76 *' MY ANCIENT FRIEND *' 



space with the fresh smell of earth in his nostrils, 

 that this is more to him than meat or drink or any 

 other thing, and that since the beginning there was 

 never anything so pleasant known to no earthly man. 



All this about Chaucer will seem somewhat irrele- 

 vant in this inquiry to some readers. I don't think 

 so; and even now, after all said, I am still reluctant 

 to let go his hand. From the oak-wood I go with 

 him to the open fields in search of early daisies, and 

 with him kneel on the grass and bend down to kiss 

 the beloved flower — the beautiful dead child Mar- 

 garet, come to life and light again in a changed form. 

 Or seated on a green bank, my hand on his shoulder, 

 converse with him, and if he falls to talking bawdy 

 or filth, for love of it, until he makes me sick, I am 

 a little ashamed of this modern squeamishness, and 

 am able to rejoice in his ranker zest in life, his 

 robust humour. 



And all this time I am seeking after something 

 hidden. Does he, Chaucer, speak only for himself 

 when he writes thus of daisies and the smale fowlis 

 with their melodie and the scents of earth and leaves 

 and flowers, or is he expressing feelings which were 

 more common in his day than in ours ? 



Here then, for the present at all events, I will 

 drop the question. 



It is rather unpleasant, after revelling in para- 

 disaical odours with my ancient friend, who is more 

 alive in spite of his half a thousand years than any 

 man I know, to have to conclude this part of my 

 subject with a somewhat disturbing matter. 



