Now, sires, than if that yow be so leefTo fynde Deth, torn up this croked way,For in that grove I laft him,[184]by my fay,Under a tree, and ther he wil abyde.remainNe for your bost he nyl him no thing hyde.boastSe ye that ook? right ther ye schuln him fynde.God save yow, that bought agein mankynde,againAnd yow amend. Thus sayth this olde man,And everich of these riotoures ran,every oneTil thay come to the tre, and ther thay foundeOf florins fyn of gold ycoyned rounde,coinedWel neygh a seven busshels, as hem thoughte.No lenger thanne after Deth thay soughte,But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte,For that the florens so faire were and brighte,That doun thai sette hem by the precious hord.The werste[185]of hem he spake the firste word.Bretheren, quod he, take kepe what I schal saye,My witte is gret, though that I bourde and playe,wisdom, jestThis tresour hath fortune to us yiven,givenIn mirth and jolyté our lif to lyven,jollity, liveAnd lightly as it comth, so wil we spende.comethEy, Goddis precious dignite, who wendesupposedToday, that we schuld have so fair a grace?But mighte this gold be caried fro this placeHom to myn hous, or ellis unto youres,(For wel I wot that this gold is nought oures),knowThan were we in heyh felicité.highBut trewely by day it may not be,Men wolde saye that we were theves stronge,And for our tresour doon us for to honge.have us hangedThis tresour moste caried be by nighteAs wysly and as slely as it mighte.Wherfore I rede, that cut among us alleadviseWe drawe, and let se wher the cut wil falle,And he that hath the cut, with herte blithe,blithe heartShal renne to the toun, and that ful swithe,run, quicklyAnd bring us bred and wyn ful prively,And tuo of us shal kepe subtillyThis tresour wel: and if he wol not tarie,delayWhan it is night, we wol this tresour carie,[186]By oon assent, ther as us liketh best.witherThat oon of hem the cut brought in his fest,fistAnd bad hem drawe and loke wher it wil falle,lookAnd it fel on the yongest of hem alle,And forth toward the toun he went anoon.at onceAnd al so soone as that he was agoon,That oon of hem spak thus unto that other:Thou wost wel that thou art my sworne brother,Thy profyt wol I telle the anoon.directlyThou wost wel that our felaw is agoon,knowestAnd her is gold, and that ful gret plente,plentyThat schal departed be among us thre.But natheles if I can schape it soThat it departed were betwix us tuo,Hadde I not doon a frendes torn to the?That other answerd, I not how that may be;know notHe wot wel that the gold is with us twaye,twoWhat schulde we than do? what schulde we saye?saySchal it be counsail?[187]sayd the ferste schrewe,wicked personAnd I schal telle thee in wordes feweWhat we schul doon, and bringe it wel aboute.doI graunte, quod that other, without doute,That by my trouthe I wil thee nought bywraye.betrayNow, quoth the first, thou wost wel we ben twaye,knowestAnd two of us schal strenger be than oon.Loke, whanne he is sett, thou right anoon[188]lookArys, as though thou woldest with him pleye,[189]wouldestAnd I schal ryf him through the sydes tweye,ripWhils that thou strogelest with him as in game,And with thi dagger, loke thou do the same.And than schal al the gold departed be,dividedMy dere frend, bitwixe the and me:theeThan may we oure lustes al fulfille,mightAnd pley at dees right at our owne wille.dice“Now, sirs,” quoth he, “if you so eager beTo seek for Death, turn up this crooked way,For in that grove I left him, by my fay,Under a tree, and there he will abide,Nor for your noise and boasting will he hide.See ye that oak? close there his place you’ll find,God save you, sirs, that hath redeem’d mankind,And mend you all”—thus said the aged man.And thereupon each of the rioters ranUntil they reach’d the tree, and there they foundA heap of golden florins, bright and round,Well-nigh seven bushels of them, as they thought.And then no longer after Death they sought,But each of them so glad was at the sight,The florins were so beauteous and so bright,That down they sat beside the precious hoard.The worst one was the first to speak a word.“Brothers,” said he, “take heed of what I say,For I am wise, although I jest and play,This treasure makes our fortune, so that weMay lead our lives in mirth and jollity,And lightly as it comes, we’ll lightly spend.By heaven! who would have thought that luck would sendUs three good friends to-day so fair a grace?But could this gold be carried from this placeHome to my house, or else to one of yours(For all this gold I well know is not ours)Then were we in complete felicity.But, truly, during day it cannot be,People would call us thieves, and possiblyHang us for our own treasure on a tree.This treasure should be carried off by night,As cleverly and slily as it might.I counsel then, that we among us allDraw lots, and see to whom the lot will fall,And he that hath the lot shall cheerfullyGo back into the town, and speedily,And bring us bread and wine full privily;Meanwhile we two keep safe and secretlyThis treasure here: and if he do not tarry,When the night comes we will the treasure carry,By one assent, where we think best, or list.”This man then held the lots within his fist,And bade them draw and see where it would fall;It fell upon the youngest of them all,Who therefore toward the town went forth anon.As soon as their companion was goneThe first one subtly spoke unto the other:“Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother,I’ll tell thee what thy profit is to-day.Thou seest that our fellow is away,And here is gold, all heap’d up plenteously,Which is to be divided ’mong us three.But, nevertheless, if I can shape it soThat it might be divided ’mong ustwo,Have I not done a friend’s turn unto thee?”“I know not,” said the other, “how that may be;He knows quite well the gold is with us two,What should we say to him? what should we do?”“Shall it be counsel?” said the first again—“And in a few words I shall tell thee plain,What we shall do to bring the thing about.”“I promise,” said the other, “without doubtThat I, for one, will not be treacherous.”“Now,” said the first one, “there are two of us,And two of us will stronger be than one.Look, thou, when he is sitting down, and soonRise up, as if to play with him, and IWill stab him through the two sides suddenly,While thou art struggling with him as in game,And with thy dagger, look, thou do the same.And then shall all this gold divided be,My dearest friend, betwixt thyself and me:Then all our wants and whims we can fulfil,And play at dice according to our will.”
