I/O CHAUCER. 



whom, if we had met him under a porch in a shower, we should 

 have preferred to the rain. He could be happy with a crust and 

 spring-water, and could see the shadow of his benign face in a 

 flagon of Gascon wine without fancying Death sitting opposite 

 to cry Supernaculum! when he had drained it. He could look 

 to God without abjectness, and on man without contempt. The 

 pupil of manifold experience scholar, courtier, soldier, ambas 

 sador, who had known poverty as a housemate and been the 

 companion of princes his was one of those happy temperaments 

 that could equally enjoy both halves of culture, the world of 

 books and the world of men. 



Unto this day it doth mine herte boote, 

 That I have had my world as in my time ! 



The portrait of Chaucer, which we owe to the loving regret of 

 his disciple Occleve, confirms the judgment of him which we 

 make from his works. It is, I think, more engaging than that 

 of any other poet. The downcast eyes, half sly, half meditative, 

 the sensuous mouth, the broad brow, drooping with weight of 

 thought, and yet with an inexpugnable youth shining out of it 

 as from the morning forehead of a boy, are all noticeable, and 

 not less so their harmony of placid tenderness. We are struck, 

 too, with the smoothness of the face as of one who thought 

 easily, whose phrase flowed naturally, and who had never puck 

 ered his brow over an unmanageable verse. 



Nothing has been added to our knowledge of Chaucer s life 

 since Sir Harris Nicolas, with the help of original records, 

 weeded away the fictions by which the few facts were choked 

 and overshadowed. We might be sorry that no confirmation 

 has been found for the story, fathered on a certain phantasmal 

 Mr. Buckley, that Chaucer was * fined two shillings for beating 

 a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street/ if it were only for the allite 

 ration; but we refuse to give up the meeting with Petrarch. All 

 the probabilities are in its favour. That Chaucer, being at 

 Milan, should not have found occasion to ride across so far as 

 Padua, for the sake of seeing the most famous literary man of 

 the day, is incredible. If Froissart could journey on horseback 

 through Scotland and Wales, surely Chaucer, whose curiosity 

 was as lively as his, might have ventured what would have been 

 a mere pleasure- trip in comparison. I cannot easily bring 

 myself to believe that he is not giving some touches of his own 

 character in that of the Clerk of Oxford : 



For him was liefer have at his bed s head 

 A twenty booke s clothed in black and red 



