CHAUCER, 229 



was a truly epic poet, without knowing it, who did not 

 waste time in considering whether his age were good or 

 bad, but quietly taking it for granted as the best that 

 ever was or could be for him, has left us such a picture 

 of contemporary life as no man ever painted. "A per- 

 petual fountain of good-sense," Dryden calls him, yes, 

 and of good-humor, too, and wholesome thought. He 

 was one of those rare authors 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 coidd 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, ambassador, 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, 

 ^hat I have had my world as in my time ! " 



The portrait of Chaucer, which we owe to the loving 

 regi'et 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 hannony 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 

 puckered his brow over an unmanageable verse. 



Nothing has been added to our knowledge of Chaucer's 