Now, sires, than if that yow be so leefTo fynde Deth, torn up this croked way,For in that grove I laft him,[184]by my fay,Under a tree, and ther he wil abyde.remainNe for your bost he nyl him no thing hyde.boastSe ye that ook? right ther ye schuln him fynde.God save yow, that bought agein mankynde,againAnd yow amend. Thus sayth this olde man,And everich of these riotoures ran,every oneTil thay come to the tre, and ther thay foundeOf florins fyn of gold ycoyned rounde,coinedWel neygh a seven busshels, as hem thoughte.No lenger thanne after Deth thay soughte,But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte,For that the florens so faire were and brighte,That doun thai sette hem by the precious hord.The werste[185]of hem he spake the firste word.Bretheren, quod he, take kepe what I schal saye,My witte is gret, though that I bourde and playe,wisdom, jestThis tresour hath fortune to us yiven,givenIn mirth and jolyté our lif to lyven,jollity, liveAnd lightly as it comth, so wil we spende.comethEy, Goddis precious dignite, who wendesupposedToday, that we schuld have so fair a grace?But mighte this gold be caried fro this placeHom to myn hous, or ellis unto youres,(For wel I wot that this gold is nought oures),knowThan were we in heyh felicité.highBut trewely by day it may not be,Men wolde saye that we were theves stronge,And for our tresour doon us for to honge.have us hangedThis tresour moste caried be by nighteAs wysly and as slely as it mighte.Wherfore I rede, that cut among us alleadviseWe drawe, and let se wher the cut wil falle,And he that hath the cut, with herte blithe,blithe heartShal renne to the toun, and that ful swithe,run, quicklyAnd bring us bred and wyn ful prively,And tuo of us shal kepe subtillyThis tresour wel: and if he wol not tarie,delayWhan it is night, we wol this tresour carie,[186]By oon assent, ther as us liketh best.witherThat oon of hem the cut brought in his fest,fistAnd bad hem drawe and loke wher it wil falle,lookAnd it fel on the yongest of hem alle,And forth toward the toun he went anoon.at onceAnd al so soone as that he was agoon,That oon of hem spak thus unto that other:Thou wost wel that thou art my sworne brother,Thy profyt wol I telle the anoon.directlyThou wost wel that our felaw is agoon,knowestAnd her is gold, and that ful gret plente,plentyThat schal departed be among us thre.But natheles if I can schape it soThat it departed were betwix us tuo,Hadde I not doon a frendes torn to the?That other answerd, I not how that may be;know notHe wot wel that the gold is with us twaye,twoWhat schulde we than do? what schulde we saye?saySchal it be counsail?[187]sayd the ferste schrewe,wicked personAnd I schal telle thee in wordes feweWhat we schul doon, and bringe it wel aboute.doI graunte, quod that other, without doute,That by my trouthe I wil thee nought bywraye.betrayNow, quoth the first, thou wost wel we ben twaye,knowestAnd two of us schal strenger be than oon.Loke, whanne he is sett, thou right anoon[188]lookArys, as though thou woldest with him pleye,[189]wouldestAnd I schal ryf him through the sydes tweye,ripWhils that thou strogelest with him as in game,And with thi dagger, loke thou do the same.And than schal al the gold departed be,dividedMy dere frend, bitwixe the and me:theeThan may we oure lustes al fulfille,mightAnd pley at dees right at our owne wille.dice“Now, sirs,” quoth he, “if you so eager beTo seek for Death, turn up this crooked way,For in that grove I left him, by my fay,Under a tree, and there he will abide,Nor for your noise and boasting will he hide.See ye that oak? close there his place you’ll find,God save you, sirs, that hath redeem’d mankind,And mend you all”—thus said the aged man.And thereupon each of the rioters ranUntil they reach’d the tree, and there they foundA heap of golden florins, bright and round,Well-nigh seven bushels of them, as they thought.And then no longer after Death they sought,But each of them so glad was at the sight,The florins were so beauteous and so bright,That down they sat beside the precious hoard.The worst one was the first to speak a word.“Brothers,” said he, “take heed of what I say,For I am wise, although I jest and play,This treasure makes our fortune, so that weMay lead our lives in mirth and jollity,And lightly as it comes, we’ll lightly spend.By heaven! who would have thought that luck would sendUs three good friends to-day so fair a grace?But could this gold be carried from this placeHome to my house, or else to one of yours(For all this gold I well know is not ours)Then were we in complete felicity.But, truly, during day it cannot be,People would call us thieves, and possiblyHang us for our own treasure on a tree.This treasure should be carried off by night,As cleverly and slily as it might.I counsel then, that we among us allDraw lots, and see to whom the lot will fall,And he that hath the lot shall cheerfullyGo back into the town, and speedily,And bring us bread and wine full privily;Meanwhile we two keep safe and secretlyThis treasure here: and if he do not tarry,When the night comes we will the treasure carry,By one assent, where we think best, or list.”This man then held the lots within his fist,And bade them draw and see where it would fall;It fell upon the youngest of them all,Who therefore toward the town went forth anon.As soon as their companion was goneThe first one subtly spoke unto the other:“Thou knowest well that thou art my sworn brother,I’ll tell thee what thy profit is to-day.Thou seest that our fellow is away,And here is gold, all heap’d up plenteously,Which is to be divided ’mong us three.But, nevertheless, if I can shape it soThat it might be divided ’mong ustwo,Have I not done a friend’s turn unto thee?”“I know not,” said the other, “how that may be;He knows quite well the gold is with us two,What should we say to him? what should we do?”“Shall it be counsel?” said the first again—“And in a few words I shall tell thee plain,What we shall do to bring the thing about.”“I promise,” said the other, “without doubtThat I, for one, will not be treacherous.”“Now,” said the first one, “there are two of us,And two of us will stronger be than one.Look, thou, when he is sitting down, and soonRise up, as if to play with him, and IWill stab him through the two sides suddenly,While thou art struggling with him as in game,And with thy dagger, look, thou do the same.And then shall all this gold divided be,My dearest friend, betwixt thyself and me:Then all our wants and whims we can fulfil,And play at dice according to our will.”
Larger Image
THE RIOTER.
‘For this witterly was his ful entente—To slen hem bothe and never to repente.’
‘For this witterly was his ful entente—To slen hem bothe and never to repente.’
Thus these two ruffians made their compact to murder the third, as I have described.
