wel what ye byhighte me, promised And in myn hond your trouthe plighte ye my To love me best; God woot ye sayde so, Al be that I unworthy am therto. Madame, I speke it for thonour of yow you More than to save myn hertes lif right now: I have do so as ye comaundede me, And if ye vouchesauf ye maye go se. vouchsafe In yow lith al to do me lyve or deye, lieth But wel I wote the rokkes ben aweye. are

“You know right well what you have promised me, And hand in mine your fair trouth plighted ye To love me best; God knoweth you said so, Although I be unworthy thereunto. Madam, I speak for th’ honour of the vow More than to urge my heart’s deep longing now: For I have done as you commanded me, And if you please it, you may go and see. It rests with you, to let me live or die, But that the rocks have vanish’d, well know I.”

Poor Dorigene had little expected to fall into such a trap! She stood astonished, and her face grew white--all the colour left her cheeks. How bitterly she repented her rash promise! for she did not want to go away with Aurelius. “Alas!” she cried, “that such a thing should be! how could I guess so monstrous a marvel could come to pass?” and her terror made her like one desperate.

Her husband, Arviragus, too, was absent, and there was no one she could tell her trouble to. She cried and lamented for three days, vainly thinking how she could get out of the scrape; and at last she determined to die. So three days passed, and all the time she was weeping and resolving on her death.

However, on the third night, Arviragus came home again; and, when he knew what she was weeping so bitterly for, he said, cheerfully and kindly, “Is that all, Dorigene?”

Is ther aught elles, Dorigen, but this? else Nay, nay, quod sche, God me so rede and wis reads, knows This is to moche, and it were Goddes wille! if Ye, wyf, quod he, let slepe that may be stille,[173] It may be wel, paraunter, yet to-day. peradventure Ye schal your trouthe holden, by my fay, faith For God so wisly have mercy on me, wisely I hadde wel lever i-stekid for to be, rather, slain For verray love which that I to you have, But if ye scholde your trouthe kepe and save, unless Trouthe is the hiest thing that man may kepe. And with that word he brast anon to wepe. burst

“Is there aught further, Dorigene, than this?” “Nay, nay,” cried she, “God help me, for it is Too much already--were it but His will!” “Yea, wife,” he answered, “what has been is still, But yet, perchance, it may be well to-day. That promise you shall hold to, by my fay, For as I hope for mercy from on high, I would more willingly consent to die, Yea for the love’s sake that I bear to you, Than you should break the honour of a vow Faith is the highest thing that can be kept.” And with that word he broke away and wept.

Poor Arviragus, this brave and just knight, bade Dorigene keep her word at any cost to herself or him, but he could not keep up his cheerful tone. He was too deeply grieved and hurt, and even wept with her for sorrow.

Then he commanded a squire and a maid to attend Dorigene for a part of the way to the garden, where Aurelius would fetch her.

Now, Aurelius happened to meet her on her way to the garden, in one of the busiest streets of the town. He saluted her joyfully, and asked her whither she was going. But Dorigene was distracted with grief.

And sche answered, half as sche were mad, Unto the gardyn, as myn housbond bad, My trouthe for to holde, allas! allas!

And she made answer half as she were mad, “Unto the garden, as my husband bade, To keep my troth to you, alas! alas!”

When Aurelius heard that, he was deeply touched that Arviragus should have sent her, weeping as she was, rather than she should break her promise. See how proud and how strong the sense of honour was in those days! He felt that after such a sacrifice he would rather forego everything than insist upon his right to take away Dorigene, which, he felt, would be ‘_churlish wretchedness against fraunchise of all gentillesse_’[174]--a deed against courtesy and honour. And he said, “Madam, say to your lord, Arviragus, that since I see he would rather suffer anything than that you should fail in truth, and since I see that you care far more for Arviragus than ever you will for me--even if you went away with me, you would never love me as much as Arviragus--I would rather be unhappy all my life than make you so. I release you from your promise for ever.”

Thus can a squyer doon a gentil dede, do As wel as can a knyghte, withouten drede.

Thus can a squire do a noble deed As nobly as a knight can, without dread.

Dorigene fell down on her knees and thanked him, and went back to her husband happy, and they lived in bliss ever after.

Aurelius, however, though his conscience was clear, bethought him of all his trouble and the money he had spent to no purpose. He had willingly promised all his fortune when he thought he could win beautiful Dorigene; but now he said, “I must sell my heritage, but I cannot live here a beggar to shame my kindred; unless the magician would be so kind as to let me pay the thousand pounds little by little. I will not break my promise to him. He shall have the money though I have got nothing by it.”

With herte soor he goth unto his cofre, sore And broughte gold unto this philosophre, philosopher The value of fyf hundred pound, I gesse, And him bysecheth of his gentillesce, beseecheth To graunte him dayes of the remenaunt; remnant And sayde, Maister, I dar wel make avaunt boast I fayled never of my trouthe as yit, For sikerly my dettes schall be quyt surely Towardes yow, how so that ever I fare To goon and begge in my kurtil bare, beg, tunic But wolde ye vouchesauf upon seurté, vouchsafe, surety Tuo yere or thre for to respite me, Than were I wel, for elles most I selle Myn heritage, ther is nomore to telle.

With mournful heart he went unto his coffer And took such gold as he was free to offer, The value of five hundred pounds, I guess; Beseeching him, of his kindheartedness, To grant him for the rest some time to pay, And said, “Master, I do not fear to say I never failed to keep my word as yet; Truly my debt to you I shall acquit, Whatever comes--though I must needs at best Go begging in my shirt to find the rest. But would ye grant, on good security, To give me credit for two years, or three, Then all were well, for else I must needs sell My heritage--there is no more to tell.”

The magician soberly answered, “Did I not keep my covenant with you?”

“Yes, well and truly,” said Aurelius.

“And did you not take the lady away with you?”

“No, no,” said Aurelius, sadly; and he told him all that had happened.

The magician answered, “Dear friend, every one of you has behaved honourably. Thou art a squire, and he is a knight, but a simple clerk can do a gentle deed, as well as any of you! Sir, I release you from your thousand pounds: I will not take a penny from you.” And he took his horse and rode away.

Chaucer winds up by saying--

Lordynges, this questioun wold I axe now-- ask Which was the moste free, as thinketh yow? liberal

Masters, a little question answer me-- Which one was the most generous of the three?

And you, tell me which you think was the most honourable in keeping faith, and most generous in giving up his rights.

But beware of the folly that Dorigene committed, in making rash promises; for when you make a promise you must be prepared to keep it, and cannot always expect to be let off as she was.

Notes by the Way.

One of the most interesting illustrations of the singular morality which was the outcome of woman’s transition state from a position of slavery to one of equality with man, is to be found in this curious but beautiful tale: a tale which in any other age could scarcely have been popular. The Franklin tells us it was an old Breton lay; which, however, is now not known to exist.

It is seen that woman, from being regarded as a mere chattel, like horse or dog, came to be unnaturally exalted; and, as new movements often outshoot their mark and go too far, she came to be held as something god-like and ideal, the moving spring of all heroic virtues. Valour, courtesy, self-control, obedience, were taught by her, and she could give no higher guerdon than herself. (See note to ‘Knight’s Tale,’ p. 45.)

It is the young and inexperienced hound which outruns the scent, not the fully trained dog, and we must remember that society had then the virtues and vices of immaturity. The Franklin’s Tale, with its pathos and earnestness, passing at times into burlesque, is as quaint and instructive as an early effigy on some cathedral door.

A certain soft and refined luxuriousness seems to hang like a gossamer veil over a sentiment of genuine and vigorous chivalry, carried too far for our 19th century notions, but, like the generous mistakes of youth, none the less touching.

The moral of this striking tale points out the danger of giving even the smallest inlet to wrong dealing; since a condition apparently impossible to realize may after all work our ruin.

The Pardoner’s Tale.

Then mine host turned to the Pardoner: “Thou, pardoner, thou, my good friend,” he said--

Tel us a tale, for thou canst many oon. It schal be doon, quod he, and that anoon. But first, quod he, her at this ale-stake[175] I wil bothe drynke and byten on a cake.

“Tell us a tale; thou knowest many an one.” “I will!” he said; “it shall at once be done. But first,” he added, “here at this ale-stake I’ll take a drink, and have a bite of cake.”

When he had done so (for they were passing a roadside inn), he began, as you shall hear:--

There was in Flanders a company of young folk, who gave themselves up to folly and wrong-doing. They did nothing but gamble and riot, and drink wine, and dance, and swear; and their gluttony and idleness made them wicked, so that when they heard of other people committing sin they laughed and did as much wrong as ever they could.

This kind of life degrades every one. Gluttony was the first cause of our confusion: Adam and Eve were driven from Paradise for that vice. And drunkenness leads to many other sins, as is shown in Holy Writ.

Three of these bad young men were sitting in a tavern one morning very early, drinking, when they heard the clinking of a bell[176] before a corpse that was being carried to the grave. One of them called to his boy, “Go out, and ask who that dead man is who passes by; and mind you bring his name back right!”

“Master,” said the boy, “there is no need to go and ask, for I heard who the dead man was two hours before you came into this tavern. He was one of your own companions, and he was slain last night as he sat in his chair drinking, by a privy thief named Death, who kills everybody in this country. With his spear he smote his heart in two, and went away without speaking. About a thousand has he killed this pestilence.[177] And, master, it seems to me, that before he comes to you too, it were as well to be prepared. Beware of him, be ready for him! my dame ever taught me that.”

By seinte Mary, sayde this taverner, innkeeper The child saith soth, for he hath slayn this yeer, true Hens over a myle, withinne a gret village, Bothe man and womman, child, and hyne, and page. labourer

“By holy Mary,” said the innkeeper, “The child says true, for he hath slain this year, Within a mile hence, in a large village, Both man and woman, servant, child, and page.

“I should think he lived there, this Death, so many have died. It were wise to be warned before he came suddenly on a man!”

“Good lack,” cried one of the rioters with an oath, “is it then such danger to meet him? I’ll seek him out by street and stile.

Herkneth, felaws, we thre ben all oones, hearken, be Let ech of us hold up his hond[178] to other, hand And ech of us bycome otheres brother; And we wil slee this false traitour Deth; He shall be slayne, that so many sleeth. slain, slayeth

“Now listen, mates, for all we three are one, Let each hold up his hand unto the other, And each of us become the others’ brother. And we will slay this sneaking traitor Death, He shall be slain, he that so many slay’th.”

So these three men, half drunk as they were, plighted faith to live and die for each other, as though they were brothers born. And up they started, and went forth to this village, of which the innkeeper had spoken, where they thought Death lived. And much bad language they used, and many wicked things they said, resolving to catch Death before night fell.

Right as thay wolde han torned over a style, turned Whan thai han goon nought fully half a myle, An old man and a pore with hem mette. This olde man ful mekely hem grette,[179] meekly, greeted And saide thus, Lordynges, God yow se! God see you The proudest of these ryotoures thre rioters Answerd ayein, What, carle, with sory grace, churl Why artow al for-wrapped save thi face?[180]-- wrapped up Why lyvest thou longe in so great an age?

