sleeves (the fashion of the day), his perfect horsemanship, his skill in song-making, in illuminating and writing, his hopeful and yet somewhat melancholy love for his "lady,"

"So hote he loved, that by nightertale

He slept no more than doth the nightingale-””.

nothing is omitted; not a stroke too few or too many.

This attractive pair are attended by a Yeman or retainer. This figure is a perfect portrait of one of those bold and sturdy archers, the type of the ancient national character; a type which still exists in the plain independent peasantry of the rural districts of the land. He is clad in the picturesque costume of the greenwood, with his sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen stuck in his belt, and bearing in his hand "a mighty bowe"-the far-famed "long-bow" of the English archers-the most formidable weapon of the Middle Ages, which twanged such fatal music to the chivalry of France at Poictiers and Agincourt. His "not-hed," his "brown visage," tanned by sun and wind, his sword and buckler, his sharp and well-equipped dagger, the silver medal of St. Christopher on his breast, the horn in the green baldric-how life-like does he stand before us!

These three figures are admirably contrasted with a Prioress, a lady of noble birth and delicate bearing, full of the pretty affectations, the dainty tendernesses of the "grande dame religieuse." Her name is "Madame Eglantine;" and the mixture, in her manners and costume, of gentle worldly vanities and of ignorance of the world; her gaiety, and the ever-visible difficulty she feels to put on an air of courtly hauteur; the ladylike delicacy of her manners at table, and her fondness for petting lap-dogs,

"Of smale houndes had she, that she fed

With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel-bread,
But sore she wept if on of hem were dead,
Or if men smote it with a yerde smert,
For al was conscience, and tender herte,"

this masterly outline is most appropriately framed (if we may so speak) in the external and material accompaniments-the beads of" smale corall" hanging on her arm, and, above all, the golden brooch with its delicate device of a "crowned A," and the inscription Amor vincit omnia. She is attended by an inferior Nun and three Priests.

The Monk follows next, and he, like all the ecclesiastics, with the single exception of the Personore or secular parish priest, is described with strong touches of ridicule; but it is impossible not to perceive the strong and ever-present humanity of which we have spoken as perhaps the most marked characteristic of Chaucer's mind. The Monk is a gallant, richly-dressed, and pleasureloving sportsman, caring not a straw for the obsolete strictness of

the musty rule of his order. His sleeves are edged with rich fur, his hood fastened under his chin with a gold pin headed with a "love-knot," his eyes are buried deep in his fleshy rosy cheeks, indicating great love of rich fare and potent wines; and yet the impression left on the mind by this type of fat roystering sensuality is rather one of drollery and good-fellowship than of contempt or abhorrence.

Chaucer exhibits rich specimens of the various genera of that vast species "Monachus monachans," as it may be classed by some Rabelosian Theophrastus. The next personage who enters is the Frere, or mendicant friar, whose easiness of confession, wonderful skill in extracting money and gifts, and gay discourse are most humorously and graphically described. He is represented as always carrying store of knives, pins, and toys, to give to his female penitents, as better acquainted with the tavern than with the lazar-house or the hospital, daintily dressed, and "lisping somewhat" in his speech, " to make his English swete upon the tonge."

This "worthy Limitour" is succeeded by a grave and formal personage, the Merchant: solemn and wise is he, with forked beard and pompous demeanour, speaking much of profit, and strongly in favour of the king's right to the subsidy "pour la saufgarde et custodie del mer," as the old Norman legist phrases it. He is dressed in motley, mounted on a tall and quiet horse, and wears a "Flaundrish beaver hat."

The learned poverty of the Clerke of Oxenforde forms a striking contrast to the Merchant's rather pompous "respectability." He and his horse are "leane as is a rake" with abstinence, his clothes are threadbare, and he devotes to the purchase of his beloved books all the gold which he can collect from his friends and patrons, devoutly praying, as in duty bound, for the souls of those "Who yeve him wherewith to scolaie."

Nothing can be more true to nature than the mixture of pedantry and bashfulness in the manners of this anchoret of learning, and the tone of sententious morality and formal politeness which marks his language.

We now come to a "Serjeant of the Lawe," a wise and learned magistrate, rich and yet irreproachable, with all the statutes at his fingers' ends, a very busy man in reality, "but yet," not to forget the inimitable touch of nature in Chaucer," he seemed besier than he was." He is plainly dressed, as one who cares not to display his importance in his exterior.

Nor are the preceding characters superior, in vividness and variety, to the figure of the "Frankelein," or rich country-gentleman, who is next introduced: his splendid and hospitable profu

sion, and the epicurean luxuriousness of the man himself, are inimitably set before us. "It snewed in his house of mete and drink."

Then come a number of burgesses, whose appearance is classed under one general description. These are a Haberdasher, Carpenter, Webbe (or Weaver), Dyer, and Tapiser

Alle yclothed of o liverè,

Of a solempne and gret fraternitè,"

that is, they all belong to one of those societies, or mestiers, which play so great a part in the municipal history of the Middle Ages. The somewhat cossu richness of their equipment, their knives hafted with silver, their grave and citizen-like bearing— all is in harmony with the pride and vanity, hinted at by the poet, of their wives, who think "it is full fayre to be ycleped Madame."

The skill and critical discernment of the Cook are next described: "Well could he know a draught of London ale," and elaborately could he season the rich and fantastic dishes which composed the "carte" of the fourteenth century. He joins the pilgrimage in hope that his devotion may cure him of a disease in the leg.

A turbulent and boisterous Shipman appears next, who is described with minute detail. His brown complexion, his rude and quarrelsome manners, his tricks of trade, stealing wine "from Burdeux ward, while that the chapman slepe," all is enumerated; nor does the poet forget the seaman's knowledge of all the havens "from Gothland to the Cape de Finisterre," nor his experience in his profession: "In many a tempest had his berd be shake."

