like that of some gorgeous tissue, gold-inwoven, of tapestry, in an old baronial hall; full of tournaments and battles, imprisoned knights, and emblazoned banners, Gothic temples of Mars and Venus, the lists, the dungeon and the lady's bower, garden and fountain, and moonlit groves. Chaucer's peculiar skill in the delineation of character and appearance by a few rapid and masterly strokes is as perceptible here as in the Prologue to the Tales: the procession of the kings to the tournament is as bright and vivid a piece of painting as ever was produced by the "strong braine" of mediæval Art: and in point of grace and simplicity, what can be finer than the single line descriptive of the beauty of Emilie-so suggestive, and therefore so superior to the most elaborate portrait"Up rose the sun, and up rose Emelie"?

The next poem of a serious character is the Squire's Tale, which indeed so struck the admiration of Milton-himself profoundly penetrated by the spirit of the Romanz poetry—that it is by an allusion to the Squire's Tale that he characterizes Chaucer when enumerating the great men of all ages, and when he places him beside Plato, Shakspeare, Eschylus, and his beloved Euripides: he supposes his Cheerful Man as evoking Chaucer :

"And call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold."

The imagery of the Squire's Tale was certainly well calculated to strike such a mind as Milton's, so gorgeous, so stately, so heroic, and imbued with all the splendour of Oriental literature; for the scenery and subject of this poem bear evident marks of that Arabian influence which colours so much of the poetry of the Middle Ages, and which probably began to act upon the literature of Western Europe after the Crusades.

In point of deep pathos-pathos carried indeed to an extreme aud perhaps hardly natural or justifiable pitch of intensity-we will now cite, among the graver tales of our pilgrims, the story put into the mouth of the Clerke of Oxenforde. This is the story of the Patient Griselda-a model of womanly and wifely obedience, who comes victoriously out of the most cruel and repeated ordeals inflicted upon her conjugal and maternal affections. The beautiful and angelic figure of the Patient Wife in this heart-rending story reminds us of one of those seraphic statues of Virgin Martyrs which stand with clasped hands and uplifted, imploring eye, in the carved niches of a Gothic cathedral-an eternal prayer in sculptured stone,

Patience on a monument,

Smiling at Grief!"

The subject of this tale is, as we mentioned some pages back, invented by Boccaccio, and first seen in 1374, by Petrarch, who was so struck

with its beauty that he translated it into Latin, and it is from this translation that Chaucer drew his materials. The English poet indeed appears to have been ignorant of Boccaccio's claim to the authorship, for he makes his "Clerke" say that he had learned it from "Fraunceis Petrarke, the laureat poéte." Petrarch himself bears the strongest testimony to the almost overwhelming pathos of the story, for he relates that he gave it to a Paduan acquaintance of his to read, who fell into a repeated agony of passionate tears. Chaucer's poem is written in the Italian stanza.

Of the comic tales the following will be found the most excellent: -The Nun's Priest's Tale, a droll apologue of the Cock and the Fox, in which the very absurdity of some of the accompaniments confers one of the highest qualities which a fable can possess, viz. so high a degree of individuality that the reader forgets that the persons of the little drama are animals, and sympathizes with them as human beings; the Merchant's Tale, which, like the comic stories generally, though very indelicate, is yet replete with the richest and broadest humour; the Reve's Tale, and many shorter stories distributed among the less prominent characters. But the crown and pearl of Chaucer's drollery is the Miller's Tale, in which the delicate and penetrating description of the various actors in the adventure can only be surpassed by the perfectly natural yet outrageously ludicrous catastrophe of the intrigue in which they move.

There is certainly nothing, in the vast treasury of ancient or modern humorous writing, at once so real, so droll, and so exquisitely enjoué in the manner of telling. It is true that the subject is not of the most delicate nature; but, though coarse and plain-speaking, Chaucer is never corrupt or vicious: his improprieties are rather the fruit of the ruder age in which he lived, and the turbid ebullitions of a rich and active imagination, than the cool, analysing, studied profligacy-the more dangerous and corrupting because veiled under a false and morbid sentimentalism - which defiles a great portion of the modern literature of too many civilised countries.

It is worthy of remark that all the tales are in verse with the exception of two, one of which, singularly enough, is given to Chaucer himself. This requires some explanation. When the poet is first called upon for his story, he bursts out into a long, confused, fantastical tale of chivalry, relating the adventures of a certain errant-knight, Sir Thopas, and his wanderings in search of the Queen of Faërie. This is written in the peculiar versification of the Trouvères (note, that it is the only tale in which he has adopted this measure), and is full of all the absurdities of those compositions. When in the full swing of declamation, and when we are expecting to be overwhelmed with page after page of this "sleazy stuff," for the poet goes on gallantly, like Don Quixote, "in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, imitating, as near as he can, their very phrase," he is

suddenly interrupted by honest Harry Bailey, the Host, who plays the part of Moderator or Chorus to Chaucer's pleasant comedy. The Host begs him, with many strong expressions of ridicule and disgust, to give them no more of such "drafty rhyming," and entreats him to let them hear something less worn-out and tiresome. The poet then proposes to entertain the party with "a litel thinge in prose,' and relates the allegorical story of Melibous and his wife Patience. It is evident that Chaucer, well aware of the immeasurable superiority of the newly revived classical literature over the barbarous and now exhausted invention of the Romanz poets, has chosen this ingenious method of ridiculing the commonplace tales of chivalry; but so exquisitely grave is the irony in this passage, that many critics have taken the Rime of Sir Thopas' for a serious composition, and have regretted it was left a fragment!