This olde man gan loke on his visage, began, look And saide thus: For that I can not fynde because A man--though that I walke into Inde-- Neither in cité noon, ne in village, That wol chaunge his youthe for myn age; And therfore moot I have myn age stille As longe tyme as it is Goddes wille, Ne Deth, allas! ne wil not have my lif, Thus walk I lik a resteles caytif,[181] And on the ground, which is my modres gate, I knokke with my staf, erly and late, And saye, Leeve moder, let me in. dear Lo, how I wane, fleisch, and blood, and skyn-- Allas, whan schuln my boones ben at rest? shall, bones Moder, with yow wil I chaunge my chest, That in my chamber longe tyme hath be, Ye, for an haire clout[182] to wrap-in me. enwrap But, yet to me sche wol not do that grace, favour For which ful pale and welkid is my face. withered

But sires, to yow it is no curtesye To speke unto an old man vilonye, But he trespas in word or elles in dede. unless, else In holy writ ye may yourself wel rede, read Ayens an old man, hoor upon his hede, in presence of Ye schold arise: wherefor I you rede exhort Ne doth unto an old man more harm now, do not Namore than ye wolde men dede to yow In age, if that ye may so long abyde. live so long And God be with you, wherso ye go or ryde! walk I moot go thider as I have to goo. thither

Nay, olde cherl, by God thou shalt not so, Sayde that other hasardour anoon, Thou partist nought so lightly, by seint Johan! departest, easily Thou spak right now of thilke traitour Deth, That in this contré alle our frendes sleth; Have her my trouth, as thou art his aspye; here Tel wher he is, or elles thou schalt dye.[183]

Just as they were about to cross a stile, When they had gone not fully half a mile, A poor and aged man did meet them there. This old man greeted them with civil air, And said, “Good day, my lords, God look on ye.” Then the most arrogant of the noisy three Answered him thus--“What, churl, with sorry grace, Why art thou all wrapped up except thy face? Why livest thou so long, and art so grey?”

The old man looked him in the face straightway, And answer’d thus: “Because I cannot find A man--e’en though I walk’d as far as Inde-- Neither in any city, nor villàge, Willing to change his youth for mine old age; And therefore must I have my old age still As long a time as it is heaven’s will. Nor will e’en Death receive my life, alas! Thus like a restless wayfarer I pass, And on the ground, which is my mother’s gate, Keep knocking with my staff early and late, And say to her--‘Dear mother, let me in. Lo, how I vanish, flesh and blood and skin-- Alas, when shall my bones remain at rest? Mother, I want to change with you my chest, Which in my room so long a time hath been, Yea, for a cloth of hair to wrap me in!’ But yet to me she will not do that grace, Wherefore so pale and wrinkled is my face.

“But, sirs, in you it is no courtesy To speak to an old man disdainfully, Unless he shall offend in word or deed. In Holy Writ ye may your own selves read, Before an aged man whose hair is grey Ye should rise up--and therefore I you pray Offer to an old man no mischief now More than you would that men did unto you In your old age, if you so long abide, And God be with you, whither you walk or ride! I must go on, whither I have to go.”

“Nay, thou old churl, thou shalt not quit us so.” Cried out the other rioter anon, “Thou partest not so lightly, by St. John! Thou hast just spoken of that traitor Death Who all our friends through all the country slay’th, So now I warrant thee, thou art his spy; Tell where he is, this Death, or thou shall die.

“You needn’t deny that you know of his whereabouts--for you are in his plot to get rid of us young folks, you wretched old thief!”

Now, sires, than if that yow be so leef To fynde Deth, torn up this croked way, For in that grove I laft him,[184] by my fay, Under a tree, and ther he wil abyde. remain Ne for your bost he nyl him no thing hyde. boast Se ye that ook? right ther ye schuln him fynde. God save yow, that bought agein mankynde, again And yow amend. Thus sayth this olde man,

And everich of these riotoures ran, every one Til thay come to the tre, and ther thay founde Of florins fyn of gold ycoyned rounde, coined Wel neygh a seven busshels, as hem thoughte. No lenger thanne after Deth thay soughte, But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte, For that the florens so faire were and brighte, That doun thai sette hem by the precious hord. The werste[185] of hem he spake the firste word. Bretheren, quod he, take kepe what I schal saye, My witte is gret, though that I bourde and playe, wisdom, jest This tresour hath fortune to us yiven, given In mirth and jolyté our lif to lyven, jollity, live And lightly as it comth, so wil we spende. cometh Ey, Goddis precious dignite, who wende supposed Today, that we schuld have so fair a grace? But mighte this gold be caried fro this place Hom to myn hous, or ellis unto youres, (For wel I wot that this gold is nought oures), know Than were we in heyh felicité. high But trewely by day it may not be, Men wolde saye that we were theves stronge, And for our tresour doon us for to honge. have us hanged This tresour moste caried be by nighte As wysly and as slely as it mighte. Wherfore I rede, that cut among us alle advise We drawe, and let se wher the cut wil falle, And he that hath the cut, with herte blithe, blithe heart Shal renne to the toun, and that ful swithe, run, quickly And bring us bred and wyn ful prively, And tuo of us shal kepe subtilly This tresour wel: and if he wol not tarie, delay Whan it is night, we wol this tresour carie,[186] By oon assent, ther as us liketh best. wither

That oon of hem the cut brought in his fest, fist And bad hem drawe and loke wher it wil falle, look And it fel on the yongest of hem alle, And forth toward the toun he went anoon. at once

And al so soone as that he was agoon, That oon of hem spak thus unto that other: Thou wost wel that thou art my sworne brother, Thy profyt wol I telle the anoon. directly Thou wost wel that our felaw is agoon, knowest And her is gold, and that ful gret plente, plenty That schal departed be among us thre. But natheles if I can schape it so That it departed were betwix us tuo, Hadde I not doon a frendes torn to the?

That other answerd, I not how that may be; know not He wot wel that the gold is with us twaye, two What schulde we than do? what schulde we saye? say Schal it be counsail?[187] sayd the ferste schrewe, wicked person And I schal telle thee in wordes fewe What we schul doon, and bringe it wel aboute. do I graunte, quod that other, without doute, That by my trouthe I wil thee nought bywraye. betray

Now, quoth the first, thou wost wel we ben twaye, knowest And two of us schal strenger be than oon. Loke, whanne he is sett, thou right anoon[188] look Arys, as though thou woldest with him pleye,[189] wouldest And I schal ryf him through the sydes tweye, rip Whils that thou strogelest with him as in game, And with thi dagger, loke thou do the same. And than schal al the gold departed be, divided My dere frend, bitwixe the and me: thee Than may we oure lustes al fulfille, might And pley at dees right at our owne wille. dice

“Now, sirs,” quoth he, “if you so eager be To seek for Death, turn up this crooked way, For in that grove I left him, by my fay, Under a tree, and there he will abide, Nor for your noise and boasting will he hide. See ye that oak? close there his place you’ll find, God save you, sirs, that hath redeem’d mankind, And mend you all”--thus said the aged man.

And thereupon each of the rioters ran Until they reach’d the tree, and there they found A heap of golden florins, bright and round, Well-nigh seven bushels of them, as they thought. And then no longer after Death they sought, But each of them so glad was at the sight, The florins were so beauteous and so bright, That down they sat beside the precious hoard. The worst one was the first to speak a word. “Brothers,” said he, “take heed of what I say, For I am wise, although I jest and play, This treasure makes our fortune, so that we May lead our lives in mirth and jollity, And lightly as it comes, we’ll lightly spend. By heaven! who would have thought that luck would send Us three good friends to-day so fair a grace? But could this gold be carried from this place Home to my house, or else to one of yours (For all this gold I well know is not ours) Then were we in complete felicity. But, truly, during day it cannot be, People would call us thieves, and possibly Hang us for our own treasure on a tree. This treasure should be carried off by night, As cleverly and slily as it might. I counsel then, that we among us all Draw lots, and see to whom the lot will fall, And he that hath the lot shall cheerfully Go back into the town, and speedily, And bring us bread and wine full privily; Meanwhile we two keep safe and secretly This treasure here: and if he do not tarry, When the night comes we will the treasure carry, By one assent, where we think best, or list.”

This man then held the lots within his fist, And bade them draw and see where it would fall; It fell upon the youngest of them all, Who therefore toward the town went forth anon.

As soon as their companion was gone The first one subtly spoke unto the other: “Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother, I’ll tell thee what thy profit is to-day. Thou seest that our fellow is away, And here is gold, all heap’d up plenteously, Which is to be divided ’mong us three. But, nevertheless, if I can shape it so That it might be divided ’mong us _two_, Have I not done a friend’s turn unto thee?”

“I know not,” said the other, “how that may be; He knows quite well the gold is with us two, What should we say to him? what should we do?” “Shall it be counsel?” said the first again-- “And in a few words I shall tell thee plain, What we shall do to bring the thing about.” “I promise,” said the other, “without doubt That I, for one, will not be treacherous.”

“Now,” said the first one, “there are two of us, And two of us will stronger be than one. Look, thou, when he is sitting down, and soon Rise up, as if to play with him, and I Will stab him through the two sides suddenly, While thou art struggling with him as in game, And with thy dagger, look, thou do the same. And then shall all this gold divided be, My dearest friend, betwixt thyself and me: Then all our wants and whims we can fulfil, And play at dice according to our will.”

Thus these two ruffians made their compact to murder the third, as I have described.

This yongest, which that wente to the toun, who Full fast in hert he rollith up and doun close The beaute of these florins, newe and brighte. O Lord, quoth he, if so were that I mighte Have all this gold unto myself alloone, Ther is no man that lyveth under the troone throne Of God, that schulde lyve so mery as I. And atte last the feend, oure enemy, Put in his thought that he schulde poysoun beye, buy With which he mighte sle his felawes tweye. slay For why? the feend fond him in such lyvynge That he hadde leve to sorwe him to brynge: sorrow For this was outrely[190] his ful entente To slen hem bothe, and never to repente. slay And forth he goth, no lenger wold he tarye, delay Into the toun unto a potecarye, apothecary And prayde him that he him wolde selle Som poysoun, that he might his rattis quelle; rats And eek ther was a polkat in his hawe farmyard That, as he sayde, his capouns had i-slawe, And said he wold him wreke, if that he mighte, avenge Of vermyn, that destroyed hem by nighte.

Thapotecary answerd,[191]Thou schalt have the apothecary A thing that, also God my soule save, In al this world ther nys no creature That ete or dronk hath of this confecture-- mixture Nought but the mountaunce of a corn of whete-- amount That he ne schuld his lif anoon for-lete; quit Ye, sterve he schal, and that in lasse while die Than thou wilt goon a paas not but a myle, step This poysoun is so strong and violent.

This cursed man hath in his hond i-hent caught or taken This poysoun in a box, and sins he ran then Into the nexte stret unto a man And borwed of him large boteles thre, And in the two his poysoun poured he: The thrid he kepede clene for his drynke, third, clean For al the night he schop him for to swynke prepared, labour In carying of the gold out of that place. And whan this riotour, with sorry grace, rioter Hath fillid with wyn his grete botels thre, To his felaws ayein repaireth he. again

What nedith it therof to sermoun more? sermonize For right as they hadde cast[192] his deth bifore, arranged Right so thay han him slayn, and that anoon. have And whan this was i-doon, thus spak that oon: spake, one Now let us drynke and sitte, and make us mery, And afterwards[193] we wil his body bery. will And with that word[193] it happed him _par cas_ by chance To take the botel ther the poysoun was, wherein And drank, and yaf his felaw drink also, gave For which anon thay stervede bothe two. soon, died But certes I suppose that Avycen[194] certainly Wrot never in _canoun_, ne in non _fen_, wrote Mo wonder sorwes of empoisonyng wondrous pangs Than hadde these wrecches tuo or here endyng. Thus endid been these homicides tuo, be And eek the fals empoysoner also. also

The youngest, who had gone into the town, Deep in his mind he turneth up and down The beauty of these florins, new and bright. “O Lord,” quoth he, “if any-wise I might Have all this treasure to myself alone, There is no man that dwelleth under the throne Of God, who then should live so merry as I.” And at the last the fiend, our enemy, Put in his thought that he should poison buy, With which to cause his comrades both to die. For why? the fiend found this man’s life so foul That he had power now upon his soul: For this was utterly his fix’d intent To slay them both and never to repent And forth he goes, no longer would he tarry, Into the town to an apothecary, And begged him plausibly that he would sell Him poison strong enough the rats to quell; Also, there was a polecat in his yard Which had destroy’d his capons, he averr’d, And he would gladly rid him if he might Of vermin, which destroy’d them in the night.