He is followed by a Doctour of Phisike, a great astronomer and natural magician, deeply versed in the ponderous tomes of Hippocrates, Hali, Galen, Rhasis, Averrhoes, and the Arabian physicians. His diet is but small in quantity, but rich and nourishing; "his study is but little on the Bible;" and he is humorously represented as particularly fond of gold, “for gold in phisike is a cordiall."

Next to the grave, luxurious, and not quite orthodox Doctor enters the "Wife of Bath," a daguerreotyped specimen of the female bourgeoise of Chaucer's day; and bearing so perfectly the stamp and mark of her class, that by changing her costume a little to the dress of the nineteenth century, she would serve as a perfect sample of her order even in the present day. She is equipped with a degree of solid costliness that does not exclude a little coquetry; her character is gay, bold, and not over rigid ; and she is endeavouring, by long and frequent pilgrimages, to expiate some of the amorous errors of her youth. She is a substantial manufacturer of cloth, and so jealous of her precedency in the religious ceremonies of her parish, that, if any of her female

acquaintance should venture to go before her on these solemn occasions, “so wroth was she, that she was out of alle charitee."

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Contrasted with this rosy dame are two of the most beautiful and touching portraits ever delineated by the hand of geniusone a poure Persoune," or secular parish priest; and his brother in simplicity, virtue, and evangelic purity, a Plowman. It is in these characters, and particularly in the "Tale" put into the mouth of the former that we most distinctly see Chaucer's sympathy with the doctrines of the Reformation: the humility, selfdenial, and charity of these two pious and worthy men, are opposed with an unstudied, but not the less striking pointedness, to the cheatery and sensuality which distinguish all the monks and friars represented by Chaucer. So beautiful and so complete is this noble delineation of Christian piety, that we will not venture to injure its effect by quoting it piecemeal in this place, but refer our readers to the volume of extracts, in which the whole of Chaucer's Prologue will be found at length.

Then we find enumerated a Reve, a Miller, a Sompnour (an officer in the ecclesiastical courts), a Pardoner, a Manciple, and "myself," that is, Chaucer.

The Miller is a brawny, short, red-headed fellow, strong, boisterous and quarrelsome, flat-nosed, wide-mouthed, debauched; he is dressed in a white coat and blue hood, and armed with sword and buckler.

His conversation and conduct correspond faithfully with such an appearance: he enlivens the journey by his skill in playing on the bagpipe.

The Manciple was an officer attached to the ancient colleges; his duty was to purchase the provisions and other commodities for the consumption of the students; in fact, he was a kind of steward. Chaucer describes this pilgrim as singularly adroit in the exercise of his business, taking good care to advantage himself the while.

Another of the most elaborately painted pictures in Chaucer's gallery is the "Reve," bailiff, or intendant of some great proprietor's estates. He stands before us as a slender, long-legged, choleric individual, with his beard shaven as close as possible, and his hair exceedingly short. He is a severe and watchful manager of his master's estates, and had grown so rich that he was able to come to his lord's assistance, and "lend him of his owne good." His horse he described, and even named, and he is described as always riding "the hinderest of the route."

Nothing can surpass the nature and truthfulness with which Chaucer has described the Sompnour. His face is fiery red, as cherubim were painted, and so covered with pimples, spots, and discolorations, that neither mercury, sulphur, borax, nor any pu

rifying ointment, could cleanse his complexion. He is a great lover of onions, leeks, and garlick, and fond of "strong win as red as blood;" and when drunk he would speak nothing but Latin, a few terins of which language he had picked up from the writs and citations it was his profession to serve. He is a great taker of bribes, and will allow any man to set at nought the archdeacon's court in the most flagrant manner for a quart of wine."

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The last of the pilgrims is the "Pardonere," or seller of indulgences from Rome. He is drawn to the life, singing, to the bass of his friend the Sompnour, the song of "Come hither, love, to me." The Pardoner's hair is "yellow as wax," smooth and thin, lying on his shoulders: he wears no hood, "for jollité,". that is, in order to appear in the fashion. His eyes (as is often found in persons of this complexion-note Chaucer's truth to nature) are wide and staring like those of a hare: his voice is a harsh treble, like that of a goat; and he has no beard. Chaucer then enumerates the various articles of the Pardoner's professional budget; and certainly there never was collected a list of droller relics: he has Our Lady's veil, a morsel of the sail of St. Paul's ship, a glass full of "pigges bones," and a pewter cross crammed with other objects of equal sanctity. With the aid of these and the hypocritical unction of his address, he could manage, in one day, to extract from poor and rustic people more money than the Parson (the regular pastor of the parish) could collect in two months.

The number of the pilgrims now enumerated will be found by any one who takes the trouble to count them to amount to thirtyone, including Chaucer; and the poet describes them setting out on their journey on the following morning. Before their departure, however, the jolly Host of the Tabarde makes a proposition to the assembled company. He offers to go along with them himself, on condition that they constitute him a kind of master of the revels during their journey; showing how agreeably and profitably they could beguile the tedium of the road with the relation of stories. He then proposes that on their return they should all sup together at his hostelry, and that he among them who shall have been adjudged to have told the best story should be entertained at the expense of the whole society. This proposal is unanimously adopted; and nothing can be finer than the mixture of fun and good sense with which honest Harry Bailey, the Host, sways the merry sceptre of his temporary sovereignty.

This then is the framework or scaffolding on which Chaucer has erected his Canterbury Tales. The practice of connecting together a multitude of distinct narrations by some general thread of incident is very natural and extremely ancient. The Orientals, so passionately fond of tale-telling, have universally-and not