This yongest, which that wente to the toun,whoFull fast in hert he rollith up and douncloseThe beaute of these florins, newe and brighte.O Lord, quoth he, if so were that I mighteHave all this gold unto myself alloone,Ther is no man that lyveth under the troonethroneOf God, that schulde lyve so mery as I.And atte last the feend, oure enemy,Put in his thought that he schulde poysoun beye,buyWith which he mighte sle his felawes tweye.slayFor why? the feend fond him in such lyvyngeThat he hadde leve to sorwe him to brynge:sorrowFor this was outrely[190]his ful ententeTo slen hem bothe, and never to repente.slayAnd forth he goth, no lenger wold he tarye,delayInto the toun unto a potecarye,apothecaryAnd prayde him that he him wolde selleSom poysoun, that he might his rattis quelle;ratsAnd eek ther was a polkat in his hawefarmyardThat, as he sayde, his capouns had i-slawe,And said he wold him wreke, if that he mighte,avengeOf vermyn, that destroyed hem by nighte.Thapotecary answerd,[191]Thou schalt havethe apothecaryA thing that, also God my soule save,In al this world ther nys no creatureThat ete or dronk hath of this confecture—mixtureNought but the mountaunce of a corn of whete—amountThat he ne schuld his lif anoon for-lete;quitYe, sterve he schal, and that in lasse whiledieThan thou wilt goon a paas not but a myle,stepThis poysoun is so strong and violent.This cursed man hath in his hond i-hentcaught or takenThis poysoun in a box, and sins he ranthenInto the nexte stret unto a manAnd borwed of him large boteles thre,And in the two his poysoun poured he:The thrid he kepede clene for his drynke,third, cleanFor al the night he schop him for to swynkeprepared, labourIn carying of the gold out of that place.And whan this riotour, with sorry grace,rioterHath fillid with wyn his grete botels thre,To his felaws ayein repaireth he.againWhat nedith it therof to sermoun more?sermonizeFor right as they hadde cast[192]his deth bifore,arrangedRight so thay han him slayn, and that anoon.haveAnd whan this was i-doon, thus spak that oon:spake, oneNow let us drynke and sitte, and make us mery,And afterwards[193]we wil his body bery.willAnd with that word[193]it happed himpar casby chanceTo take the botel ther the poysoun was,whereinAnd drank, and yaf his felaw drink also,gaveFor which anon thay stervede bothe two.soon, diedBut certes I suppose that Avycen[194]certainlyWrot never incanoun, ne in nonfen,wroteMo wonder sorwes of empoisonyngwondrous pangsThan hadde these wrecches tuo or here endyng.Thus endid been these homicides tuo,beAnd eek the fals empoysoner also.alsoThe youngest, who had gone into the town,Deep in his mind he turneth up and downThe beauty of these florins, new and bright.“O Lord,” quoth he, “if any-wise I mightHave all this treasure to myself alone,There is no man that dwelleth under the throneOf God, who then should live so merry as I.”And at the last the fiend, our enemy,Put in his thought that he should poison buy,With which to cause his comrades both to die.For why? the fiend found this man’s life so foulThat he had power now upon his soul:For this was utterly his fix’d intentTo slay them both and never to repentAnd forth he goes, no longer would he tarry,Into the town to an apothecary,And begged him plausibly that he would sellHim poison strong enough the rats to quell;Also, there was a polecat in his yardWhich had destroy’d his capons, he averr’d,And he would gladly rid him if he mightOf vermin, which destroy’d them in the night.The apothecary answered, “Thou shalt haveSomething so strong, as God my soul shall save,That in this world nothing that living isWho in his food doth eat or drink of this—Nay, but the greatness of a grain of wheat—Shall fail to die, his life shall be forfeit;Yea, he shall die, and that in lesser whileThan thou shalt walk a step beyond a mile,This poison is so strong and violent.”This curséd man hath taken it and pentThe poison in a box, and forthwith ranHastily to the next street, to a manAnd borrow’d of him some large bottles three,And into two the poison pouréd he:The third he kept untainted for himself,Meaning to toil at carrying his pelfFrom out that cursed place the whole night long.And when this villain, bent on doing wrong,Had filled his three great bottles up with wine,Back to his mates he went, as if to dine.What need is there of saying any more?For as they had devised his death before,E’en so they slew him, and with brief delay.And when the deed was done, the first did say,“Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,And afterwards we will his body bury.”And speaking thus, he chanced, upon the minute,To take a bottle which had poison in it,And drank, and gave his fellow drink beside,Whereby within a little space they died.But truly I suppose that AvicenDid ne’er describe incanonor infenMore frightful pains of deadly poisoning,Than these two wretches felt in perishing.Thus ended both the wicked homicides,And that false-hearted poisoner besides.