The apothecary answered, “Thou shalt have Something so strong, as God my soul shall save, That in this world nothing that living is Who in his food doth eat or drink of this-- Nay, but the greatness of a grain of wheat-- Shall fail to die, his life shall be forfeit; Yea, he shall die, and that in lesser while Than thou shalt walk a step beyond a mile, This poison is so strong and violent.”

This curséd man hath taken it and pent The poison in a box, and forthwith ran Hastily to the next street, to a man And borrow’d of him some large bottles three, And into two the poison pouréd he: The third he kept untainted for himself, Meaning to toil at carrying his pelf From out that cursed place the whole night long. And when this villain, bent on doing wrong, Had filled his three great bottles up with wine, Back to his mates he went, as if to dine.

What need is there of saying any more? For as they had devised his death before, E’en so they slew him, and with brief delay. And when the deed was done, the first did say, “Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, And afterwards we will his body bury.” And speaking thus, he chanced, upon the minute, To take a bottle which had poison in it, And drank, and gave his fellow drink beside, Whereby within a little space they died. But truly I suppose that Avicen Did ne’er describe in _canon_ or in _fen_ More frightful pains of deadly poisoning, Than these two wretches felt in perishing. Thus ended both the wicked homicides, And that false-hearted poisoner besides.

Notes by the Way.

During the 12th, 13th, and 14th centuries the passion for gambling had spread from the highest to the very lowest class of the population. The practice of men drinking and playing themselves bare in the taverns, where both vices were encouraged by the taverners, was common enough to provoke numberless censures and caricatures, so much so that it is a mercy Sir Wilfrid Lawson was spared the spectacle. The Pardoner’s Tale is one of the list.

The taverns were the resort of all the refuse of the people: the taverners found it suited them to act as pawnbrokers, advancing money on the clothes and property of the ne’er-do-wells who lacked cash to stake or to pay; and provided other attractions whereby men were tempted to various vices, and robbed during their drunken sleep. The language of these young rascals of both sexes is graphically condemned by the Pardoner; and gluttony is pointed out as the root of all evil, for which Adam fell.

Hazard was the game with which our rioters strove to ‘drive away the day.’ Mr. Wright, speaking of the use of dice, tells us, “In its simpler form, that of the game of hazard, in which the chance of each player rested on the mere throw of the dice, it was the common game of the low frequenters of the taverns--that class which lived upon the vices of society, and which was hardly looked upon as belonging to society itself.” Men staked all they possessed, to the very clothes on their backs, on one cast.

Chaucer tells us contemptuously how the King of Parthia sent a pair of golden dice to King Demetrius in scorn, knowing he was a player, to express that he held his glory and renown at no value, being liable to disappear at any moment.

The three rioters were probably young men who had ruined themselves by folly and licence, and whose besetting sin, surviving all it throve on, urged them to any and every crime for the sake of renewed gratification. Their end is beyond measure frightful. _For why?--The fiend found him in such living that he had leave to bring him to grief_, says the severe old moralist.

The extreme beauty of this poem, even in a technical sense alone, is such that I lament the necessity of abridging it.

MINOR POEMS.

Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse.

To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight, no one else Complayn I, for ye be my lady dere; I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195] For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheer if Me were as leef be layde upon my bere, I were For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye-- Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye! be thou

Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte, vouchsafe before That I of yow the blissful soune may here, sound Or se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte, That of yelownesse hadde never pere! rival Ye be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere! rudder Quene of comfort and goode companye, Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!

Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte, life’s And saveour as doun in this worlde here, saviour Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght, Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196] since, treasurer For I am shave[197] as nye as is a frere. nigh But I pray unto youre courtesye, Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!

To you, my purse, and to no other wight, Complain I, for you are my lady dear; I am so sorry now that you are light, For truly if you make me heavy cheer I would as lief be laid upon my bier. Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry-- Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!

I prithee grant this day, ere it be night, That I once more your merry voice may hear, Or see your colour like the sunshine bright, Whereof the yellowness had never peer! You are my life, and you my heart shall steer; Queen of all comfort and good company, Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!

Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light, And chief deliverer in this world here, Out of this city help me, by your might, If you no more will be my treasure dear, For I am shaved as close as any frere. But I beseech you of your courtesy, Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!

Two Rondeaux.

Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, slay I may the beauté of them not sustene, sustain So wendeth it thorow-out my herte kene. goeth

And but your wordes will helen hastely My hertis wound, while that it is grene, Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, &c.

Upon my trouth I say yow feithfully tell That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene, are For with my deth the trouth shal be i-sene Youre two eyn, &c.

Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly, I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen, It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.

And if your words heal not full speedily My heart’s deep wound, while still the wound is green, Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly, I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen, It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.

Upon my faith I tell you faithfully Both of my life and death you are the queen, For in my dying shall the truth be seen. Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly, I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.

Syn I, fro Love escaped, am so fat, I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene:[198] taken Syn I am fre, I counte him not a bene. since, free

He may answere and seye this and that: I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene: I care not Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, struck, slate And he is strike out of my bokes clene books For evermo, there is none other mene. means Syn I fro Love, &c.

Since I escaped from love, I am so fat, No more I shall his captive be so lean: Since I am free, I count him not a bean!

He may reply, and answer this and that: I care not, for I speak but as I mean: Since I from love escaped, I am so fat!

My name--out of his slate Love striketh that. And he is struck out of my books as clean For evermore, there is no way between! Since I escaped, etc.

Virelai.

Alone walkyng, In thought pleynyng mourning And sore syghyng, Al desolate, Me remembryng remembering Of my lyvyng, my way of living My deth wyshyng wishing Bothe erly and late.

Infortunate unfortunate Is soo my fate so That, wote ye whate? Oute of mesure beyond measure My lyfe I hate, Thus, desperate, In suche pore estate poor Do I endure. remain

Of other cure Am I nat sure; not Thus to endure Ys hard, certayn! Suche ys my ure, use I yow ensure: assure What creature May have more payn?

My trouth so pleyn truth Ys take in veyn, taken And gret disdeyn In remembraunce; remembrance Yet I ful feyn gladly Wolde me compleyn, Me to absteyn to avoid From thys penaunce. penance

But, in substaunce, substance None allegeaunce alleviation Of my grevaunce grievance Can I nat fynd; not

Ryght so my chaunce With displesaunce displeasure Doth me avaunce; advance And thus an end.

Alone walk I, With many a sigh In secrecy, All desolate, And still review My life anew: For death I sue Both early and late.

My fate doth grow So luckless now That--do you know? Beyond all telling My life I hate: Thus, desperate, In woeful state I still am dwelling.

I am not sure Of any cure; ’Tis hard t’ endure With no relief! But certain ’tis, My state is this: What thing that is Could have more grief?

My story plain Is taken in vain, With great disdain In recollection; Yet I would fain Alway complain, To shun the pain Of this correction!

For which find I, Substantially, No remedy, My lot to mend;

So fate, I see, Still draws on me More enmity-- And there’s an end!

Notes by the Way.

Chaucer’s ‘Complaint to his Purse’ was written, according to Mr. Furnivall, in September, 1399, when Chaucer was in distress for money, and sent to Henry IV. as a broad hint,--which was at once attended to.

It is a very clever piece of versification, like the ‘Good Counsel,’ &c., each line rhyming with the corresponding line in the other verses. He addresses his hapless purse as though it were his lady-love, and comically entreats her mercy, when he sees her inclined to be ‘light.’

Mr. Furnivall’s ingenious suggestion, that Chaucer’s penury may possibly be due to his having dabbled in alchemy (an empirical branch of chemistry), is borne out by the technical knowledge displayed in the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.

We may add here--to defend our great man’s character--that alchemy was believed in by many men of exceptional mental power. Roger Bacon, discoverer of gunpowder and the magnifying glass, is perhaps the greatest name among them; and vain as seemed much of their toil with crucibles and furnaces, alembics and aludels, we owe a great deal to the first meritorious alchemists, who really paved the way to modern chemistry.

There is no reason to suppose Chaucer had any vice likely to affect his pocket; but alchemy was the scientific mania of the day, and high and low were ready to risk fortune and health in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, the way to manufacture gold. And, at the same time, there is no other sufficient reason for the extreme poverty which the poet had fallen into.

The two Roundels and the Virelai have been asserted and denied to be the work of Chaucer, but there is no clear evidence for either side. They may well be a portion of those many lost ‘ditties and songs glad’ with which Gower said ‘the land fulfilled is over all,’ written ‘in the floures of his youth.’ The second Roundel seems, on the other hand, to belong to his later life, when he so often alluded to his corpulence. As to the Virelai, this species of lyric was nery fashionable in Chaucer’s time. It is skilful work, each stanza rhyming six lines together (which I have failed to follow in the translation).

Good Counsel of Chaucer.

Fle fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse, mob, honesty Suffice the thy good, though hit be smale, thee, it For horde hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse, hoards, uncertainty Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. deceived everywhere Savour no more then the behove shalle; taste Rede[199] well thy self, that other folke canst rede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede. without fear

Peyne the not eche croked to redresse, In trust of hire that turneth as a balle,[200] Grete rest stant in lytel besynesse. great peace lies, meddling Bewar also to spurne ayein an nalle,[201] awl Stryve not as doth a croke[202] with a walle: crock Deme[203] thyselfe that demest others dede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.

That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse, The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle; Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. here Forth, pilgrime!--forth, best, out of thy stalle! beast Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle! Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede, give up, desire And trouthe shal the delyver, hit ys no drede.

Fly 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 thee shall 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 do kick against an awl, Strive not as doth a clay pot with a wall: Judge thou thyself, who judgest others’ deed, And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.

All that is given take with cheerfulness, To wrestle in this world is to ask a 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 led, And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.

Notes by the Way.

We have Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s authority, as well as internal evidence, for believing that this pathetic little poem expresses Chaucer’s feelings at the time of his expulsion from the Customs offices, the beginning of his period of misfortunes, and was written immediately after the calamity. We seem to gather scattered hints of recent ‘wrestlings’ before the blow came--vain attempts to elevate, and purify, and carry out reforms, to make straight crooked paths. Lost labour--_pain thee not all the crooked to redress!_--trusting to fortune (money being requisite to reform): for those who value peace of mind should let sleeping dogs lie. We seem to catch the echoes of stormy times, of personal recrimination, envy, hatred, and malice, against a ‘climbing’ man, protected by Court favour for many prosperous years, but at length within the reach of foes when that protection waxed powerless. Chaucer may, like many another man, have made no enemies till he was high enough to stand in some one’s light, prosperous enough to be dangerous; but his month of power in Parliament ruined him. It is pretty certain that some vote of his, while sitting for Kent, caused his dismissal from office. It was a case of win all or lose all, and he lost. To fight against such odds were as idle as undignified: surely, indeed, but courting worse injuries, ‘kicking against an awl.’ When the weak and the strong strive together, it is the weak who suffers. The criticism upon others, which had failed to do good, were now best turned philosophically upon himself. That which the fountain gave forth returns again to the fountain, as a poet 500 years later has said. It is impossible, in reading these melancholy and stately lines, not to feel that they ring true, and betray the half-sarcastic disappointment of a well-meaning man, the resignation of a religious man, and the faith in right-dealing bringing its own reward of a thoroughly honest man.

It is probable that the loss to Chaucer in a pecuniary sense was very severe; and the suddenness of the blow may account for much of his after poverty.[204] The loss may have come at a time when he had debts which it would be very hard to pay out of a diminished income--debts which may have hampered his whole after-life. His appointment of a deputy to the office of Clerk of the King’s Works, in 1391, and his subsequent resignation of the office, appear to me to hint at ill-health, as may his death a year after getting his lease for fifty-three years of the tenement in Westminster, where he died.

