Lectures on the English Poets Part 2

___ [*] PG transcriber's note: "s.p.a.ce" instead of "trace" in some editions.

___

The Serjeant at Law is the same identical individual as Lawyer Dowling in Tom Jones, who wished to divide himself into a hundred pieces, to be in a hundred places at once.

"No wher so besy a man as he ther n'as, And yet he semed besier than he was."

The Frankelein, in "whose hous it snewed of mete and drinke"; the s.h.i.+pman, "who rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe"; the Doctour of Phisike, "whose studie was but litel of the Bible"; the Wif of Bath, in

"All whose parish ther was non, That to the offring before hire shulde gon, And if ther did, certain so wroth was she, That she was out of alle charitee;"

--the poure Persone of a toun, "whose parish was wide, and houses fer asonder"; the Miller, and the Reve, "a slendre colerike man," are all of the same stamp. They are every one samples of a kind; abstract definitions of a species. Chaucer, it has been said, numbered the cla.s.ses of men, as Linnaeus numbered the plants. Most of them remain to this day: others that are obsolete, and may well be dispensed with, still live in his descriptions of them. Such is the Sompnoure:

"A Sompnoure was ther with us in that place, That hadde a fire-red cherubinnes face, For sausefleme he was, with eyen narwe, As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe, With scalled browes blake, and pilled berd: Of his visage children were sore aferd.

Ther n'as quicksilver, litarge, ne brimston, Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, Ne oinement that wolde clense or bite, That him might helpen of his whelkes white, Ne of the k.n.o.bbes sitting on his chekes.

Wel loved he garlike, onions, and lekes, And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood.

Than wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood.

And whan that he wel dronken had the win, Than wold he speken no word but Latin.

A fewe termes coude he, two or three, That he had lerned out of som decree; No wonder is, he heard it all the day.-- In danger hadde he at his owen gise The yonge girles of the diocise, And knew hir conseil, and was of hir rede.

A gerlond hadde he sette upon his hede As gret as it were for an alestake: A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake.

With him ther rode a gentil Pardonere-- That hadde a vois as smale as hath a gote."

It would be a curious speculation (at least for those who think that the characters of men never change, though manners, opinions, and inst.i.tutions may) to know what has become of this character of the Sompnoure in the present day; whether or not it has any technical representative in existing professions; into what channels and conduits it has withdrawn itself, where it lurks unseen in cunning obscurity, or else shews its face boldly, pampered into all the insolence of office, in some other shape, as it is deterred or encouraged by circ.u.mstances.

_Chaucer's characters modernised_, upon this principle of historic derivation, would be an useful addition to our knowledge of human nature. But who is there to undertake it?

The descriptions of the equipage, and accoutrements of the two kings of Thrace and Inde, in the Knight's Tale, are as striking and grand, as the others are lively and natural:

"Ther maist thou se coming with Palamon Licurge himself, the grete king of Trace: Blake was his berd, and manly was his face, The cercles of his eyen in his hed They gloweden betwixen yelwe and red, And like a griffon loked he about, With kemped heres on his browes stout; His limmes gret, his braunes hard and stronge, His shouldres brode, his armes round and longe And as the guise was in his contree, Ful highe upon a char of gold stood he, With foure white bolles in the trais.

Instede of cote-armure on his harnais, With nayles yelwe, and bright as any gold, He hadde a beres skin, cole-blake for old.

His longe here was kempt behind his bak, As any ravenes fether it shone for blake.

A wreth of gold arm-gret, of huge weight, Upon his hed sate full of stones bright, Of fine rubins [sic] and of diamants.

About his char ther wenten white alauns, Twenty and mo, as gret as any stere, To hunten at the leon or the dere, And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound.-- With Arcita, in stories as men find, The grete Emetrius, the king of Inde, Upon a stede bay, trapped in stele, Covered with cloth of gold diapred wele, Came riding like the G.o.d of armes Mars.

His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tars, Couched with perles, white, and round and grete.

His sadel was of brent gold new ybete; A mantelet upon his shouldres hanging Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.