This yongest, which that wente to the toun,whoFull fast in hert he rollith up and douncloseThe beaute of these florins, newe and brighte.O Lord, quoth he, if so were that I mighteHave all this gold unto myself alloone,Ther is no man that lyveth under the troonethroneOf God, that schulde lyve so mery as I.And atte last the feend, oure enemy,Put in his thought that he schulde poysoun beye,buyWith which he mighte sle his felawes tweye.slayFor why? the feend fond him in such lyvyngeThat he hadde leve to sorwe him to brynge:sorrowFor this was outrely[190]his ful ententeTo slen hem bothe, and never to repente.slayAnd forth he goth, no lenger wold he tarye,delayInto the toun unto a potecarye,apothecaryAnd prayde him that he him wolde selleSom poysoun, that he might his rattis quelle;ratsAnd eek ther was a polkat in his hawefarmyardThat, as he sayde, his capouns had i-slawe,And said he wold him wreke, if that he mighte,avengeOf vermyn, that destroyed hem by nighte.Thapotecary answerd,[191]Thou schalt havethe apothecaryA thing that, also God my soule save,In al this world ther nys no creatureThat ete or dronk hath of this confecture—mixtureNought but the mountaunce of a corn of whete—amountThat he ne schuld his lif anoon for-lete;quitYe, sterve he schal, and that in lasse whiledieThan thou wilt goon a paas not but a myle,stepThis poysoun is so strong and violent.This cursed man hath in his hond i-hentcaught or takenThis poysoun in a box, and sins he ranthenInto the nexte stret unto a manAnd borwed of him large boteles thre,And in the two his poysoun poured he:The thrid he kepede clene for his drynke,third, cleanFor al the night he schop him for to swynkeprepared, labourIn carying of the gold out of that place.And whan this riotour, with sorry grace,rioterHath fillid with wyn his grete botels thre,To his felaws ayein repaireth he.againWhat nedith it therof to sermoun more?sermonizeFor right as they hadde cast[192]his deth bifore,arrangedRight so thay han him slayn, and that anoon.haveAnd whan this was i-doon, thus spak that oon:spake, oneNow let us drynke and sitte, and make us mery,And afterwards[193]we wil his body bery.willAnd with that word[193]it happed himpar casby chanceTo take the botel ther the poysoun was,whereinAnd drank, and yaf his felaw drink also,gaveFor which anon thay stervede bothe two.soon, diedBut certes I suppose that Avycen[194]certainlyWrot never incanoun, ne in nonfen,wroteMo wonder sorwes of empoisonyngwondrous pangsThan hadde these wrecches tuo or here endyng.Thus endid been these homicides tuo,beAnd eek the fals empoysoner also.alsoThe youngest, who had gone into the town,Deep in his mind he turneth up and downThe beauty of these florins, new and bright.“O Lord,” quoth he, “if any-wise I mightHave all this treasure to myself alone,There is no man that dwelleth under the throneOf God, who then should live so merry as I.”And at the last the fiend, our enemy,Put in his thought that he should poison buy,With which to cause his comrades both to die.For why? the fiend found this man’s life so foulThat he had power now upon his soul:For this was utterly his fix’d intentTo slay them both and never to repentAnd forth he goes, no longer would he tarry,Into the town to an apothecary,And begged him plausibly that he would sellHim poison strong enough the rats to quell;Also, there was a polecat in his yardWhich had destroy’d his capons, he averr’d,And he would gladly rid him if he mightOf vermin, which destroy’d them in the night.The apothecary answered, “Thou shalt haveSomething so strong, as God my soul shall save,That in this world nothing that living isWho in his food doth eat or drink of this—Nay, but the greatness of a grain of wheat—Shall fail to die, his life shall be forfeit;Yea, he shall die, and that in lesser whileThan thou shalt walk a step beyond a mile,This poison is so strong and violent.”This curséd man hath taken it and pentThe poison in a box, and forthwith ranHastily to the next street, to a manAnd borrow’d of him some large bottles three,And into two the poison pouréd he:The third he kept untainted for himself,Meaning to toil at carrying his pelfFrom out that cursed place the whole night long.And when this villain, bent on doing wrong,Had filled his three great bottles up with wine,Back to his mates he went, as if to dine.What need is there of saying any more?For as they had devised his death before,E’en so they slew him, and with brief delay.And when the deed was done, the first did say,“Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry,And afterwards we will his body bury.”And speaking thus, he chanced, upon the minute,To take a bottle which had poison in it,And drank, and gave his fellow drink beside,Whereby within a little space they died.But truly I suppose that AvicenDid ne’er describe incanonor infenMore frightful pains of deadly poisoning,Than these two wretches felt in perishing.Thus ended both the wicked homicides,And that false-hearted poisoner besides.
Notes by the Way.
During the 12th, 13th, and 14th centuries the passion for gambling had spread from the highest to the very lowest class of the population. The practice of men drinking and playing themselves bare in the taverns, where both vices were encouraged by the taverners, was common enough to provoke numberless censures and caricatures, so much so that it is a mercy Sir Wilfrid Lawson was spared the spectacle. The Pardoner’s Tale is one of the list.
The taverns were the resort of all the refuse of the people: the taverners found it suited them to act as pawnbrokers, advancing money on the clothes and property of the ne’er-do-wells who lacked cash to stake or to pay; and provided other attractions whereby men were tempted to various vices, and robbed during their drunken sleep. The language of these young rascals of both sexes is graphically condemned by the Pardoner; and gluttony is pointed out as the root of all evil, for which Adam fell.
Hazard was the game with which our rioters strove to ‘drive away the day.’ Mr. Wright, speaking of the use of dice, tells us, “In its simpler form, that of the game of hazard, in which the chance of each player rested on the mere throw of the dice, it was the common game of the low frequenters of the taverns—that class which lived upon the vices of society, and which was hardly looked upon as belonging to society itself.” Men staked all they possessed, to the very clothes on their backs, on one cast.
Chaucer tells us contemptuously how the King of Parthia sent a pair of golden dice to King Demetrius in scorn, knowing he was a player, to express that he held his glory and renown at no value, being liable to disappear at any moment.
The three rioters were probably young men who had ruined themselves by folly and licence, and whose besetting sin, surviving all it throve on, urged them to any and every crime for the sake of renewed gratification. Their end is beyond measure frightful.For why?—The fiend found him in such living that he had leave to bring him to grief, says the severe old moralist.
The extreme beauty of this poem, even in a technical sense alone, is such that I lament the necessity of abridging it.
Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse.