The last verse of this poem is the most remarkable of the three. Full of just contempt for his enemies’ aspersions, and of hearty trust in the power of truth to set things right, he rises suddenly into a passion of aspiration. Trying to be content with adversity, he is angry with himself for feeling it so deeply. To wrestle in this world is but courting an overthrow. But this is not our Home, this is but a desert leading to a higher state. Forth, pilgrim! gird up thy loins with fresh vigour to journey on. Forth, pilgrim! _forth, beast, out of the stall_ of narrow hopes and interests! look higher, and thank thy God for all. To cast by all the soul’s lets and hindrances--to be led by the higher self--that is the pilgrim’s longing, and that is the sublimest hope of the human heart.

NOTES ON THE PICTURES.

I.--FRONTISPIECE.

The costumes of the Knight, Squire, Prioress and Nun, Monk, Friar, Clerk (represented by Chaucer himself), Franklin, the Wife of Bath, the Summoner, and his friend the smart Pardoner, Mine Host and the boy, have been respectively studied from MSS. of the period. The attire of the Knight is open to criticism, for the amount of armour he wears is certainly more than he need wear on so peaceful an errand; but a portion of his well-used plate may be permitted him if only to distinguish the man of war from the numerous men of peace in the train.

The chain-mail, worn under the plate, would, I think, most probably have been retained by the Knight during his pilgrimage. The numerous miniatures of mailed knights journeying for no sinister purpose, appear to me to prove that it was very constantly worn. Unlike the mail which preceded it, the Asiatic kind which came into use in the twelfth century was comparatively light, being formed of slight rings interlaced, and not riveted upon leather. The hood of mail, which hangs on his shoulders, would have been no inconvenience at all. It joined the habergeon of mail, over which was his gipon, ‘stained,’ probably, by the rubbing of his mailed arms.

If, however, it be objected that the gipon was often an under garment (_vide_ Meyrick, vol. ii. pp. 20 and 21), we may suppose him to have left a heavy hauberk of plate behind him in London ‘till called for.’

Prioresses and nuns are often depicted in violet, in the contemporary MSS.; I therefore preferred that colour as more agreeable than black. Gloves such as the Nun’s, were occasionally worn in the fourteenth century; the present example is taken from the effigy of William of Colchester, Abbot of Westminster, d. 1420. Gloves of fur, for winter wear, were common in the reign of Henry III.

The harness of the horses, bells and saddles, the Nun’s chest, the Summoner’s cake (probably ornamental gingerbread), and other details, have also been carefully studied from MSS. and tapestries of the time.

The boy’s whip is taken from several fourteenth century and earlier drawings of horse-whips and whips for tops, and was therefore probably a common form.

The distant city is not necessarily London, as I failed to find a contemporary view of old London. The present sketch is borrowed from a fine MS. of Lydgate’s poem, the ‘Storie of Thebes’ (MS. Reg. 18 D. ii.), and gives a good notion of the general look of a mediæval town.

Chaucer’s portrait here was originally from the painting in the Harl. MS. 4866. I have no excuse to offer for changing the colour of Chaucer’s gown from the grey or black in which Occleve always represented him to green, a very common colour at the time, except that it looked better in the picture, and we have no right to assume that Chaucer, even in his poorest days, had only one gown.

II.--DINNER IN THE OLDEN TIME.

The ordinary dinner-table or ‘festive _board_’ in a Franklin’s or burgher’s house has been taken from numerous fourteenth century illustrations. (_Vide_ MS. Reg. 2 B. viii., and MS. Imp. Lib. Paris, No. 7210, &c.)

The carver, cupbearer, the fishbones left on the table in the absence of plates, the trenchers or slices of stale bread or buns used in lieu of them, and the other objects upon the table, are faithful copies from the MSS.

A minstrel was constantly employed to make music during the repast. The instrument here introduced is the cittern, played with or without a plectrum or quill. Behind are the servitors bringing in a pasty, some small birds on spits, and the nef or ship, containing salt, liqueurs, spices, or towel, &c., for washing the hands--or, if you like, it is a _sotelté_ in the form of a ship. A subtlety was an ornamental dish that usually closed each course, made in some fanciful form, such as a castle, ship, or animal.

The dogs are munching the waste victuals under the table--such dogs being usually admitted during meals.

The pattern on the tablecloth is derived from a hunting-horn of the fourteenth century.

The peculiar folds at the sides of the tablecloth, which appear in many MSS., must, I think, have been purposely made for ornament, as we sometimes still see waiters crease cloths in various devices.

The sweet herbs strewn on the floor denote summer-time, in contradistinction to straw, which was used in the winter.

III.--LADY CROSSING STREET.

The background of shops and other buildings is borrowed mainly from the decapitation of G. de Pommiers at Bordeaux in 1377 (Froissart’s Chronicle, No. 2644, Bibl. Imp. de Paris).

The costumes are those of middle-class persons. The clogs were in vogue with the long-toed boots.

Some of the streets were paved with large round stones, as in many French towns at the present day; others were not paved at all, and were, during wet weather, many feet deep with mud. An open channel or sewer ran along the midroad, which did not greatly add to the felicity of ‘a walk down Fleet Street.’

IV.--FAIR EMELYE.

Emelye’s garb is that common to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries--a simple form with double sleeves. It will be remembered that Palamon mistook Emelye at first sight for a goddess; Arcite perceived her to be human. I have endeavoured to give the two men’s views of her--each quite possible according to her position in the garden. Palamon may have caught sight of her just at a turn where the dazzle of sunrise behind the tree would be certain to lend a kind of halo to the outline of a head against it. An instant afterwards Emelye may have moved aside, the false halo disappearing, and she would seem what she truly was, simply an attractive maiden.

It is disappointing to find how very few were the flowers that adorned a mediæval garden. Our handsomest flowers were of course unknown--_e.g._, the immense catalogue of plants introduced from America and elsewhere. Many that ‘have had their day and ceased to be’ in fashion, were as yet unknown too; such as the sunflower, which was imported about the sixteenth century. The red and white may, the dogrose, primrose, and the flowers that we banish to the kitchen garden or admire only in the fields, formed the chief ornaments. We find nettles and nightshade reckoned among garden plants; the dandelion, which appears in the place of honour in many old tapestries, was then counted as a flower.

The big round tower is one of the chain of fortresses linked by a solid wall running around the domain, from one of which the captive knights saw Emelye, her garden being within the walls, and, as the castle was generally built on an eminence, on higher ground than the flat country beyond.

Shining yellow in the sun-rise light is a conventional view of a city--the city of Athens, which Palamon and Arcite could see from their prison window.

V.--GRISELDA’S MARRIAGE.

The huts where poor persons lived were, of course, very rude, and lacked windows, doors, or chimneys. Orifices in the roof or sides served these purposes. The dirt from the smoke upon walls and ceiling was consequently considerable. The draught beasts dwelt with their owners, much as the Hibernian pig resides with Pat and his family.

The hairy hat surmounting the hood came into use during the fourteenth century, and was made of skins, dressed fur outward.

Griselda’s raggedness must not be construed into slovenliness. Needles were not as accessible to the mass of the poor as they are now; and moreover, the poor not being then compulsorily educated, an honest, industrious girl who could work in the fields and spin, was not always able to darn.

VI.--GRISELDA’S BEREAVEMENT.

It is expressly stated that when her child was taken from her Griselda controlled her feelings, and did not so much as sigh. The sergeant finds her in her chamber, or bower, more private than the hall, and more luxuriously furnished. She is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs which usually stood near the bed’s head (_vide_ various fourteenth century MSS.)--possibly a _Prie-Dieu_--raised on a dais.

Her dress is simple, but that of the upper classes in Edward III.’s reign, lined with vair, and having long tippets from the sleeves knotted for convenience; her hair adorned with ‘bends’ or silken straps, and a gold head-dress. Her distaff is still at hand, and the full basket betokens her continued industry. Floor-carpets or mats, embroidered or woven, were rare at this time, and could only have been in use in a wealthy house; but they are occasionally spoken of in early MSS. In ‘Gautier d’Aupais’ an old lady is described as sitting on a richly-worked counterpoint, by a coal fire; but this may have been a cloth flung over a chair; and in the romance of ‘Queen Berthe’ three persons are said to sit on carpets (_sur les tapis_).

It will be remembered that the dagger was frequently used with the left hand.

VII.--DORIGEN AND AURELIUS.

The parti-coloured dress worn by Aurelius, similar to the Squire’s in the frontispiece, was common in Edward III.’s reign, and was peculiarly obnoxious to the satirists of the day. The cote-hardie or close-fitting tunic sometimes matched in colour one of the legs, sometimes was divided into halves of opposing colours; the shoes were very rich and of contrary hues also.

The ladies’ gowns were long and of very rich materials, the arms bound with gold, and further adorned by fantastic streamers or tippets. Chess was the fashionable pastime of old and young. The pieces in this picture are from some ivory Icelandic chessmen of the twelfth century.

Behind is the lawn where Dorigen’s _meinie_, or pages and household attendants, are amusing themselves with dancing and ball-playing among the enclosed flower-beds peculiar to the mediæval pleasure-garden.

The coat of arms repeated upon Aurelius’ dress is that attributed to Chaucer. The instrument, on which he doubtless accompanied his mournful love-songs, is a form of cittern. The carved design upon the settle or seat is Anglo-Saxon; the _fleur de lys_ on the curtain of the tent beside them was a common ornament.

I have not been able to discover at what precise date ‘shot’ materials came into use. There are many singular terms applied to the colours of dress throughout the middle ages, such as _pourpre-gris_, _ecarlate-blanche_, &c. In the ‘Fabliau de Gautier d’Aupais’ there is mention of ‘_un vert mantel porprine_’ (a mantle of green crimson). In my own mind I am persuaded that these terms, explicable easily in no other way, refer to shot materials. Mediæval miniatures and pictures also bear out this theory, dresses being depicted of certain colours shaded with certain others in strong contrast. The commonest is blue or red shaded with gold. There have been many conjectures with regard to the above terms. M. le Grand supposes that rare dyes, being chiefly used to dye rich cloths, gave at last their names to those cloths, irrespective of colour. The _Saturday Review_ once accused the old masters of “sporting with pigments prismatically” when they used red as the shadow of green, &c., oblivious of the fact that if the early masters had a fault it was adhering too blindly to nature in their works. It is clear that in Quentin Matsys’ day (fifteenth century) shot materials were quite common, for there is scarcely one of his pictures without a study of the kind. In his ‘Dead Christ’ at Antwerp several unmistakable examples occur; in his ‘Virgin’ at Amsterdam is introduced a curtain of green and brown shot. This being so, we have no reasonable ground for believing that shot silks, though not yet common, were unknown a century earlier.

I have therefore given two marked examples of similar silks, in the robes of Griselda and Dorigen, both wealthy enough to import such fabrics if in existence at all.

VIII.--THE RIOTER.

The ordinary cheap wine used in the middle ages was often carried in ‘bottles’ or pitchers of this form.

A longish gown was the dress of the commoner people in the fourteenth century. The Rioter is intended to represent a man of decent position, but not noble, who has come to the end of his tether, in a pecuniary sense, and whose slovenly hose and young but debauched and cruel face indicate with what facility he has been degraded by his elder companions.

PORTRAIT OF CHAUCER.

Chaucer’s portrait is copied from a drawing by Occleve the poet (Brit. Mus. Harl. MS. 4866). Occleve made, or caused to be made, shortly after Chaucer’s death, several portraits of him, of which two remain; and on these are founded the many now scattered over the country. The same features recur in all. The peculiar aquiline nose, mouth a little drooping, eyes downcast, the forked beard and fair complexion, the broad round jaw, are the same in all. Occleve always depicted Chaucer with a rosary in his hand, and his penner, containing his pen and inkhorn, hanging to his vest. His hands are small and well-shapen, his form is portly, his air calm, benevolent, almost pathetic.

