GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Chaucer is admitted on all hands to be a great poet, but, by the
general public at least, he is not frequently read. He is like a
cardinal virtue, a good deal talked about, a good deal praised,
honoured by a vast amount of distant admiration, but with little
practical acquaintance. And for this there are many and obvious
reasons. He is an ancient, and the rich old mahogany is neglected for
the new and glittering veneer. He is occasionally gross; often tedious
and obscure; he frequently leaves a couple of lovers, to cite the
opinions of Greek and Roman authors; and practice and patience are
required to melt the frost of his orthography, and let his music flow
freely. In the conduct of his stories he is garrulous, homely, and
slow-paced. He wrote in a leisurely world, when there was plenty of
time for writing and reading, long before the advent of the printer's
devil or of Mr. Mudie. There is little of the lyrical element in him.
He does not dazzle by sentences. He is not quotable. He does not
shine in extracts so much as in entire poems. There is a pleasant
equality about his writing; he advances through a story at an even
pace, glancing round him on everything with curious, humourous eyes,
and having his say about everything. He is the prince of
story-tellers, and however much he may move others, he is not moved
himself. His mood is so kindly that he seems always to have written
after dinner, or after hearing good news,--that he had received from
the king another grant of wine, for instance,--and he discourses of
love and lovers' raptures, and the disappointments of life, half
sportively, half sadly, like one who has passed through all, felt the
sweetness and the bitterness of it, and been able to strike a balance.
He had his share of crosses and misfortune, but his was a nature which
time and sorrow could only mellow and sweeten; and for all that had
come and gone, he loved his "books clothed in black and red," to sit at
good men's feasts; and if silent at table, as the Countess of Pembroke
reported, the "stain upon his lip was wine." Chaucer's face is to his
writings the best preface and commentary; it is contented-looking, like
one familiar with pleasant thoughts, shy and self-contained somewhat,
as if he preferred his own company to the noisy and rude companionship
of his fellows; and the outlines are bland, fleshy, voluptuous, as of
one who had a keen relish for the pleasures that le