His crispe here like ringes was yronne, And that was yelwe, and glitered as the Sonne.

His nose was high, his eyen bright citrin, His lippes round, his colour was sanguin, A fewe fraknes in his face yspreint, Betwixen yelwe and blake somdel ymeint, And as a leon he his loking caste.

Of five and twenty yere his age I caste.

His berd was wel begonnen for to spring; His vois was as a trompe thondering.

Upon his hed he wered of laurer grene A gerlond freshe and l.u.s.ty for to sene.

Upon his hond he bare for his deduit An egle tame, as any lily whit.-- About this king ther ran on every part Ful many a tame leon and leopart."

What a deal of terrible beauty there is contained in this description! The imagination of a poet brings such objects before us, as when we look at wild beasts in a menagerie; their claws are pared, their eyes glitter like harmless lightning; but we gaze at them with a pleasing awe, clothed in beauty, formidable in the sense of abstract power.

Chaucer's descriptions of natural scenery possess the same sort of characteristic excellence, or what might be termed _gusto_. They have a local truth and freshness, which gives the very feeling of the air, the coolness or moisture of the ground. Inanimate objects are thus made to have a fellow-feeling in the interest of the story; and render back the sentiment of the speaker's mind. One of the finest parts of Chaucer is of this mixed kind. It is the beginning of the Flower and the Leaf, where he describes the delight of that young beauty, shrowded in her bower, and listening, in the morning of the year, to the singing of the nightingale; while her joy rises with the rising song, and gushes out afresh at every pause, and is borne along with the full tide of pleasure, and still increases, and repeats, and prolongs itself, and knows no ebb. The coolness of the arbour, its retirement, the early time of the day, the sudden starting up of the birds in the neighbouring bushes, the eager delight with which they devour and rend the opening buds and flowers, are expressed with a truth and feeling, which make the whole appear like the recollection of an actual scene:

"Which as me thought was right a pleasing sight, And eke the briddes song for to here, Would haue rejoyced any earthly wight, And I that couth not yet in no manere Heare the nightingale of all the yeare, Ful busily herkened with herte and with eare, If I her voice perceiue coud any where.

And I that all this pleasaunt sight sie, Thought sodainly I felt so sweet an aire Of the eglentere, that certainely There is no herte I deme in such dispaire, Ne with thoughts froward and contraire, So ouerlaid, but it should soone haue bote, If it had ones felt this savour sote.

And as I stood and cast aside mine eie, I was ware of the fairest medler tree That ever yet in all my life I sie As full of blossomes as it might be, Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile Fro bough to bough, and as him list he eet Here and there of buds and floures sweet.

And to the herber side was joyning This faire tree, of which I haue you told, And at the last the brid began to sing, Whan he had eaten what he eat wold, So pa.s.sing sweetly, that by manifold It was more pleasaunt than I coud deuise, And whan his song was ended in this wise,

The nightingale with so merry a note Answered him, that all the wood rong So sodainly, that as it were a sote, I stood astonied, so was I with the song Thorow rauished, that till late and long, I ne wist in what place I was, ne where, And ayen me thought she song euen by mine ere.

Wherefore I waited about busily On euery side, if I her might see, And at the last I gan full well aspie Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree, On the further side euen right by me, That gaue so pa.s.sing a delicious smell, According to the eglentere full well.

Whereof I had so inly great pleasure, That as me thought I surely rauished was Into Paradice, where my desire Was for to be, and no ferther pa.s.se As for that day, and on the sote gra.s.se, I sat me downe, for as for mine entent, The birds song was more conuenient,

And more pleasaunt to me by manifold, Than meat or drinke, or any other thing, Thereto the herber was so fresh and cold, The wholesome sauours eke so comforting, That as I demed, sith the beginning Of the world was neur seene or than So pleasaunt a ground of none earthly man.

And as I sat the birds harkening thus, Me thought that I heard voices sodainly, The most sweetest and most delicious That euer any wight I trow truly Heard in their life, for the armony And sweet accord was in so good musike, That the uoice to angels was most like."