These lines run beside the miniature in Occleve’s MS.:--

Al thogh his lyfe be queynt, the resemblaunce extinguished Of him hath in me so fressh lyflynesse liveliness That to putte othir men in remembraunce Of his persone I have heere his lyknesse likeness Do make, to this end in sothfastnesse, had made (_faire faire_), truth That thei that have of him lest thought and mynde lost By this peynture may ageyn him fynde. painting

Although his life be quench’d, so clear doth lie Within my mind the living look of him, That to put other men in memory Of his appearance, here his face I limn, That they to whom his image groweth dim, And they that have of him lost thought and mind, By this poor portrait may again him find.

The portraits by Occleve, his personal friend and disciple, whose deep affection for Chaucer is touchingly reiterated in his ‘Lament’ for him, maybe relied on as most conscientious pictures from memory of the great poet’s habitual appearance.

Notes on the Woodcuts.

THE TOURNAMENT. (See Title-page.)--There must always have been, to some extent, a grotesque element in the Tournament. The desire to be conspicuous forced the combatants to assume the gayest and the biggest decoration. At a later date the tilting helmets sprouted into the most preposterous sizes and shapes. Figures and ‘favours’ assumed for the occasion, the gifts of enthusiastic lady-loves, as well as hereditary devices, surmounted the helm and glittered on coat-armour and harness. In Edward III.’s reign the beauty and _éclat_ of the tourney was in its zenith; in Richard II.’s the beautiful began to be overpowered by the grotesque. I have tried to tone down the grotesque as much as may be, but a general dazzle and confusion of colour is inseparable from the scene, vivid, violent, and exciting as it was. Tents were often erected within the pale of the lists for the convenience of those awaiting or _hors de combat_. Shields or targets, for _peace_ or _war_, were suspended in couples before them, emblazoned with the arms of each lord; and whoso sent to touch the targets was tilted with according to his wish--_i.e._, with sharp or blunt lances.

The end of Theseus’ tourney was clearly a riot, but I have preferred to represent the orderly onset of the first combatants, guided by a MS. Froissart of the fifteenth century. It has been suggested to me that it would be impossible to tilt across the bar unless the spear-arm were next the bar, as the horse’s neck would impede the stroke, and the rider’s own spear would unhorse him: in tent-pegging and all sports with the lance the rider brings his spear-arm next the mark. But having found several early miniatures in which the spear is aimed as here given, I considered myself justified in trusting to contemporary MSS. in spite of modern theories.

The horses were the chief sufferers in these mimic frays. The heavy beasts, protected as they were by a great weight of armour, were often injured. The best-trained dreaded the shock of encounter, and, as we read in Froissart, their restiveness and swerving at the last moment frequently spoiled the ‘course,’ despite the most violent spurring, to their masters’ deep chagrin and disappointment, and the disgust of the lady-loves.

The high saddles, sometimes locking the rider in his seat all round, were constructed to retain him on his horse, however violent the push; but they were the cause of many an unhappy accident. Death like Arcite’s, from crushing against the saddle-bow, was by no means uncommon. So died William the Conqueror himself four hundred years before; when, riding down the steep street of Mantes, his horse stumbled among the embers he had kindled. (See Green’s Short History of the English People, p. 85.)

Suffocation in the dust was a still more frequent cause of death; as thrown riders could not rise, nor rid themselves of their ponderous casques.

Skill rather than strength was needful in tilting. The spear, as in pig-sticking in India, was thrust rather by the weight of the horse than by the weight of the arm. Strength of back and arm were necessary to avoid being bent backwards or driven over the crupper; but extreme skill was requisite to hit one’s slippery foe with anything like force. When both knights hit their mark so that fire flew from their helmets, without either falling, it was reckoned a ‘handsome course.’

A word about the allans, as big as bullocks, which went leaping around Lycurgus’ car. They were undoubtedly a kind of mastiff, large and powerful; they wore gold collars filled with _torettz_. This word is variously explained. _Torete_, ring-turret (Morris), ring or terret (Bell). ‘_Toret_, a small wimble (or auger, big gimblet). Touret, a drill, &c.’ (Cotgrave). ‘_Gros clou dont la tête arrondie est arrêtée dans une branche d’un mors_’ (Suppl. to Fr. Acad. Dict.).

I have ventured on translating ‘toret’ _spike_, after vainly seeking for authority for a collar filled with rings; though a single ring often hung beneath the throat. Contemporary illustrations of dogs’ collars filled with long spikes are common enough--_e.g._ the fine fourteenth century tapestry now in the museum at Chartres, &c.

In India dogs are furnished with spiked collars in tiger and boar hunting: the allans were clearly hunting dogs, and such spiked collars would thus be almost indispensable.

JOHN OF GAUNT, Royal Coll. 20 B. 6. (See page 7.)--This portrait has an air of truth about it; in the MS. it is very carefully and delicately worked. The gown is of a reddish murrey colour, with ermine or miniver lining to skirt and sleeves, the under sleeves being blue. His hose are red, and he wears a golden circlet, necklace, and belt. One can trace some resemblance to Edward III., his father, in the long, narrow, but not unpleasing face. Other portraits of John of Gaunt have the same features. The hair and beard are grey. He appears to be respectfully lecturing the young King Richard, who is seated on his throne, receiving a book presented by a monk, in the presence of his three royal uncles.

SHIP. (See page 8.)--How such ships could sail is a mystery, but this is the most usual anatomy for a man-of-war, or for a ‘subtlety’ at dinner in the form of a ship. I copied the present example from a MS. in the British Museum: it is one of a royal fleet. There is a Nef introduced in the famous ‘Nancy’ tapestry (fifteenth century) of precisely the same construction.

STYLUS. (See page 10.)--The stylus was used for writing on waxen tablets. No doubt wax was cheaper and more easily procured than parchment or paper; paper made from rags being then quite a recent invention, and probably what was made was not white but brown, and imported from abroad. Wax could be dissolved and used again. Hence we find, in the romance of ‘Flor and Blanchflor,’ the king putting children to school, where they learned to write

Letres et vers d’amors en cire, Lor greffes sont d’or et d’argent.

Letters and verses of love on the wax. Their styles are of gold and silver.

THE YEOMAN. (See page 21.)--The term ‘not-head’ used by Chaucer may mean that he had his hair closely cropped--a head like a nut--as suggested by Tyrwhitt, &c.; but I think, on the contrary, it refers to his hood having the liripipe knotted around it, as there are numerous instances of such hoods worn by foresters, hunters, and others, to whom a long tail would be a nuisance, if not actually dangerous. The woodcut of a knotted hood, on p. 2, is that of a forester, in the Book of Gaston Phœbus, fourteenth century, in the National Library of Paris. Chaucer says the miller wore his ‘typet ybounde about his heed’ (‘Reeve’s Tale,’ line 33).

THE PRIORESS. (See page 22.)--Her costume (same as in Frontispiece) is borrowed from an Abbess or Prioress in a MS. of the History of the Emperors (Lib. of the Arsenal), fifteenth century.

THE MONK. (See page 24.)--From Royal MS. 14 E. 4, temp. Ed. IV.: too late, indeed, but it appears that the clerical costume had suffered no great change.

THE CLERK. (See page 27.)--The figure of the Clerk possesses peculiar interest, as it represents one of those ancient artists whose paintings in mediæval MSS. are so valuable to us now. His name is Alan Strayler, a designer and painter, and his dress is that of an ordinary middle-class man; it will be seen to be precisely similar to Chaucer’s, who was himself a ‘clerk.’

THE SERJEANT AT LAW. (See page 28.)--It is curious that the mantle of this figure, whose dress is taken from two effigies of Chief Justices of the King’s Bench in the fourteenth century, should recall the Roman toga, being apparently fastened over the hood, on the right shoulder, so as to leave that arm completely free: an instance of the conservatism of official dress, which alters very little with the fluctuations of fashion, whilst those persons whose costume denotes no position are constantly undergoing protean changes.

THE DOCTOR. (See page 29.)--The medical man is as much too early as the monk is too late, but it was the most characteristic one I could find, and I preferred thirteenth century to fifteenth century costume. The mantle recalls the Roman toga. (Copy from Sloane Coll. No. 1975.)

THE PARSON. (See page 30.)--See a brass of John Islyngton, vicar of Islington, in Norfolk, in 1393. The dress of a plain parish priest is not often represented: it will be seen to be not dissimilar to that of a modern French priest.

THE PLOUGHMAN.--(See page 31.)--Studied from figures in a very ancient Anglo-Saxon MS. It appears to me that the liripipe (evidently then worn) is in this case twisted around the head.

THE PARDONER. (See page 31.)--The Pardoner may have worn the ordinary clerkly gown, or, as in the Frontispiece, a close-fitting garb. Chaucer does not describe his attire, but says he thought himself ‘al of the newe get’ (_i.e._, fashion).

PRINCIPAL AUTHORITIES CONSULTED IN THIS BOOK.

Sir S. Meyrick, ‘Antient Armour.’

Lacroix, ‘Manners, Customs, and Dress during the Middle Ages,’ &c., &c.

Skeat, ‘Chaucer,’ &c.

Morris, ‘Chaucer’ (Aldine edition), 1866, and ‘Chaucer’ (Clarendon Press), 1874.

Tyrwhitt’s ‘Chaucer.’

Bell’s edition of ‘Chaucer’s Poetical Works.’

Fairholt, ‘Costume in England.’

Wright, ‘Domestic Manners during the Middle Ages,’ and ‘Womankind in Western Europe.’

Froissart’s ‘Chronicles.’

Planché, ‘British Costume.’

Shaw, ‘Dresses and Decorations,’ ‘Ornaments,’ &c.

Furnivall, ‘Babee’s Book,’ and ‘Trial Forewords’ (Chaucer Society), &c.

‘Arthur of Britayn.’

Six-Text Edition of Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury Tales.’

Bonnard & Mercurj, ‘Costumes des XIIIe, XIVe, et XVe Siècles,’ 1840.

Le Grand, ‘Fabliaux et Contes du XIIe et du XIIIe Siècle,’ 1781.

Barbazan, ‘Fabliaux et Contes,’ 1808.

Printed by McCorquodale & Co. Limited, “The Armoury,” Southwark.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] I use the word ‘emphasis’ in the same sense as one might speak of a _crotchet_ in music, to which you count two, being more emphatic than a _quaver_, to which you count one.

[2] Those who wish to study systematically the grammar, and construction of the metre, I can only refer to the best authorities, Dr. R. Morris and Mr. Skeat, respectively. It would be superfluous to enter on these matters in the present volume.

[3] “No better MS. of the ‘Canterbury Tales’ could be found than the Harleian MS. 7334, which is far more uniform and accurate than any other I have examined; it has therefore been selected, and faithfully adhered to throughout, as the text of the present edition. Many clerical errors and corrupt readings have been corrected by collating it, line for line, with the Lansdowne MS. 851, which, notwithstanding its provincial peculiarities, contains many excellent readings, some of which have been adopted in preference to the Harleian MS.” (Preface to Morris’s Revised Ed. 1866.) This method I have followed when I have ventured to change a word or sentence, in which case I have, I believe, invariably given my authority.

[4] Roger Ascham.

[5] Mr. Furnivall, among some of his recent interesting researches anent Chaucer, has discovered with certainty his father’s name and profession.

[6] The position of Chaucer, and his wife, in the King’s service, and that of the latter in the service of Constance, Duchess of Lancaster, shared with two ladies of rank, be well as their lifelong interest at Court, prove, I think, that neither of them was of mean parentage, and that they occupied a very good social _status_.

[7] See also p. 19, note 34.

[8] It must not be forgotten, in reading praises of warm and sunny May, often now a bleak and chilly month, that the seasons were a fortnight later at that time, May-day coming therefore in the middle of the month, and May ending in the middle of June. The change in the almanac was made in Italy in 1582, in England in 1752.

