The Squire.

AKnight[34]ther was and that a worthy man,there, valuableThat from the tyme that he ferst biganTo ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,rideTrouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie.franknessFul worthi was he in his lordes werre,warAnd therto hadde he riden, noman ferre,furtherAs wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse,And evere honoured for his worthinesse.A knight there was, and that a worthy man,Who from the time in which he first beganTo ride afield, loved well all chivalry,Honour and frankness, truth and courtesy.Most worthy was he in his master’s war,And thereto had he ridden, none more far,As well in Christian as in heathen lands,And borne with honour many high commands.

He had been at Alexandria when it was won: in Prussia he had gained great honours, and in many other lands. He had been in fifteen mortal battles, and had fought in the lists for our faith three times, and always slain his foe. He had served in Turkey and in the Great Sea. And he was always very well paid too. Yet, though so great a soldier, he was wise in council; and in manner he was gentle as a woman. Never did he use bad words in all his life, to any class of men: in fact

He was a verray perfight, gentil knight.He was a very perfect, noble knight.

As for his appearance, his horse was good, but not gay. He wore a gipon of fustian, all stained by his habergeon;[35]for he had only just arrived home from a long voyage.

With him ther was his sone, a yongSquyer,there, sonA lovyer, and a lusty bacheler,[36]merryWith lokkes crulle as they were layde in presse.locks curledOf twenty yeer he was of age I gesse.guessOf his stature he was of evene lengthe,And wondurly delyver, and gret of strengthe.wonderfully nimble, greatAnd he hadde ben somtyme in chivachie,[37]had beenIn Flaundres, in Artoys, and in Picardie,And born him wel, as in so litel space,littleIn hope to stonden in his lady grace.[38]standEmbrowdid[39]was he, as it were a medeAl ful of fresshe floures, white and reede.Syngynge he was, or flowtynge al the day;playing on the fluteHe was as fressh as is the moneth of May.Schort was his goune, with sleeves long and wyde.Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde.could, horseHe cowde songes wel make and endite,relateJustne and eek daunce, and wel purtray and write.also, draw picturesWith him there was his son, a gay young squire,A bachelor and full of boyish fire,With locks all curl’d as though laid in a press,And about twenty years of age, I guess.In stature he was of an even length,And wonderfully nimble, and great of strength.And he had followed knightly deeds of warIn Picardy, in Flanders, and Artois,And nobly borne himself in that brief space,In ardent hope to win his lady’s grace.Embroidered was he, as a meadow bright,All full of freshest flowers, red and white;Singing he was, or flute-playing all day,He was as fresh as is the month of May.Short was his gown, his sleeves were long and wide,Well he became his horse, and well could ride;He could make songs, and ballads, and recite,Joust and make pretty pictures, dance, and write.

As for the young squire’s manners—

Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable,And carf[40]byforn his fadur at the table.carvedCourteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,And carved before his father at the table.

AYemanhad he, and servantes nomoono moreAt that tyme, for him luste ryde soo;it pleased himAnd he was clad in coote and hood of grene.A shef of pocok arwes[41]bright and kene,arrowsUnder his belte he bar ful thriftily,boreWel cowde he dresse his takel yomanly;arrowHis arwes drowpud nought with fetheres lowe,[42]arrowsAnd in his hond he bar a mighty bowe.boreA not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage.v. notes, p. 111.Of woode-craft cowde he wel al the usage;knewUpon his arme he bar a gay bracer,[43]boreAnd by his side a swerd, and a bokeler,[44]bucklerAnd on that other side a gay daggere,Harneysed wel, and scharp at poynt of spere;dressed wellA Cristofre on his brest of silver schene.ornament representing St. ChristopherAn horn he bar, the bawdrik[45]was of grene:A forster was he sothely, as I gesse.forester, trulyA yeoman had he (but no suite beside:Without attendants thus he chose to ride,)And he was clad in coat and hood of green.A sheaf of peacock-arrows bright and keen,Under his belt he carried thriftily;Well could he dress an arrow yeomanly!None of his arrows drooped with feathers lowAnd in his hand he held a mighty bow.A knot-head had he, and a sunburnt hue,In woodcraft all the usages he knew;Upon his arm a bracer gay he wore,And by his side buckler and sword he bore,While opposite a dagger dangled free;Polished and smart, no spear could sharpe be.A silver ‘Christopher’ on his breast was seen,A horn he carried by a baldrick green:He was a thorough forester, I guess.

