ate successors, who were at the same time his contemporaries, are Occleve and Lydgate. The words of these two, in speaking of him, are particularly deserving of attention because they are the words of men to whom he was known personally as well as by his writings. We get from them more than a mere critical view of the estimation in which his works were held. They give the impression that as a man he inspired not only admiration, but a feeling of personal devotion on the part of those with whom he came in close contact. It is evident, indeed, from Lydgate's words in his 'Troy Book,' that he was particularly kind and considerate towards young poets; a fact, however, which, if we judge from the pieces of the period that have survived, furnishes matter for regret rather than for rejoicing. To me the notices of Chaucer are the only parts of the writings of both these authors that deserve much attention. If this opinion be thought unjust, it is just to say that it does no more than extend to the two a critical estimate which is taken by most persons of the one. Occleve is a writer who has been contemptuously treated even by those who speak respectfully of Lydgate. Many of his works have not been printed. Of those which have been, it must be confessed that they are generally works which it requires dogged resolution to read. Even this is not likely to hold out, unless "For he that was ground of well saying, In all his life, hindered no making, My master Chaucer, that found full many spot, Nor meve himself to perturbe his rest, I have heard told, but said alway the best; Suffering goodly of his gentleness Full many thing embraced with rudeness." some other end in view exists than familiarity with his writings for their own sake. Still, Occleve has a certain claim upon our respect which has never been adequately acknowledged. His reputation has suffered from his candor. He had sense enough and taste enough to see the immense distance between himself and Chaucer, and to appreciate the excellence of the master. But he lacked the wisdom to keep his knowledge to himself. In a passage which is one of several that show the kindness which the great poet displayed towards his inferiors, Occleve honestly admitted his own incapacity to profit by the instruction he received. As he says, "My dearè master, God his soulè quite, And father Chaucer fain would me have taught, The world, which is very apt to rate a man at his own valuation, took Occleve at his word. In so doing it treated him with justice in one way, and with injustice. in another. It is common enough to be dull. What is uncommon is the ability to perceive it in one's self, and the willingness to admit it. There is no doubt that he showed good sense in thinking meanly of his own performances. Most of his poems that have been printed are anything but poetical. The 'Letter of Cupid,' found in the folio editions of Chaucer, is tedious beyond description. Six of his better poems were published by George Mason in 1796. Among these are one or two that have a distinct intellectual quality of their own. There are in them not only occasional gleams of wit, but a mastery of melody is also displayed which was uncommon in that age, and which is not visible in most of Occleve's other work, at least of that printed. Both of these things are true of The Misrule,' the first poem. in the collection. Those who think this praise too high. may take in preference Ritson's criticism, made in 1802, in the course of his description of the manuscript in which these pieces are found. "Six of peculiar stupidity," he remarked, "were selected and published by its late owner." Could we be certain that the orison to the Virgin which begins with the words "Mother of God and Virgin undefouled" were a composition of Occleve's, and not a copy by him of one of his master's, we should be justified in according him a higher poetical ability than could be conceded him for all his other published productions put together. Its superiority, indeed, to the rest of his work is so marked that it is difficult for that very reason to regard it as his; and while it could not be looked upon as one of Chaucer's most successful achievements, it is not unworthy of his powers. In the frank admission that he was dull lay Occleve's moral superiority to his better-known contemporary, and perhaps his superiority in intellectual discernment. Lydgate was dull, and he probably never knew it. He certainly never told of it, if he did know it. The wise. reticence he displayed in refraining to commit himself upon the point to his own disadvantage has been rewarded a hundred-fold. He was long accepted, and is even now occasionally accepted, at a valuation which was put upon him at a period when there was not a Sufficient quantity of literature in the language to make Ritson's Bibliographia Poetica, p. 63. men very discriminating about its quality. I am aware that he was spoken of respectfully by a man of genius such as was Gray, and was not disrespectfully spoken of by a woman of genius such as was Mrs. Browning. It only proves that, in spite of the dictum of Horace, there are middling verses which the immortals do not. despise. Gray, moreover, somewhat like Warton, his successor in these literary investigations, was, to a certain extent, an explorer. Both of them, accordingly, in their comments upon carly authors, adopted unconsciously the explorer's habit of exaggeration, just as the first voyagers to the New World brought back marvellous stories of fountains of perpetual youth, and El Dorados abounding in gold and silver and precious stones. This will explain, to some extent, the comparatively high estimate they expressed of the productions of Lydgate. It is not necessary to go to the length of the fierce antiquary Ritson, who, in his usual amiable way, styles him in one place "a most prolix and voluminous poetaster," and in another "a voluminous, prosaic, and drivelling monk," in the comments he made upon the "elaborate drawlings," as he terms them, of this writer. After giving the titles of some two hundred and fifty pieces and works attributed to Lydgate, he added, genially, that "these stupid and fatiguing productions, which by no means deserve the name of poetry, and their still more stupid and disgusting author, who disgraces the name and patronage of his master Chaucer, are neither worth collecting worthy of preservation. Even those who might dis 1 Ritson's Bibliographia Poetica, pp. 66 and 87. *** nor even 2 Ib., p. 83. pute Ritson's views on other points, will not deny that Lydgate was voluminous. There was apparently no topic upon which he was not ready to express himself at a moment's notice. He produced, in consequence, a good deal of matter which it presumably gratified him to write; though it seems inconceivable that there was ever a state of the human intellect in which gratification could have come to any one from its perusal. In his versification there is no harmony, no regular movement. In his expression, he had gained facility at the expense of felicity. He is one of those noted, or rather notorious, authors whose fame, such as it is, rests not upon their own achievements, but upon the kindness. with which others have been induced to look upon their achievements. There is, accordingly, no necessity of reading his works resting upon any one save him who has to make a professional study of English literature. For this unfortunate being the dead past, so far from being able to bury its dead, is not even able to bury its bores. To so much of mention these writers are entitled, because their names appear frequently associated with that of their great master. But no account of Chaucer could possibly be considered complete that did not quote, or at least refer, to the remark that he resembled a sunny day in an English spring; after the visionary prospect of a speedy summer has gone the gloom of winter returns, and the buds and blossoms called forth by temporary warmth are nipped by frosts or torn by tempests. The mediocrity of Occleve and Lydgate naturally brings us to the proper place for putting this observa |