[9] Dr. Morris writes--“The old supposition that the Philippa whom Chaucer married was the daughter of Sir Paon de Roet (a native of Hainault and King of Arms of Guienne), and sister to Katherine, widow of Sir Hugh Swynford, successively governess, mistress, and wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, was founded on heraldic grounds. The Roet arms were adopted by Thomas Chaucer. Then Thomas Chaucer was made (without the slightest evidence) Geoffrey’s son, and Philippa Roet was then made Geoffrey’s wife.” And again, “It is possible that Philippa Chaucer was a relative or namesake of Geoffrey, and that he married her in the spring or early summer of 1374.” It is, however, much less likely that there were so many Chaucers about the Court, unconnected with each other, than that the common supposition is correct. At any rate, _until there is any evidence to the contrary_, this tradition may be fairly accepted. The recent discovery, in the Record Office, of Thomas Chaucer’s deed, by Mr. Hunter, sealed with a seal bearing the legend, ‘S Ghofrai Chaucer,’ seems to support the tradition.

[10] A mark was 13_s._ 4_d._ of our money, but the buying power of money was eight or ten times greater than at present. So that, although ten marks was only £6 12_s._ of our currency, it was fully equal to £50.

[11] There are entries mentioning Philippa Chaucer in 1366, 1372, and 1374. The former names her as one of the ladies of the bedchamber to Queen Philippa, who conferred the annuity of ten marks in September, 1366. In 1372 John of Gaunt conferred on Philippa Chaucer an annuity of £10 (equal to £100). Her name is mentioned when the grant to Chaucer of a pitcher of wine daily is commuted into money payment, June 13, 1374, by John of Gaunt (again a pension of £10), for good services rendered by the Chaucers to the said Duke, his consort, and his mother the Queen.

[12] Green was the favourite colour of the time.

[13] _Astrolabe_: a machine used at sea to measure the distances of stars. The quadrant now in use has superseded the astrolabe.

[14] Thomas Chaucer was born in or about 1367, and died in 1434. Elizabeth Chaucer’s noviciate was paid for by John of Gaunt in 1381. If Elizabeth Chaucer was about 16 in 1381 she would have been born about 1365; and, therefore, as far as dates are concerned, either Thomas or Elizabeth may well have been elder children of the poet: the chances being that he married in 1361-64. Moreover, John of Gaunt’s interest in both of these persons, Thomas Chaucer and Elizabeth Chaucer, gives this a colour of probability. At the same time Chaucer seems to have been no uncommon name.

Chaucer’s exceptional notice of his little son Lewis who must have been born in 1381, the year of Elizabeth’s novitiate, since Chaucer describes him as being ten years old in his treatise on the astrolabe in 1391, may have been due to the appearance of a ‘Benjamin’ rather late in life.

[15] On the hypothesis, of course, that Chaucer married a Roet.

[16] For many new and curious facts about Chaucer, see my _Chaucer for Schools_, “Chaucer’s Court Life and Position.”

[17] In these cases, the sum received on the marriage of the ward was legally a fine on the marriage.

[18] See Chambers’s Encyclopædia, ‘Chaucer’.

[19] See _Chaucer for Schools_, p. 22, for further details.

[20] I have assumed that Thomas Chaucer was Geoffrey Chaucer’s son, as there is no proof to the contrary, and a probability in point of dates that he was.

[21] See ‘Notes by the Way,’ p. 103.

[22] See _Chaucer for Schools_.

[23] Remembering the discussion raised as to the year of Chaucer’s birth, coupled with the tradition of his venerable looks, we may suggest that in those days men were older at sixty than now. The average duration of life was shorter, and the paucity of comforts probably told on appearance.

[24] Author of the ‘Testament of Love.’

[25] Alluding to the numerous dialects in use in England at the time.

[26] The mother should here read to the child some lines with the proper pronunciation: see Preface, pp. x., xi.

[27] _Zephyrus_, or Zephyr: the god of the west wind. It is become a name for the wind of summer.

[28] Pilgrims who have brought a palm branch from the Holy Land.

[29] _Kouthe_: past participle of the verb conne, to know, or to be able. It was used much as _savoir_ is in French--to be able to do, to know how to do a thing. The verse means ‘To serve the saints they could, or they knew of, or knew how to serve.’

[30] Thomas Beket, Chancellor of Henry II. He was Archbishop of Canterbury for eight years, and was murdered by servants of the King in 1170. He was canonized, or made a saint, by the Pope, after his death, and pilgrimages were then constantly made to his tomb in Canterbury Cathedral. In those days it was usual in sickness or peril to vow a pilgrimage to the shrine of some saint who was supposed to be able to help people by interceding with God, when pilgrims prayed him to. Erasmus alludes to the quantities of offerings on Thomas Beket’s shrine, given by those who believed the saint had healed or helped them.

[31] A tabard was an outer coat without sleeves, worn by various classes, but best known as the coat worn over the armour (see p. 48), whereon there were signs and figures embroidered by which to recognize a man in war or tournament: for the face was hidden by the helmet, and it was easier to detect a pattern in bright colours than engraved in dark steel. So, of course, the pattern represented the arms used by him. And thus the tabard got to be called the _coat of arms_. Old families still possess what they call their coat of arms, representing the device chosen by their ancestors in the lists; but they do not wear it any more: it is only a copy of the pattern on paper. A _crest_ was also fastened to the helmet for the same purpose of recognition, and there is usually a ‘crest’ still surmounting the modern ‘coat of arms.’ The inn where Chaucer slept was simply named after the popular garment. It, or at least a very ancient inn on its site, was recently standing, and known as the Talbot Inn, High Street, Borough: Talbot being an evident corruption of Tabard. We may notice here, that the Ploughman, described later on, wears a tabard, which may have been a kind of blouse or smock-frock, but was probably similar in form to the knight’s tabard.

[32] People were glad to travel in parties for purposes of safety, the roads were so bad and robbers so numerous.

[33] Probably all or many occupied but one bedroom, and they became acquainted on retiring to rest, at the ordinary time--sunset.

[34] The word Knight (knecht) really means _servant_. The ancient knights attended on the higher nobles and were their _servants_, fighting under them in battle. For as there was no regular army, when a war broke out everybody who could bear arms engaged himself to fight under some king or lord, anywhere, abroad or in England, and was paid for his services. That was how hundreds of nobly born men got their living--the only way they could get it. This is what the knight Arviragus does in the ‘Franklin’s Tale;’ leaving his bride, to win honour (and money) by fighting wherever he could.

The _squire_ waited on the knight much as the knight did on the earl--much in the position of an aide-de-camp of the present day. The _page_ served earl, knights, ladies. But knight, squire, and page were all honourable titles, and borne by noblemen’s sons. The page was often quite a boy, and when he grew older changed his duties for those of squire, till he was permitted to enter the knighthood. The present knight is described as being in a lord’s service, and fighting under him ‘in his war,’ but he was a man held in the highest honour.

[35] See p. 48 and Appendix, p. 107.

[36] “On nommait _Bacheliers_ les chevaliers pauvres, les _bas Chevaliers_ ... quand ceux-ci avaient reçu la chevalerie, on les appelait Chevaliers-Bacheliers ... quant à l’Ecuyer (Squire) c’était le prétendant à la Chevalerie.”--LE GRAND, _Fabliaux & Contes_.

[37] _Chivachie_: military expeditions.

[38] See page 45, note 96.

[39] Mr. Bell considers that these two lines refer to the squire’s complexion of red and white. Speght thinks it means freckled. But there is little doubt that the material of his dress is what Chaucer means, for there is no other instance of Chaucer calling a complexion _embroidered_, and gorgeously flowered fabrics embroidered with the needle were peculiar to the period and in common use.

[40] As it was the custom for sons to do.

[41] Peacocks’ feathers on them instead of swans’.

[42] It was a sign of the yeoman’s carefulness in his business that they stuck out from the shaft instead of drooping.

[43] _Bracer_: a leathern defence for the arm: a similar shield is now worn in archery.

[44] _Bokeler_--buckler: a small shield--used chiefly for a warder to catch the blow of an adversary. Some pictures show the buckler to have been only the size of a plate, but it varied. In comparing the Wife of Bath’s hat to a buckler, Chaucer could not have meant so small a one. It was usual for serving men of noble families to carry swords and bucklers when in attendance on them.

[45] _Bawdrik_--baldrick: ornamented strap to suspend the horn or dagger.

[46] Oaths were only too common among ladies as well as men. It was an exceptional refinement to use only a small oath. Tyrwhitt prints the name of the saint, Eloy, contraction of Eligius--a saint who, having been a worker in metals, was often invoked by smiths (see ‘Friar’s Tale’), &c.; but Dr. Morris says St. Loy is the old spelling of St. Louis of France, by whom the Prioress swore.

[47] Bell approves reading _voice_ for nose, as Speght has actually done. It has not struck either of them that Chaucer is all the way through laughing at the fastidious and rather over-attractive nun!

[48] Knives and forks were not in use--people had to use their fingers; but some used them more agreeably than others.

[49] At meals one cup for drinking passed from guest to guest, instead of each having his own glass, as now. It was considered polite to wipe one’s mouth well before drinking, so that the next drinker should find no grease in the wine. The great stress Chaucer lays on the pretty nun’s courtesy seems to hint at very dirty habits among ordinary folk at meals!

[50] Mr. Bell naïvely points out the innocence and ‘ignorance of the ways of the world,’ which pervade the whole of the ‘simple Prioress’s character;’ but you will notice that in laughing at the cheerful nun’s affectation of court manners, Chaucer never once gives her credit for very high or noble character, though he does not speak ill-naturedly. I have ere now alluded to his dislike of the Church, friars, nuns, and all included: and here he shows that her charitableness and compassion were spent on wholly inadequate objects. She is extravagant to the last degree in feeding her dogs, and weeping for dead mice; but nothing is said of charity to the poor, or any good works at all. She is too intent on fascinating everybody, and dressing smartly. There is sharp sarcasm in all this.

[51] _Wastel breed_--a kind of cake--the most expensive of all bread.

[52] _Wimple_: a loose covering for the neck, close up to the chin, plaited daintily; worn especially by nuns.

[53] A rosary, the coral beads of which were divided by smaller ones, or gauds, of a green colour.

[54] ‘Love conquers all things.’ The Prioress might have twisted this device to refer to the text, ‘The greatest of these is charity;’ but the _double entendre_ is apparent.

[55] From a French phrase, _bone pur la maistrie_ = good to excel all others. The monk bids fair to excel all others or outstrip the rest in promotion, on account of his worldliness.

[56] “The custom of hanging small bells on the bridle and harness of horses is still observed on the Continent for the purpose of giving notice to foot-passengers to get out of the way; but it was no doubt often used for ostentation. So Wicliffe inveighs against the clergy in his Triologe for their ‘fair hors, and jolly and gay sadels, and bridels ringing by the way.’”

[57] A bird more commonly eaten in those days than it is now, but expensive even then.

[58] _Lymytour_: a friar licensed to beg within a certain district or limit. This friar, no very pleasing character, is described as making such a good thing out of his begging, that he bribed his fellow friars not to come within his particular haunt, and interfere with his doings: an unprincipled dandy who is another instance of Chaucer’s sarcasm against the Church.

[59] There were four orders of mendicant friars--Dominicans, Franciscans, Carmelites, and Augustins.

[60] _Frankeleyns_: a franklin was a rich landholder, free of feudal service, holding possessions immediately from the king. See p. 28.

[61] Confession, absolution, and penance: sacraments in the Roman Catholic Church.

[62] The rotta was an ancient instrument of the guitar tribe.