To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight,no one elseComplayn I, for ye be my lady dere;I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195]For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheerifMe were as leef be layde upon my bere,I wereFor whiche unto your mercy thus I crye—Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!be thouNow voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte,vouchsafe beforeThat I of yow the blissful soune may here,soundOr se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,That of yelownesse hadde never pere!rivalYe be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere!rudderQuene of comfort and goode companye,Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte,life’sAnd saveour as doun in this worlde here,saviourOute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196]since, treasurerFor I am shave[197]as nye as is a frere.nighBut I pray unto youre courtesye,Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!To you, my purse, and to no other wight,Complain I, for you are my lady dear;I am so sorry now that you are light,For truly if you make me heavy cheerI would as lief be laid upon my bier.Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry—Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!I prithee grant this day, ere it be night,That I once more your merry voice may hear,Or see your colour like the sunshine bright,Whereof the yellowness had never peer!You are my life, and you my heart shall steer;Queen of all comfort and good company,Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light,And chief deliverer in this world here,Out of this city help me, by your might,If you no more will be my treasure dear,For I am shaved as close as any frere.But I beseech you of your courtesy,Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight,no one elseComplayn I, for ye be my lady dere;I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195]For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheerifMe were as leef be layde upon my bere,I wereFor whiche unto your mercy thus I crye—Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!be thouNow voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte,vouchsafe beforeThat I of yow the blissful soune may here,soundOr se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,That of yelownesse hadde never pere!rivalYe be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere!rudderQuene of comfort and goode companye,Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte,life’sAnd saveour as doun in this worlde here,saviourOute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196]since, treasurerFor I am shave[197]as nye as is a frere.nighBut I pray unto youre courtesye,Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!To you, my purse, and to no other wight,Complain I, for you are my lady dear;I am so sorry now that you are light,For truly if you make me heavy cheerI would as lief be laid upon my bier.Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry—Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!I prithee grant this day, ere it be night,That I once more your merry voice may hear,Or see your colour like the sunshine bright,Whereof the yellowness had never peer!You are my life, and you my heart shall steer;Queen of all comfort and good company,Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light,And chief deliverer in this world here,Out of this city help me, by your might,If you no more will be my treasure dear,For I am shaved as close as any frere.But I beseech you of your courtesy,Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Two Rondeaux.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly,slayI may the beauté of them not sustene,sustainSo wendeth it thorow-out my herte kene.goethAnd but your wordes will helen hastelyMy hertis wound, while that it is grene,Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, &c.Upon my trouth I say yow feithfullytellThat ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene,areFor with my deth the trouth shal be i-seneYoure two eyn, &c.Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.And if your words heal not full speedilyMy heart’s deep wound, while still the wound is green,Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.Upon my faith I tell you faithfullyBoth of my life and death you are the queen,For in my dying shall the truth be seen.Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheenIt pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly,slayI may the beauté of them not sustene,sustainSo wendeth it thorow-out my herte kene.goethAnd but your wordes will helen hastelyMy hertis wound, while that it is grene,Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, &c.Upon my trouth I say yow feithfullytellThat ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene,areFor with my deth the trouth shal be i-seneYoure two eyn, &c.Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.And if your words heal not full speedilyMy heart’s deep wound, while still the wound is green,Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheen,It pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.Upon my faith I tell you faithfullyBoth of my life and death you are the queen,For in my dying shall the truth be seen.Your fair two eyes will slay me suddenly,I know not how to bear their beauty’s sheenIt pierceth all my heart athrough so keen.
Syn I, fro Love escaped, am so fat,I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene:[198]takenSyn I am fre, I counte him not a bene.since, freeHe may answere and seye this and that:I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene:I care notSyn I fro Love escaped am so fat.Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,struck, slateAnd he is strike out of my bokes clenebooksFor evermo, there is none other mene.meansSyn I fro Love, &c.Since I escaped from love, I am so fat,No more I shall his captive be so lean:Since I am free, I count him not a bean!He may reply, and answer this and that:I care not, for I speak but as I mean:Since I from love escaped, I am so fat!My name—out of his slate Love striketh that.And he is struck out of my books as cleanFor evermore, there is no way between!Since I escaped, etc.
Syn I, fro Love escaped, am so fat,I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene:[198]takenSyn I am fre, I counte him not a bene.since, freeHe may answere and seye this and that:I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene:I care notSyn I fro Love escaped am so fat.Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,struck, slateAnd he is strike out of my bokes clenebooksFor evermo, there is none other mene.meansSyn I fro Love, &c.Since I escaped from love, I am so fat,No more I shall his captive be so lean:Since I am free, I count him not a bean!He may reply, and answer this and that:I care not, for I speak but as I mean:Since I from love escaped, I am so fat!My name—out of his slate Love striketh that.And he is struck out of my books as cleanFor evermore, there is no way between!Since I escaped, etc.
Virelai.
Alone walkyng,In thought pleynyngmourningAnd sore syghyng,Al desolate,Me remembryngrememberingOf my lyvyng,my way of livingMy deth wyshyngwishingBothe erly and late.InfortunateunfortunateIs soo my fatesoThat, wote ye whate?Oute of mesurebeyond measureMy lyfe I hate,Thus, desperate,In suche pore estatepoorDo I endure.remainOf other cureAm I nat sure;notThus to endureYs hard, certayn!Suche ys my ure,useI yow ensure:assureWhat creatureMay have more payn?My trouth so pleyntruthYs take in veyn,takenAnd gret disdeynIn remembraunce;remembranceYet I ful feyngladlyWolde me compleyn,Me to absteynto avoidFrom thys penaunce.penanceBut, in substaunce,substanceNone allegeauncealleviationOf my grevauncegrievanceCan I nat fynd;notRyght so my chaunceWith displesauncedispleasureDoth me avaunce;advanceAnd thus an end.Alone walk I,With many a sighIn secrecy,All desolate,And still reviewMy life anew:For death I sueBoth early and late.My fate doth growSo luckless nowThat—do you know?Beyond all tellingMy life I hate:Thus, desperate,In woeful stateI still am dwelling.I am not sureOf any cure;’Tis hard t’ endureWith no relief!But certain ’tis,My state is this:What thing that isCould have more grief?My story plainIs taken in vain,With great disdainIn recollection;Yet I would fainAlway complain,To shun the painOf this correction!For which find I,Substantially,No remedy,My lot to mend;So fate, I see,Still draws on meMore enmity—And there’s an end!
Alone walkyng,In thought pleynyngmourningAnd sore syghyng,Al desolate,Me remembryngrememberingOf my lyvyng,my way of livingMy deth wyshyngwishingBothe erly and late.InfortunateunfortunateIs soo my fatesoThat, wote ye whate?Oute of mesurebeyond measureMy lyfe I hate,Thus, desperate,In suche pore estatepoorDo I endure.remainOf other cureAm I nat sure;notThus to endureYs hard, certayn!Suche ys my ure,useI yow ensure:assureWhat creatureMay have more payn?My trouth so pleyntruthYs take in veyn,takenAnd gret disdeynIn remembraunce;remembranceYet I ful feyngladlyWolde me compleyn,Me to absteynto avoidFrom thys penaunce.penanceBut, in substaunce,substanceNone allegeauncealleviationOf my grevauncegrievanceCan I nat fynd;notRyght so my chaunceWith displesauncedispleasureDoth me avaunce;advanceAnd thus an end.Alone walk I,With many a sighIn secrecy,All desolate,And still reviewMy life anew:For death I sueBoth early and late.My fate doth growSo luckless nowThat—do you know?Beyond all tellingMy life I hate:Thus, desperate,In woeful stateI still am dwelling.I am not sureOf any cure;’Tis hard t’ endureWith no relief!But certain ’tis,My state is this:What thing that isCould have more grief?My story plainIs taken in vain,With great disdainIn recollection;Yet I would fainAlway complain,To shun the painOf this correction!For which find I,Substantially,No remedy,My lot to mend;So fate, I see,Still draws on meMore enmity—And there’s an end!
