CHAUCER. 205 



as the dramatist must always be. The story-teller must possess 

 the situation perfectly in all its details, while the imagination of 

 the dramatist must be possessed and mastered by it. The 

 latter puts before us the very passion or emotion itself in its 

 utmost intensity; the former gives them, not in their primary 

 form, but in that derivative one which they have acquired by 

 passing through his own mind and being modified by his reflec 

 tion. The deepest pathos of the drama, like the quiet * no more 

 but so? with which Shakespeare tells us that Ophelia s heart is 

 bursting, is sudden as a stab, while in narrative it is more or 

 less suffused with pity a feeling capable of prolonged susten 

 tion. This presence of the author s own sympathy is noticeable 

 in all Chaucer s pathetic passages, as, for instance, in the lamen 

 tation of Constance over her child in the Man of Lav/ s Tale. 

 When he comes to the sorrow of his story, he seems to croon 

 over his thoughts, to soothe them and dwell upon them with a 

 kind of pleased compassion, as a child treats a wounded bird 

 which he fears to grasp too tightly, and yet cannot make up his 

 heart wholly to let go. It is true also of his humour that it 

 pervades his comic tales like sunshine, and never dazzles the 

 attention by a sudden flash. Sometimes he brings it in paren 

 thetically, and insinuates a sarcasm so slyly as almost to slip by 

 without ournotice, as where he satirizes provincialism by the cock 



Who knew by nature each ascension 

 Ot the equinoctial in his native town. 



Sometimes he turns round upon himself and smiles at a trip he 

 has made into fine writing : 



Till that the brighte sun had lost his hue, 

 For th orisont had reft the sun his light, 

 (This is as much to sayen as it was night. ) 



Nay, sometimes it twinkles roguishly through his very tears, as 

 in the 



Why wouldest thou be dead/ these women cry, 

 Thou haddest gold enough and Emily? 



that follows so close upon the profoundly tender despair of 

 Arcite s farewell : 



What is this world ? What asken men to have ? 

 Now with his love now in the colde grave 

 Alone withouten any company ! 



The power of diffusion without being diffuse would seem to 

 be the highest merit of narration, giving it that easy flow which 

 is so delightful. Chaucer s descriptive style is remarkable for 

 its lowness of tone for that combination of energy with sim 

 plicity which is among the rarest gifts in literature. Perhaps 