[63] _Clerk_: a scholar probably preparing for the priesthood. In many Roman Catholic countries it was the custom till very lately for poor scholars to ask and receive contributions from the people for the expenses of their education. They were often extremely indigent, coming from the labouring classes. The parson, for instance, spoken of later, is said to be brother of the ploughman travelling with him. The poor scholar and the good parson are ‘birds of a feather.’

[64] Or, _abounded_: the O. E. _snewe_, like the Prov. Eng. _snee_, _snie_, _snive_, _snew_, signifies _to swarm_.

[65] The table dormant was a permanent table, not a board on trestles such as the ordinary one, mentioned on p. 2. It was only used by very rich people, for it was a new fashion, and expensive. See drawing of table dormant in 14th century, on page 28.

[66] Well-to-do.

[67] Chaucer speaks, you see, in very different terms of the poor and conscientious parish priest (who was supported only by his benefice and tithes of the people--a small income) from what he does of the monastic orders, corrupted by the wealth they had accumulated. Bell says--“It was quite natural that Chaucer, the friend of John of Gaunt, should praise the parochial clergy, who were poor, and therefore not formidable, at the expense of the rich monastic orders who formed the only barriers which then existed against the despotic power of the aristocracy.” But, however that may be, there is no doubt that these parish parsons actually were a much better and more honest class of men than the monks, and the begging friars, and all the rest, were at this time. They were drawn, like the Roman Catholic secular clergy of the present day, from the labouring classes.

[68] No one of good position rode on a mare in the middle ages.

[69] _Summoner_: an officer employed by the ecclesiastical courts to summon any persons who broke the law to appear before the archdeacon, who imposed what penalty he thought fit. The Summoners found it to their interest to accept bribes not to report offences: therefore bad people who could afford to pay got off, whilst those who could not afford to pay were punished with rigour. Many Summoners extorted bribes by threatening to say people had transgressed the law who had _not_; and so they got to be detested by the masses, and Chaucer’s hideous picture gives the popular notion of a Summoner.

[70] A face as red as the fiery cherubin: a rather profane simile! In many ancient pictures we find the cherubin painted wholly scarlet; and the term had become a proverb. ‘Sawceflem’ is from _salsum flegma_, a disease of the skin.

[71] See note, p. 92, note 175.

[72] _Pardoner_: Seller of the Pope’s indulgences.

[73] A vernicle--diminutive of _Veronike_--was a small copy of the face of Christ, worn as a token that he had just returned from a pilgrimage to Rome.

[74] The Pardoner’s eloquence and musical gifts account, perhaps, for the exquisite story he afterwards tells.

[75] Mr. Wright says this place was situated at the second milestone on the old Canterbury road.

[76] Tyrwhitt. Hyppolita, Smith’s Dic.

[77] Feste in this place means rather festival than feast, as Theseus was only on his way to the city.

[78] At this period, the personal pronoun _you_ was used only in the plural sense, or in formal address, as on the Continent now; whilst _thou_ implied familiarity. The Deity, or any superior, was therefore addressed as _you_: intimates and inferiors as _thou_. Throughout Chaucer the distinction is noticeable: but as the present mode reverses the order, I have in my lines adhered to no strict principle, but have used the singular or plural personal pronoun according as it seemed most forcible.

[79] Thebes, in Greece.

[80] A garment worn over the armour, on which the armorial bearings were usually embroidered, for the purpose of recognition. See _tabard_, p. 48.

[81] The rites and ceremonies, observed on the approach of spring, from the earliest times in many countries, but which have now died out in England, are among the most natural and beautiful of all popular fêtes. I have already in the preface alluded lo the custom of riding out into the fields at daybreak to do honour to May, the month which was held to be the symbol of spring-time. Rich and poor, the court and the commoners, all rode out with one impulse. Boughs of hawthorn and laburnum were brought home to decorate all the streets, and dancing round the maypole, and feasting, and holiday-making, were observed almost like religious rites. It was a great privilege to be elected queen of May, and one which every young maiden coveted. At a later time we read of Henry VIII. and Queen Catherine of Aragon formally meeting the heads of the corporation of London, on Shooter’s Hill, to ‘go a maying.’

But one thing should be remembered when we see how many pleasures were referred to May, and how much more people seemed to count on the weather of a month nowadays proverbially disappointing. The seasons were not the same then as they are now. Not because the climate of the land has altered so much, though that may be fairly surmised; but because the seasons were actually arranged otherwise. In Chaucer’s time, May began twelve days later than our May, and ended in the midst of June, and therefore there was a much better chance of settled weather than we have. This fact also accounts for the proverbial connection of Christmas and hard weather, snow, and ice, which _we_ get as a rule in January, while December is foggy and wet. Twelfth Day was the old Christmas Day. (See page 4.)

[82] At point devise--with exactness.

[83] The love of the Anglo-Saxons and the early English for flowers is very remarkable. The wearing of garlands of fresh flowers was a common practice with both sexes: a beautiful custom, followed by the Romans, and previously by the Greeks.

[84] Formal compacts for the purpose of mutual counsel and assistance were common to the heroic and chivalrous ages.--_B._

[85] The words _court_ and _royal_, now applied only to the sovereign of the land, were applicable then to the domains of the great nobles, who were to all intents and purposes kings. Their pride, and wealth, and immense power, made them very formidable to the sovereign, as we constantly find in following the history of England or any other country. They often mustered as big an army as the king, because they could afford to pay the knights (see note, p. 19), and were invincible in their strongholds, surrounded by their serfs dependent on them.

[86] Tyrwhitt.

[87] _Crop_, the top of the wood; _briars_, the thorny brushwood and weeds growing on the ground. This pretty metaphor well expresses the fluctuating moods of an overwrought state of feeling.

[88] Tyrwhitt.

[89] Harness was a technical term for the complete armour or equipment, as opposed to portions, which were equally _armour_.

[90] Even these similes separate the two characters: the lion may be mad with rage; the tiger, which is a cat, is crafty as well as fierce.

[91] An exaggeration simply for picturesque effect, such as many have indulged in since Chaucer.

[92] The helmet entirely concealing the face.

[93] _Ho_ was the word by which the heralds or the king commanded the cessation of any action.

[94] What were called the ‘lists’ were the places built and enclosed for combats on horseback, and tournaments. These combats got sometimes very serious, and many knights and horses were wounded, or even killed.

[95] A form of torture to extort confession. Theseus’ grim humour at this juncture implies how far lightlier human life was held then than now. But he was naturally in a great rage when he knew who the knights were. Palamon’s insolent address in the _singular_ personal pronoun was not likely to mollify him, coming as it did from a captive, though an equal by birth.

[96] How idealized, and how idolized, the passion of love had crown to be with the new elevation of woman’s condition in these times is well known. Love literally covered a multitude of sins: the malefactor was pardoned whose offences were caused by love; the rough was made smooth for the feet of love to tread upon. There was a reason for this. It is but too true that the morals of the people will not bear the light of modern times; but it would be unfair to judge them by that light. Those were rough days, when laws were often feeble, narrow, or ill-enforced. The want of legal organization placed a great refining and ennobling power in the hands of woman. Many a knight, who was coarse or cowardly, was pricked to courteous ways and deeds of courage by his love of some fair woman, when without it he would have sunk lower and lower in vice and degradation. The arts were ofttimes cultivated to win a woman’s ear or eye; knowledge itself was sought for her sake, for knowledge is power. Of course the love of courtesy, valour, and learning were deeply rooted in the age, or the woman’s sympathy could not have existed. But her encouragement of all that was æsthetic, her influence over men, and therefore the impetus she gave to the higher life, must never be underrated, however we may reprove the errors of that day. The institution of actual ‘Courts of Love’--tribunals for the judgment of love-matters, bearing a definite recognition, and which seem so strange, almost repulsive to us, presided over as they were by ladies only--was the result of the worship of physical beauty and the passion which it inspired, and the proof, however grotesque, of the real value seen to lie in it. This will be better understood when we observe that even children were encouraged to cultivate somewhat of this ideal love, and the childish education of boys and girls consisted to a very large extent in learning the art of writing love-letters. Thus Palamon’s and Arcite’s adoration of fresh Emelye are seen to be neither exaggerated nor futile.

[97] ‘To pipe in an ivy leaf:’ A proverbial expression, similar to ‘go whistle’--meaning to be engaged in any useless employment.

[98] The tournament, great as the loss of life often was, seems to have been the greatest delight of the people in the middle ages. The ladies especially loved them, as they were often in homage to themselves. The victor in the mimic battle received a crown from the queen of the tournament. In this case, Emelye is not asked whether she likes to be disposed of thus coolly! but she could not fail to be touched by the great compliment paid her.

[99] There are no portraits, otherwise, of these two princes, whose characters are so clear and forcible all through that some physical description is sorely needed. The portraits of the two sovereigns fit singularly well the fierce, passionate nature of Palamon, and the cooler but equally noble one of Arcite.

[100] _Kemped heres_: Dr. Morris rejects the usual rendering of the word kemped as combed, and asserts that it means the very reverse, and, “instead of smoothly combed, means bent, _curled_, and hence rough, shaggy.” A similar term occurs a few lines farther on, describing the hair ‘kempt behind his back,’ where Dr. Morris reads combed. It seems, however, contrary to the rule of courtesy observed by lovers, that a noble knight should appear at a festival like a wild man of the woods. If, on the other hand, the shaggy hairs were on the _eyebrow_, it certainly adds to the ferocity of his look. I prefer the former reading for Emelye’s bridegroom.

[101] See page 42, note.

[102] _Alauns._ A species of dog used for hunting the boar, &c. Sp. _alano_. Speght says they were greyhounds, Tyrwhitt mastiffs, much esteemed in Italy in the 14th century. See Cotgrave--‘_Allan_, a kind of big, strong, thick-headed, and short-snowted dog--the brood whereof came first out of Albania.’

[103] See Appendix, p. 111.

[104] A kind of rich silk.

[105] The ‘mantelet’ was at first devised to protect the burnished helmet from becoming inconveniently heated by the sun: it became afterwards fantastic in form, and is the origin of the ‘mantling’ seen in modern coats of arms.

[106] This fair countenance is oddly assigned to an Indian monarch: but some of the details of his appearance are poetic embellishments and must not be relied upon. The white eagle carried for his pleasure is probably one of the many exaggerations for picturesque effect, and is only a magnified falcon, a bird which was at this time the constant companion of the noble: hawking was in high favour, and the bird’s tameness depended on its habituation to its owner’s voice and touch. A little later on the hawks are mentioned as sitting on perches during the festival; such perches were in every room and hall in common life; so provision had to be made for their accommodation on the grandest occasions. In Wright’s ‘Womankind,’ we read: “Different species of the hawk were allotted to persons of the different grades and ranks of society. Thus we are told that the eagle and the vulture belonged to the emperor, from which we must understand that the emperor was not expected to go often a-hawking.” Evidently Chaucer was well read in his books on falconry.

[107] _Carole_ (Tyrwhitt--the other editions have _dance_) was a round dance.

[108] The term for the whole panoply of knight or steed--armour and coat-armour included.

[109] A knight in armour was in very little danger from a cut of a broadsword, or even from the blow of a mace; but a thrusting sword might easily pierce through the joints of his armour.--_Bell._

[110] Tyrwhitt’s and Bell’s editions read, ‘Farwel, my swete, farwel, myn Emelye!’

[111] Tyrwhitt. _Overnome_ is participle past of _overnimen_ (Sax.), to overtake. The following, and the sixth line further on, are also Tyrwhitt’s reading.

[112] See _Chaucer for Schools_, p. 86, for some curious details.

[113] The Summoners and the Friars were naturally always at variance, both deriving their money from the same Source: both belonged to the Church, but the Summoner was legally qualified to _extort_, whilst the Friar was only permitted to _beg_. Thus, if the Summoner had been to a house first, the Friar was likely to suffer.