Notes by the Way.
Chaucer’s ‘Complaint to his Purse’ was written, according to Mr. Furnivall, in September, 1399, when Chaucer was in distress for money, and sent to Henry IV. as a broad hint,—which was at once attended to.
It is a very clever piece of versification, like the ‘Good Counsel,’ &c., each line rhyming with the corresponding line in the other verses. He addresses his hapless purse as though it were his lady-love, and comically entreats her mercy, when he sees her inclined to be ‘light.’
Mr. Furnivall’s ingenious suggestion, that Chaucer’s penury may possibly be due to his having dabbled in alchemy (an empirical branch of chemistry), is borne out by the technical knowledge displayed in the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.
We may add here—to defend our great man’s character—that alchemy was believed in by many men of exceptional mental power. Roger Bacon, discoverer of gunpowder and the magnifying glass, is perhaps the greatest name among them; and vain as seemed much of their toil with crucibles and furnaces, alembics and aludels, we owe a great deal to the first meritorious alchemists, who really paved the way to modern chemistry.
There is no reason to suppose Chaucer had any vice likely to affect his pocket; but alchemy was the scientific mania of the day, and high and low were ready to risk fortune and health in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, the way to manufacture gold. And, at the same time, there is no other sufficient reason for the extreme poverty which the poet had fallen into.
The two Roundels and the Virelai have been asserted and denied to be the work of Chaucer, but there is no clear evidence for either side. They may well be a portion of those many lost ‘ditties and songs glad’ with which Gower said ‘the land fulfilled is over all,’ written ‘in the floures of his youth.’ The second Roundel seems, on the other hand, to belong to his later life, when he so often alluded to his corpulence. As to the Virelai, this species of lyric was nery fashionable in Chaucer’s time. It is skilful work, each stanza rhyming six lines together (which I have failed to follow in the translation).
Good Counsel of Chaucer.
Fle fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse,mob, honestySuffice the thy good, though hit be smale,thee, itFor horde hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse,hoards, uncertaintyPres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle.deceived everywhereSavour no more then the behove shalle;tasteRede[199]well thy self, that other folke canst rede,And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.without fearPeyne the not eche croked to redresse,In trust of hire that turneth as a balle,[200]Grete rest stant in lytel besynesse.great peace lies, meddlingBewar also to spurne ayein an nalle,[201]awlStryve not as doth a croke[202]with a walle:crockDeme[203]thyselfe that demest others dede,And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse,The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle;Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse.hereForth, pilgrime!—forth, best, out of thy stalle!beastLoke up on hye, and thonke God of alle!Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede,give up, desireAnd trouthe shal the delyver, hit ys no drede.Fly from the crowd, and dwell with truthfulnessContented with thy good, though it be small;Treasure breeds hate, and climbing dizziness,The world is envious, wealth beguiles us all.Care not for loftier things than to thee fall;Counsel thyself, who counsel’st others’ need,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.Pain thee not all the crooked to redress,Trusting to her who turneth as a ball,For little meddling wins much easiness.Beware lest thou do kick against an awl,Strive not as doth a clay pot with a wall:Judge thou thyself, who judgest others’ deed,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.All that is given take with cheerfulness,To wrestle in this world is to ask a fall;Here is no home, here is but wilderness.Forth, pilgrim, forth!—forth, beast, out of thy stall!Look up on high, and thank thy God for all!Cast by ambition, let thy soul thee led,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.
Fle fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse,mob, honestySuffice the thy good, though hit be smale,thee, itFor horde hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse,hoards, uncertaintyPres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle.deceived everywhereSavour no more then the behove shalle;tasteRede[199]well thy self, that other folke canst rede,And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.without fearPeyne the not eche croked to redresse,In trust of hire that turneth as a balle,[200]Grete rest stant in lytel besynesse.great peace lies, meddlingBewar also to spurne ayein an nalle,[201]awlStryve not as doth a croke[202]with a walle:crockDeme[203]thyselfe that demest others dede,And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse,The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle;Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse.hereForth, pilgrime!—forth, best, out of thy stalle!beastLoke up on hye, and thonke God of alle!Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede,give up, desireAnd trouthe shal the delyver, hit ys no drede.Fly from the crowd, and dwell with truthfulnessContented with thy good, though it be small;Treasure breeds hate, and climbing dizziness,The world is envious, wealth beguiles us all.Care not for loftier things than to thee fall;Counsel thyself, who counsel’st others’ need,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.Pain thee not all the crooked to redress,Trusting to her who turneth as a ball,For little meddling wins much easiness.Beware lest thou do kick against an awl,Strive not as doth a clay pot with a wall:Judge thou thyself, who judgest others’ deed,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.All that is given take with cheerfulness,To wrestle in this world is to ask a fall;Here is no home, here is but wilderness.Forth, pilgrim, forth!—forth, beast, out of thy stall!Look up on high, and thank thy God for all!Cast by ambition, let thy soul thee led,And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.
Notes by the Way.
We have Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s authority, as well as internal evidence, for believing that this pathetic little poem expresses Chaucer’s feelings at the time of his expulsion from the Customs offices, the beginning of his period of misfortunes, and was written immediately after the calamity. We seem to gather scattered hints of recent ‘wrestlings’ before the blow came—vain attempts to elevate, and purify, and carry out reforms, to make straight crooked paths. Lost labour—pain thee not all the crooked to redress!—trusting to fortune (money being requisite to reform): for thosewho value peace of mind should let sleeping dogs lie. We seem to catch the echoes of stormy times, of personal recrimination, envy, hatred, and malice, against a ‘climbing’ man, protected by Court favour for many prosperous years, but at length within the reach of foes when that protection waxed powerless. Chaucer may, like many another man, have made no enemies till he was high enough to stand in some one’s light, prosperous enough to be dangerous; but his month of power in Parliament ruined him. It is pretty certain that some vote of his, while sitting for Kent, caused his dismissal from office. It was a case of win all or lose all, and he lost. To fight against such odds were as idle as undignified: surely, indeed, but courting worse injuries, ‘kicking against an awl.’ When the weak and the strong strive together, it is the weak who suffers. The criticism upon others, which had failed to do good, were now best turned philosophically upon himself. That which the fountain gave forth returns again to the fountain, as a poet 500 years later has said. It is impossible, in reading these melancholy and stately lines, not to feel that they ring true, and betray the half-sarcastic disappointment of a well-meaning man, the resignation of a religious man, and the faith in right-dealing bringing its own reward of a thoroughly honest man.