There is here no affected rapture, no flowery sentiment: the whole is an ebullition of natural delight "welling out of the heart," like water from a crystal spring. Nature is the soul of art: there is a strength as well as a simplicity in the imagination that reposes entirely on nature, that nothing else can supply. It was the same trust in nature, and reliance on his subject, which enabled Chaucer to describe the grief and patience of Griselda; the faith of Constance; and the heroic perseverance of the little child, who, going to school through the streets of Jewry,

"Oh _Alma Redemptoris mater_, loudly sung,"

and who after his death still triumphed in his song. Chaucer has more of this deep, internal, sustained sentiment, than any other writer, except Boccaccio. In depth of simple pathos, and intensity of conception, never swerving from his subject, I think no other writer comes near him, not even the Greek tragedians. I wish to be allowed to give one or two instances of what I mean. I will take the following from the Knight's Tale. The distress of Arcite, in consequence of his banishment from his love, is thus described:

"Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was, Ful oft a day he swelt and said Alas, For sene his lady shall he never mo.

And shortly to concluden all his wo, So mochel sorwe hadde never creature, That is or shall be, while the world may dure.

His slepe, his mete, his drinke is him byraft.

That lene he wex, and drie as is a shaft.

His eyen holwe, and grisly to behold, His hewe salwe, and pale as ashen cold, And solitary he was, and ever alone, And wailing all the night, making his mone.

And if he herde song or instrument, Than wold he wepe, he mighte not be stent.

So feble were his spirites, and so low, And changed so, that no man coude know His speche ne his vois, though men it herd."

This picture of the sinking of the heart, of the wasting away of the body and mind, of the gradual failure of all the faculties under the contagion of a rankling sorrow, cannot be surpa.s.sed. Of the same kind is his farewel to his mistress, after he has gained her hand and lost his life in the combat:

"Alas the wo! alas the peines stronge, That I for you have suffered, and so longe!

Alas the deth! alas min Emilie!

Alas departing of our compagnie; Alas min hertes quene! alas my wif!

Min hertes ladie, ender of my lif!

What is this world? what axen men to have?

Now with his love, now in his colde grave Alone withouten any compagnie."

The death of Arcite is the more affecting, as it comes after triumph and victory, after the pomp of sacrifice, the solemnities of prayer, the celebration of the gorgeous rites of chivalry. The descriptions of the three temples of Mars, of Venus, and Diana, of the ornaments and ceremonies used in each, with the reception given to the offerings of the lovers, have a beauty and grandeur, much of which is lost in Dryden's version. For instance, such lines as the following are not rendered with their true feeling.

"Why shulde I not as well eke tell you all The purtreiture that was upon the wall Within the temple of mighty Mars the rede-- That highte the gret temple of Mars in Trace In thilke colde and frosty region, Ther as Mars hath his sovereine mansion.

First on the wall was peinted a forest, In which ther wonneth neyther man ne best, With knotty knarry barrein trees old Of stubbes sharpe and hidous to behold; In which ther ran a romble and a swough, As though a storme shuld bresten every bough."

And again, among innumerable terrific images of death and slaughter painted on the wall, is this one:

"The statue of Mars upon a carte stood Armed, and looked grim as he were wood.

A wolf ther stood beforne him at his fete With eyen red, and of a man he ete."

The story of Griselda is in Boccaccio; but the Clerk of Oxenforde, who tells it, professes to have learned it from Petrarch. This story has gone all over Europe, and has pa.s.sed into a proverb. In spite of the barbarity of the circ.u.mstances, which are abominable, the sentiment remains unimpaired and unalterable. It is of that kind, "that heaves no sigh, that sheds no tear"; but it hangs upon the beatings of the heart; it is a part of the very being; it is as inseparable from it as the breath we draw. It is still and calm as the face of death. Nothing can touch it in its ethereal purity: tender as the yielding flower, it is fixed as the marble firmament. The only remonstrance she makes, the only complaint she utters against all the ill-treatment she receives, is that single line where, when turned back naked to her father's house, she says,

"Let me not like a worm go by the way."