[114] Houses of ill-fame were exempted from ecclesiastical interference on the ground that they were a necessary evil, and might be thus better _surveillé_.

[115] _Gale_--sing: it means here, ‘If the Summoner likes to squeak when he feels the shoe pinch, let him!’

[116] “A dog trained for shooting with the bow, part of whose education consisted in following the stricken deer only, and separating it from the herd.”--_Bell._

[117] _Ribibe_: a shrill musical instrument--metaphorical for a shrill old woman.

[118] Tyrwhitt.

[119] The hell of the Teutonic race, before they were Christians, was in the north, and after their conversion, as their converters adopted their name, only giving the place a Christian character, it was natural that the people should retain their original notion of its position.--_Bell._

[120] Tyrwhitt.

[121] Money forced out of people by threats or ill-usage.

[122] A proverbial expression.

[123] Tyrwhitt.

[124] Tyrwhitt; more forcible.

[125] The first quarter of the artificial day: _i.e._ 9 o’clock.

[126] Tyrwhitt. Morris has ‘nothing for to leere.’

[127] This verse means, ‘You shall hereafter understand this subject so well, as to be able to give lectures on it, as a professor in his chair;’ _chayer_ being the term for pulpit or professor’s chair; _conne_ part of the verb conne, to know or be able; and _rede_, to counsel. The evil one is sarcastic on the special wickedness of the Summoner.

[128] Alluding to Eneas’ visit to infernal regions (6th book of ‘Eneid’) and Dante’s ‘Inferno.’

[129] The text has ‘Heit, Scot, heit, brok, what spare ye for the stones?’ and it is singular that ‘hayt’ is still the word used by waggoners in Norfolk to make their horses go on; while Scot remains one of the commonest names for a horse in Norfolk and Suffolk. The Reeve’s horse in the Prologue is called Scot also. Brock means a badger, hence applied to a grey horse. The carter presently calls this horse ‘myn oughne lyard (grey) boy.’

[130] The value of twelve pence may be estimated by the relative value of food and labour. _Bell_ says, “Twelve pence would have bought two dozen hens, or three gallons of red wine, or hired a _dozen_ common labourers for _twelve_ days,” but surely he means a _dozen_ labourers for _one_ day, or one labourer for twelve days.

[131] There was then no means of conveyance for people who could not walk except horseback.

[132] A libel, a copy of the information or indictment. A libel is still the expression in the ecclesiastical courts.--_Bell._ The abuses, we see, have led to another interpretation of the word libel--as _libellous_.

[133] This singular (to us) term as applied to Christ, was of course borrowed from the popular notion of warfare, when each knight, inspired by some fair inciter, was the more valiant for her sake. The term is both picturesque and forcible as an appeal to the common understanding, in which the Friars were naturally adepts.

[134] Tyrwhitt.

[135] The Summoner’s Tale (omitted) follows here.

[136] Students then entered the university at a far younger age than at the present day, almost indeed when boys now enter the public schools, so that the Clerk of Oxford may have been but a boy, which would account for his diffident demeanour: yet his education and knowledge might warrant mine host’s fear of his being too learned for them.

[137] Table: a board upon trestles.

[138] These are the lines on which the supposition is based that Petrarch and Chaucer had met.

[139] “Joannes of Lignano, near Milan, a canonist and natural philosopher, who flourished about 1378.”--_B._

[140] Saluzzo, a marquisate near Mount Viso: Lat. Vesulus.

[141] _Corage_ is used in several senses: impulse (as in the opening lines of the Prologue), feeling, or disposition may be implied. The word is derived from the Latin _cor_, the heart.

[142] See note 144 below.

[143] The courtsey of modern times is all that remains of the old custom of kneeling.

[144] The house without. In these early times, dwelling-places were usually built within a court. The court was, among the poor, a spot enclosed by a hedge or fence of sticks, and often a dry ditch; in the middle of this enclosure or house, the _hall_ in which they lived stood--a mere covered room. The chamber or _bower_, for sleeping and privacy, was a second erection within the court; but, in the case of so poor a man as Janicula, probably there was but one covered room, hall _or_ chamber, used for any purpose of shelter. So when the guests came into the _house_ without, the enclosure is meant, within which a single hut stood, built of planks. Janicula’s ox (used for draught, as now in Italy) inhabited the hut with them, and Griselda sets down her can in the stall when she enters the hut. In and around Naples we may still see the turkeys, pigs, and donkeys sharing the hovels with the peasants in this miserable way.

[145] On the Continent, even at the present day, the bride is _expected_ to assent to the bridegroom chosen by her parents. Walter treated Griselda with especial consideration and respect by consulting her. Skeat quotes the legal formula of refusal, _Le roy s’avisera_, to show that Walter’s question, “Wol ye assent, or elles yow avyse?” gave her the chance to refuse.

[146] In the 14th century it was the custom for everybody to go to bed with the sun. They rose in the morning at 4 or 5, had breakfast at 6, dinner at 10 or 11, and supper about 6.

[147] Sergeant and servant are doublets.--_Skeat._ Probably he was a cross between a highwayman and a soldier. Sergeant at one time meant squire to a prince or nobleman.

[148] Tyrwhitt.

[149] It was common, nay usual, in mediæval times for noble children to be put out to nurse in the family of some equal or dependent, for purposes of security. The removal of Walter’s children from the mother was _not_ an outrage: but concealing their fate from her was.

[150] _Panico_, Petrarch; _Panigo_, Boccace. I cannot be sure of the situation of this place, but there is a certain Paganico near Urbino, marked in old maps as a castle or fortress, which is not too far from Bologna to be possibly the place referred to. A river Panaro flows between Modena and Bologna.

[151] Tyrwhitt.

[152] It was not uncommon in olden times for girls to be married at twelve years of age.

[153] Skeat.

[154] The smock, or shift, was a high garment with long sleeves, often embroidered with black stitchery.

[155] “A jane is a small coin of Genoa (Janua); the meaning is, your praise is dear enough at a farthing.”--_B._ Or the verse may be taken to mean, the smallest coin is dear enough to you when you are tired of better--for novelty’s sake.

[156] Skeat; also second line beyond.

[157] Tyrwhitt and Skeat.

[158] Tyrwhitt.

[159] Skeat.

[160] Skeat and Tyrwhitt.

[161] For the analysis of these two remarkable and elaborately worked-out characters, see _Chaucer for Schools_, p. 111.

[162] Basse Bretaigne in France, called anciently Britannia Armorica.

[163] See Notes to this tale, p. 91, touching the homage paid to women during the middle ages.

[164] Penmark is placed on the maps on the western coast of Brittany, between Brest and Port l’Orient.

[165] The only means of subsistence a knight had was fighting--of course for hire.

[166] Backgammon.

[167] About the 20th of May by our almanac.

[168] _Clerk_ at that time denoted a man of learning, and a student at the universities--generally in holy orders.

[169] _Natural Magic_, Chaucer.--All kinds of conjuring were very popular at this time. The minstrels or _jougleurs_ added to their other accomplishments marvellous skill in sleight of hand (derived from the East): hence the modern signification of the word _juggler_. It is quite clear that many of their tricks were due to electro-biology, a science known to those mighty cultivators and preservers of learning, the Arabs. For some knowledge of what we owe to the Arabs, and of their influence upon mediæval European literature, I refer the reader to the ‘Literary Remains of Emanuel Deutsch’ (published by John Murray), containing two articles on Arabic Poetry; and to Draper’s popular ‘History of the Conflict between Religion and Science.’

[170] This and the following line are not in Morris’s edition.

[171] Bell’s edition. This and the next six lines are not in Morris’s edition.

[172] Equal to eight or ten times the amount now.

[173] Equivalent to ‘What is done cannot be undone.’

[174] I could not resist inserting the vigorous old words.

[175] The ale-stake was a stake set up as a sign before the inn, generally adorned with a bush. This custom prevails in Normandy still, where you may see a goodly bunch of mistletoe hanging out wherever wine or cider is sold.

[176] “A small bell used formerly to be rung before the corpse as it was carried to the grave, to give notice to those who were charitably disposed that they might pray for the soul of the deceased. Our ‘passing bell’ has the same origin, though the reason for it has ceased.”--_Bell._

[177] “Perhaps an allusion to the great pestilence which devastated Europe during the 14th century. _This pestilence_ means _during_ this pestilence, as _this_ year means _during_ this year.”--_Bell._

[178] “This is still the ceremony used in taking an oath in courts of justice in Prussia.”--_Bell._ Notice the emphasis laid on their close friendship, and their constant allusion to their being all ‘one,’ over and above the solemnity of the profane vow they make.

[179] The kindly custom of greeting passers-by, now rapidly going out even in our country districts, was more common in days when passers-by were infinitely rarer. Probably half a mile from the inn the road was lonesome enough, wherefore the old man’s anticipation of rough treatment from three reckless and half-tipsy ruffians was not unreasonable. His calm and fearless answer was the wisest as well as the most dignified course to pursue with such assailants, being calculated to sober them as well as to save himself.

[180] Making a jest of the close coverings and wraps of old age.

[181] _Caitif_, wretch, wretched. Italian--_cattivo_, captive. Fr.-_chétif_, poor, wretched, paltry, pitiful, &c. _Captive_ seems to give the most pathetic meaning, as though death were a looked-for freedom by a restless prisoner in the body. Fugitive is the next best for the sense, as the old man may be supposed to be flying to the gate for safety and comfort.

[182] Hair-shroud, sackcloth, the roughest cloth.

[183] Tyrwhitt’s edition has the less bloody threat, ‘Tell wher he is, or thou shalt it abie!’

[184] The old man probably saw that the young men were scarcely responsible for their actions, and determined to wreak violence on some one, and therefore he played on their mood to avert their violence from himself to some other object.

[185] Tyrwhitt.

[186] Probably in the vessels, &c., which had contained the food, thus avoiding the appearance of transporting treasure.

[187] Shall counsel he kept between us? literally, in schoolboys’ language, ‘Mum’s the word--eh?’

[188] Bell’s edition.

[189] Games which we now leave to children were formerly as popular with grown-up people. Hunt-the-slipper and blind-man’s-buff were 200 years ago the common recreation of ladies and gentlemen, and wrestling and other romping was indulged in far more commonly than now by young men. Playing at ball was a favourite pastime.

[190] Tyrwhitt. _Outrely_, utterly, beyond all things. _Vide_ the French--_outre mesure_, beyond measure. The common mediæval expressions, ‘_out of_ measure,’ ‘_out of_ doubt,’ were probably from the same word, _outre_ = beyond.

[191] Tyrwhitt.

[192] Cast, as in ‘_cast_ a nativity,’ means fix upon, arrange, discover.

[193] Tyrwhitt.

[194] Avicen, Ebn Sina, an Arabian physician of the 10th century. _Fen_, apparently an Arabic word, is the name given to the sections of Avicenna’s great work on physic, entitled _Canun_.--_Tyrwhitt._

[195] A play on the word: light meant also fickle or untrue.

[196] Tyrwhitt has treasure; Morris has _tresorere_, treasurer. The former seems the most appropriate to a lady-love. A similar expression is found in ‘Li Congiés Adan d’Aras’ (MS. de la Vallière, No. 2736 Bibl. Imp.), ‘De mon cuer serós tresoriere.’

[197] Bereft of money as a friar’s tonsure is of hair.

[198] Bell’s edition reads _tene_, taken.

[199] Tyrwhitt’s and Bell’s editions. Morris has ‘Do wel.’

[200] Fortune with her wheel.

[201] ‘Kick against the pricks.’

[202] For the clay pot is the weaker of the two.

[203] Tyrwhitt. Morris has _daunte_ and _dauntest_ (Fr., _dompter_), meaning control.

[204] See ‘Notes by the Way,’ p. 103.

End of Project Gutenberg's Chaucer for Children, by Mrs. H. R. Haweis