It is probable that the loss to Chaucer in a pecuniary sense was very severe; and the suddenness of the blow may account for much of his after poverty.[204]The loss may have come at a time when he had debts which it would be very hard to pay out of a diminished income—debts which may have hampered his whole after-life. His appointment of a deputy to the office of Clerk of the King’s Works, in 1391, and his subsequent resignation of the office, appear to me to hint at ill-health, as may his death a year after getting his lease for fifty-three years of the tenement in Westminster, where he died.
The last verse of this poem is the most remarkable of the three. Full of just contempt for his enemies’ aspersions, and of hearty trust in the power of truth to set things right, he rises suddenly into a passion of aspiration. Trying to be content with adversity, he is angry with himself for feeling it so deeply. To wrestle in this world is but courting an overthrow. But this is not our Home, this is but a desert leading to a higher state. Forth, pilgrim! gird up thy loins with fresh vigour to journey on. Forth, pilgrim!forth, beast, out of the stallof narrow hopes and interests! look higher, and thank thy God for all. To cast by all the soul’s lets and hindrances—to be led by the higher self—that is the pilgrim’s longing, and that is the sublimest hope of the human heart.
I.—FRONTISPIECE.
Thecostumes of the Knight, Squire, Prioress and Nun, Monk, Friar, Clerk (represented by Chaucer himself), Franklin, the Wife of Bath, the Summoner, and his friend the smart Pardoner, Mine Host and the boy, have been respectively studied from MSS. of the period. The attire of the Knight is open to criticism, for the amount of armour he wears is certainly more than he need wear on so peaceful an errand; but a portion of his well-used plate may be permitted him if only to distinguish the man of war from the numerous men of peace in the train.
The chain-mail, worn under the plate, would, I think, most probably have been retained by the Knight during his pilgrimage. The numerous miniatures of mailed knights journeying for no sinister purpose, appear to me to prove that it was very constantly worn. Unlike the mail which preceded it, the Asiatic kind which came into use in the twelfth century was comparatively light, being formed of slight rings interlaced, and not riveted upon leather. The hood of mail, which hangs on his shoulders, would have been no inconvenience at all. It joined the habergeon of mail, over which was his gipon, ‘stained,’ probably, by the rubbing of his mailed arms.
If, however, it be objected that the gipon was often an under garment (videMeyrick, vol. ii. pp. 20 and 21), we may suppose him to have left a heavy hauberk of plate behind him in London ‘till called for.’
Prioresses and nuns are often depicted in violet, in the contemporary MSS.; I therefore preferred that colour as more agreeable than black. Gloves such as the Nun’s, were occasionally worn in the fourteenth century; the present example is taken from the effigy of William of Colchester, Abbot of Westminster, d. 1420. Gloves of fur, for winter wear, were common in the reign of Henry III.
The harness of the horses, bells and saddles, the Nun’s chest, the Summoner’s cake (probably ornamental gingerbread), and other details, have also been carefully studied from MSS. and tapestries of the time.
The boy’s whip is taken from several fourteenth century and earlier drawings of horse-whips and whips for tops, and was therefore probably a common form.
The distant city is not necessarily London, as I failed to find a contemporary view of old London. The present sketch is borrowed from a fine MS. of Lydgate’s poem, the ‘Storie of Thebes’ (MS. Reg. 18 D. ii.), and gives a good notion of the general look of a mediæval town.
Chaucer’s portrait here was originally from the painting in the Harl. MS. 4866. I have no excuse to offer for changing the colour of Chaucer’s gown from the grey or black in which Occleve always represented him to green, a very common colour at the time, except that it looked better in the picture, and we have no right to assume that Chaucer, even in his poorest days, had only one gown.
II.—DINNER IN THE OLDEN TIME.
The ordinary dinner-table or ‘festiveboard’ in a Franklin’s or burgher’s house has been taken from numerous fourteenth century illustrations. (VideMS. Reg. 2 B. viii., and MS. Imp. Lib. Paris, No. 7210, &c.)
The carver, cupbearer, the fishbones left on the table in the absence of plates, the trenchers or slices of stale bread or buns used in lieu of them, and the other objects upon the table, are faithful copies from the MSS.
A minstrel was constantly employed to make music during the repast. The instrument here introduced is the cittern, played with or without a plectrum or quill. Behind are the servitors bringing in a pasty, some small birds on spits, and the nef or ship, containing salt, liqueurs, spices, or towel, &c., for washing the hands—or, if you like, it is asoteltéin the form of a ship. A subtlety was an ornamental dish that usually closed each course, made in some fanciful form, such as a castle, ship, or animal.
The dogs are munching the waste victuals under the table—such dogs being usually admitted during meals.
The pattern on the tablecloth is derived from a hunting-horn of the fourteenth century.
The peculiar folds at the sides of the tablecloth, which appear in many MSS., must, I think, have been purposely made for ornament, as we sometimes still see waiters crease cloths in various devices.
The sweet herbs strewn on the floor denote summer-time, in contradistinction to straw, which was used in the winter.
III.—LADY CROSSING STREET.
The background of shops and other buildings is borrowed mainly from the decapitation of G. de Pommiers at Bordeaux in 1377 (Froissart’s Chronicle, No. 2644, Bibl. Imp. de Paris).
The costumes are those of middle-class persons. The clogs were in vogue with the long-toed boots.
Some of the streets were paved with large round stones, as in many French towns at the present day; others were not paved at all, and were, during wet weather, many feet deep with mud. An open channel or sewer ran along the midroad, which did not greatly add to the felicity of ‘a walk down Fleet Street.’
IV.—FAIR EMELYE.
Emelye’s garb is that common to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries—a simple form with double sleeves. It will be remembered that Palamon mistook Emelye at first sight for a goddess; Arcite perceived her to be human. I have endeavoured to give the two men’s views of her—each quite possible according to her position in the garden. Palamon may have caught sight of her just at a turn where the dazzle of sunrise behind the tree would be certain to lend a kind of halo to the outline of a head against it. An instant afterwards Emelye may have moved aside, the false halo disappearing, and she would seem what she truly was, simply an attractive maiden.
