d has been shaken by many a
tempest, whose cheek knows the kiss of the salt sea spray; a Merchant,
with a grave look, clean and neat in his attire, and with plenty of
gold in his purse. There is a Doctor of Physic, who has killed more
men than the Knight, talking to a Clerk of Laws. There is a merry
Friar, a lover of good cheer; and when seated in a tavern among his
companions, singing songs it would be scarcely decorous to repeat, you
may see his eyes twinkling in his head for joy, like stars on a frosty
night. Beside him is a ruby-faced Sompnour, whose breath stinks of
garlic and onions, who is ever roaring for wine,--strong wine, wine red
as blood; and when drunk, he disdains English,--nothing but Latin will
serve his turn. In front of all is a Miller, who has been drinking
over-night, and is now but indifferently sober. There is not a door in
the country that he cannot break by running at it with his head. The
pilgrims are all ready, the host gives the word, and they defile
through the arch. The Miller blows his bagpipes as they issue from the
town; and away they ride to Canterbury, through the boon sunshine, and
between the white hedges of the English May.

Had Chaucer spent his whole life in seeking, he could not have selected
a better contemporary circumstance for securing variety of character
than a pilgrimage to Canterbury. It comprises, as we see, all kinds
and conditions of people. It is the fourteenth-century England in
little. In our time, the only thing that could match it in this
respect is Epsom down on the great race-day. But then Epsom down is
too unwieldy; the crowd is too great, and it does not cohere, save for
the few seconds when gay jackets are streaming towards the
winning-post. The Prologue to the "Canterbury Tales," in which we make
the acquaintance of the pilgrims, is the ripest, most genial and
humourous, altogether the most masterly thing which Chaucer has left
us. In its own way, and within its own limits, it is the most
wonderful thing in the language. The people we read about are as real
as the people we brush clothes with in the street,--nay, much _more_
real; for we not only see their faces, and the fashion and texture of
their garments, we know also what they think, how they express
themselves, and with what eyes they look out on the world. Chaucer's
art in this Prologue is simple perfection. He indulges in no
irrelevant description, he airs no fine sentiments, he takes