The other prose tale (we have mentioned Meliboeus) is supposed to be related by the Parson, who is always described as a model of Christian humility, piety, and wisdom; which does not, however, save him from the terrible suspicion of being a Lollard, i. e., a heretical and seditious revolutionist.

This composition hardly can be called a "tale," for it contains neither persons nor events; but it is very curious as a specimen of the sermons of the early Reformers; for a sermon it is, and nothing else-a sermon upon the Seven Deadly Sins, divided and subdivided with all the pedantic regularity of the day. It also gives us a very curious insight into the domestic life, the manners, the costume, and even the cookery, of the fourteenth century. Some critics have contended that this sermon was added to the Canterbury Tales by Chaucer at the instigation of his confessors, as a species of penitence for the light and immoral tone of much of his writings, and particularly as a sort of recantation, or amende honorable, for his innumerable attacks on the monks. But this supposition is in direct contradiction with every line of his admirable portrait of the Parson; and, however natural it may have been for the licentious Boccaccio to have done such public penance for his ridicule of the "Frati," and his numberless sensual and immoral scenes, his English follower was "made of sterner stuff." The friend of John of Gaunt, and the disciple of Wickliffe, was not so easily to be worked upon by monastic subtlety as the more superstitious and sensuous Italian.

The language of Chaucer is a strong exemplification of the remarks we made in our first chapter respecting the structure of the English language. The ground of his diction will be ever found to be the pure vigorous Anglo-Saxon English of the people, inlaid, if we may so style it, with an immense quantity of Norman-French words. We may compare this diction to some of those exquisite specimens of incrusting left us by the obscure but great artists of the Middle

Ages, in which the polish of metal or ivory contrasts so richly with the lustrous ebony.

The difficulty of reading this great poet is very much exaggerated: a very moderate acquaintance with the French and Italian of the fourteenth century, and the observation of a few simple rules of pronunciation, will enable any educated person to read and to enjoy. In particular it is to be remarked that the final letter e, occurring in so many English words, had not yet become an e mute; and must constantly be pronounced, as well as the termination of the past tense, ed, in a separate syllable. The accent also is more varied in its position than is now common in the language. Read with these precautions, Chaucer will be found as harmonious as he is tender, magnificent, humorous, or sublime.

Until the reader is able and willing to appreciate the innumerable beauties of the Canterbury Tales, it is not to be expected that he can make acquaintance with the graceful though somewhat pedantic 'Court of Love,' an allegorical poem, bearing the strongest marks of its Provençal origin; or with the exquisite delicacy and pure chivalry of the 'Flower and the Leaf;' of which latter poem Campbell speaks as follows, enthusiastically but justly :-"The Flower and the Leaf is an exquisite piece of fairy fancy. With a moral that is just sufficient to apologise for a dream, and yet which sits so lightly on the story as not to abridge its most visionary parts, there is, in the whole scenery and objects of the poem, an air of wonder and sweetness, an easy and surprising transition, that is truly magical."

We cannot conclude this brief and imperfect notice of this great poet without strongly recommending all those who desire to know something of the true character of English literature to lose no time in making acquaintance with the admirable productions of "our father Chaucer," as Gascoigne affectionately calls him: the difficulties of his style have been unreasonably exaggerated, and the labour which surmounts them will be abundantly repaid. "It will conduct you," to use the beautiful words of Milton, "to a hill-side; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."

CHAPTER III.

SIDNEY AND SPENSER.

Elizabethan Era-Ages of Pericles, Augustus, the Medici, Louis XVI.-Chivalry Sidney-the Arcadia-His Style-Spenser-Shepherd's Calendar -Pastoral-Spenser at Court-Burleigh and Leicester-Settlement in Ireland-the Faery Queen-Spenser's Death-Criticism of the Faery Queen— Style, Language, and Versification.

Nor

IN the history of most countries the period of the highest literary glory will generally be found to coincide with that of some very marked and permanent achievements in commerce or in war. is this circumstance surprising. Those men who best can perform great actions are in general best able to think sublime thoughts. It was not a fortuitous assemblage, in the same country and at the same period, of such minds as those of Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, that has made us assume the age of Pericles as the culminating point of Athenian literature. No! the defeat of the Persians cannot but be considered as having a great deal to do with the existence of that splendid period.

In the same way the far-famed age of Louis XIV. was undoubtedly prepared, if not produced, by the long religious wars of the Reformation, the national enthusiasm being also raised by the brilliant exploits of French arms in Germany and Flanders.

That period in the history of English letters which corresponds to the epochs to which we have alluded is the age of Elizabeth. It is the Elizabethan era which represents, among us, the age of Pericles, that of Augustus, that of the Medici, that of Leo, that of Louis; nay, it may be asserted, and without any exaggerated national vanity, that the productions of this one era of English literature may boldly be opposed to the intellectual triumphs of all the other epochs mentioned, taken collectively.

In this case, as in the others, a gigantic revolution had taken place, recent indeed, but not so recent as to leave men's minds under the more immediate action of party spirit and political enmity. The intellect of England had lately been engaged in a struggle for its liberty and its religion; it had had time to repose, but not to be enfeebled: it now started on its race of immortality, glowing, indeed, from the arena, but not weakened; its muscles strung with wrestling, but not exhausted. During the actual ardour of any great political struggle, men's minds are naturally too intent upon the more immediate and personal question, and their views too much narrowed and distorted by prejudice and polemics, for any great achievements in genera!