s writings something of
the high-bred air that the short upper-lip gives to the human
countenance. In his earlier poems he was under the influence of the
Provencal Troubadours, and in his "Flower and the Leaf," and other works
of a similar class, he riots in allegory; he represents the cardinal
virtues walking about in human shape; his forests are full of beautiful
ladies with coronals on their heads; courts of love are held beneath the
spreading elm, and metaphysical goldfinches and nightingales, perched
among the branches green, wrangle melodiously about the tender passion.
In these poems he is fresh, charming, fanciful as the spring-time itself:
ever picturesque, ever musical, and with a homely touch and stroke of
irony here and there, suggesting a depth of serious matter in him which
it needed years only to develop. He lived in a brilliant and stirring
time; he was connected with the court; he served in armies; he visited
the Continent; and, although a silent man, he carried with him, wherever
he went, and into whatever company he was thrown, the most observant eyes
perhaps that ever looked curiously out upon the world. There was nothing
too mean or too trivial for his regard. After parting with a man, one
fancies that he knew every line and wrinkle of his face, had marked the
travel-stains on his boots, and had counted the slashes of his doublet.
And so it was that, after mixing in kings' courts, and sitting with
friars in taverns, and talking with people on country roads, and
travelling in France and Italy, and making himself master of the
literature, science, and theology of his time, and when perhaps touched
with misfortune and sorrow, he came to see the depth of interest that
resides in actual life,--that the rudest clown even, with his sordid
humours and coarse speech, is intrinsically more valuable than a whole
forest full of goddesses, or innumerable processions of cardinal virtues,
however well mounted and splendidly attired. It was in some such mood of
mind that Chaucer penned those unparalleled pictures of contemporary life
that delight yet, after five centuries have come and gone. It is
difficult to define Chaucer's charm. He does not indulge in fine
sentiment; he has no bravura passages; he is ever master of himself and
of his subject. The light upon his page is the light of common day.
Although powerful delineations of passion may be found in his "Tales,"
and wonderful descriptions of nature, and