It is disappointing to find how very few were the flowers that adorned a mediæval garden. Our handsomest flowers were of course unknown—e.g., the immense catalogue of plants introduced from America and elsewhere. Many that ‘have had their day and ceased to be’ in fashion, were as yet unknown too; such as the sunflower, which was imported about the sixteenth century. The red and white may, the dogrose, primrose, and the flowers that we banish to the kitchen garden or admire only in the fields, formed the chief ornaments. We find nettles and nightshade reckoned among garden plants; the dandelion, which appears in the place of honour in many old tapestries, was then counted as a flower.
The big round tower is one of the chain of fortresses linked by a solid wall running around the domain, from one of which the captive knights saw Emelye, her garden being within the walls, and, as the castle was generally built on an eminence, on higher ground than the flat country beyond.
Shining yellow in the sun-rise light is a conventional view of a city—the city of Athens, which Palamon and Arcite could see from their prison window.
V.—GRISELDA’S MARRIAGE.
The huts where poor persons lived were, of course, very rude, and lacked windows, doors, or chimneys. Orifices inthe roof or sides served these purposes. The dirt from the smoke upon walls and ceiling was consequently considerable. The draught beasts dwelt with their owners, much as the Hibernian pig resides with Pat and his family.
The hairy hat surmounting the hood came into use during the fourteenth century, and was made of skins, dressed fur outward.
Griselda’s raggedness must not be construed into slovenliness. Needles were not as accessible to the mass of the poor as they are now; and moreover, the poor not being then compulsorily educated, an honest, industrious girl who could work in the fields and spin, was not always able to darn.
VI.—GRISELDA’S BEREAVEMENT.
It is expressly stated that when her child was taken from her Griselda controlled her feelings, and did not so much as sigh. The sergeant finds her in her chamber, or bower, more private than the hall, and more luxuriously furnished. She is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs which usually stood near the bed’s head (videvarious fourteenth century MSS.)—possibly aPrie-Dieu—raised on a dais.
Her dress is simple, but that of the upper classes in Edward III.’s reign, lined with vair, and having long tippets from the sleeves knotted for convenience; her hair adorned with ‘bends’ or silken straps, and a gold head-dress. Her distaff is still at hand, and the full basket betokens her continued industry. Floor-carpets or mats, embroidered or woven, were rare at this time, and could only have been in use in a wealthy house; but they are occasionally spoken of in early MSS. In ‘Gautier d’Aupais’ an old lady is described as sitting on a richly-worked counterpoint, by a coal fire; but this may have been a cloth flung over a chair; and in the romance of ‘Queen Berthe’ three persons are said to sit on carpets (sur les tapis).
It will be remembered that the dagger was frequently used with the left hand.
VII.—DORIGEN AND AURELIUS.
The parti-coloured dress worn by Aurelius, similar to the Squire’s in the frontispiece, was common in Edward III.’s reign, and was peculiarly obnoxious to the satirists of the day. The cote-hardie or close-fitting tunic sometimes matched in colour one of the legs, sometimes was divided into halves of opposing colours; the shoes were very rich and of contrary hues also.
The ladies’ gowns were long and of very rich materials, the arms bound with gold, and further adorned by fantastic streamers or tippets. Chess was the fashionable pastime of old and young. The pieces in this picture are from some ivory Icelandic chessmen of the twelfth century.
Behind is the lawn where Dorigen’smeinie, or pages and household attendants, are amusing themselves with dancing and ball-playing among the enclosed flower-beds peculiar to the mediæval pleasure-garden.
The coat of arms repeated upon Aurelius’ dress is that attributed to Chaucer. The instrument, on which he doubtless accompanied his mournful love-songs, is a form of cittern. The carved design upon the settle or seat is Anglo-Saxon; thefleur de lyson the curtain of the tent beside them was a common ornament.
I have not been able to discover at what precise date ‘shot’ materials came into use. There are many singular terms applied to the colours of dress throughout the middle ages, such aspourpre-gris,ecarlate-blanche, &c. In the ‘Fabliau de Gautier d’Aupais’ there is mention of ‘un vert mantel porprine’ (a mantle of green crimson). In my own mind I am persuaded that these terms, explicable easily in no other way, refer to shot materials. Mediæval miniatures and pictures also bear out this theory, dresses being depicted of certain colours shaded with certain others in strong contrast. The commonest is blue or red shaded with gold. There have been many conjectures with regard to the above terms. M. le Grand supposes that rare dyes, being chiefly used to dye rich cloths, gave at last their names to those cloths, irrespective of colour. TheSaturday Reviewonce accused the old masters of “sporting with pigments prismatically” when they used red as the shadow of green, &c., oblivious of the fact that if the early masters had a fault it was adhering too blindly to nature in their works. It is clear that in Quentin Matsys’ day (fifteenth century) shot materials were quite common, for there is scarcely one of his pictures without a study of the kind. In his ‘DeadChrist’ at Antwerp several unmistakable examples occur; in his ‘Virgin’ at Amsterdam is introduced a curtain of green and brown shot. This being so, we have no reasonable ground for believing that shot silks, though not yet common, were unknown a century earlier.
I have therefore given two marked examples of similar silks, in the robes of Griselda and Dorigen, both wealthy enough to import such fabrics if in existence at all.
VIII.—THE RIOTER.
The ordinary cheap wine used in the middle ages was often carried in ‘bottles’ or pitchers of this form.
A longish gown was the dress of the commoner people in the fourteenth century. The Rioter is intended to represent a man of decent position, but not noble, who has come to the end of his tether, in a pecuniary sense, and whose slovenly hose and young but debauched and cruel face indicate with what facility he has been degraded by his elder companions.
PORTRAIT OF CHAUCER.
Chaucer’s portrait is copied from a drawing by Occleve the poet (Brit. Mus. Harl. MS. 4866). Occleve made, or caused to be made, shortly after Chaucer’s death, several portraits of him, of which two remain; and on these are founded the many now scattered over the country. The same features recur in all. The peculiar aquiline nose, mouth a little drooping, eyes downcast, the forked beard and fair complexion, the broad round jaw, are the same in all. Occleve always depicted Chaucer with a rosary in his hand, and his penner, containing his pen and inkhorn, hanging to his vest. His hands are small and well-shapen, his form is portly, his air calm, benevolent, almost pathetic.
These lines run beside the miniature in Occleve’s MS.:—