Ther was also a Nonne, aPrioresse,That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy;herHire grettest ooth[46]ne was but by seynt Loy,oathAnd sche was cleped madame Eglentyne.calledFul wel sche sang the servíse devyne,Entuned in hire nose[47]ful semyly,seemlyAnd Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly,elegantlyAftur the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,schoolFor Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe.her unknownAt mete wel i-taught was sche withalle;meat, taughtSche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle,letNe wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe.[48]wettedWel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe,carryThat no drope ne fil uppon hire breste.fellIn curtesie was sett al hire leste.courtesy, pleasureHire overlippe wypude sche so clene,[49]That in hire cuppe ther was no ferthing senescrapOf grees, whan sche dronken hadde hire draught.had drunkFul semely aftur hire mete sche raught.seemlyAnd sikurly sche was of gret disport,assuredlyAnd ful plesant, and amyable of port,And peyned hire to counterfete cheerewaysOf court, and ben estatlich of manere,stately, mannerAnd to ben holden digne of reverence.worthyBut for to speken of hire conscience,speakSche was so charitable and so pitous[50]Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mousCaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.Of smale houndes hadde sche, that sche feddesmall houndsWith rostud fleissh, and mylk, and wastel breed.[51]But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed,themOr if men smot it with a yerde smerte:rodAnd al was conscience and tendre herte.Ful semely hire wymple[52]i-pynched was:Hire nose tretys: hire eyen grey as glas:well-proportioned, eyes, glassHire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed;But sikurly sche hadde a faire forheed.surelyIt was almost a spanne brood, I trowe:broad, thinkFor hardily sche was not undurgrowe.certainly, undergrownFul fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar.neatOf smal coral aboute hire arme sche baarsmallA peire of bedes[53]gaudid al with grene;set of beadsAnd theron heng a broch of gold ful schene,jewel, brightOn which was first i-writen a crowned A,writtenAnd after that,Amor vincit omnia.[54]There also was a Nun, a Prioress,Who of her smiling was most simple and coy;Her greatest oath was only ‘by St. Loy,’And she was calléd Madame Eglantine.Full well she sang the services divine,Entunéd through her nose melodiously,And French she spoke fairly and fluently,After the school of Stratford atte Bow,For French of Paris—thatshe did not know.At meal-times she was very apt withal;No morsel from her lips did she let fall,Nor in her sauce did wet her fingers deep;Well could she lift a titbit, and well keep,That not a drop should fall upon her breast;To cultivate refinement was her taste.Her upper lip she ever wiped so cleanThat in her drinking-cup no scrap was seenOf grease, when she had drank as she thought good.And gracefully she reach’d forth for her food.And she was very playful, certainly,And pleasant, and most amiable to see.And mighty pains she took to counterfeitCourt manners, and be stately and discreet,And to be held as worthy reverence.But then to tell you of her conscience!She was so charitable and piteousThat she would weep did she but see a mouseCaught in a trap, if it were dead or bled;And little dogs she had, which oft she fedWith roasted meat, and milk, and finest bread;But sore she wept if one of them were dead,Or, haply, with a rod were smitten smart.And all was conscience and tender heart!Most daintily her wimple plaited was:Her nose was straight; her eyes were grey as glass;Her mouth was little, and so soft and red!Besides, she had a very fine forehead,That measured nigh a span across, I trow!For certainly her stature was not low.And very dainty was the cloak she wore;Around her arm a rosary she bore,Of coral small, with little gauds of green,And thereon hung a golden locket sheen,On which was graven first a crownéd A,And after,Amor vincit omnia.

The Prioress was attended by another nun, who acted as her chaplain, and three priests.

AMonkther was, a fair for the maistrie,[55]masteryAn out-rydere, that lovede venerye;huntingA manly man, to ben an abbot able.beFul many a deynte hors hadde he in stable:dainty horseAnd whan he rood, men might his bridel heere[56]when, hearGyngle in a whistlyng wynd as cleere,jingling, clearAnd eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle,Ther as this lord was keper of the selle.where, religious houseA monk there was—one sure to rise no doubt,A hunter, and devoted rider out;Manly—to be an abbot fit and able,For many a dainty horse had he in stable;And when he rode, his bridle you could hearJingle along a whistling wind as clearAnd quite as loud, as doth the chapel bell,Where this good monk is keeper of the cell.

This jolly monk cared for little else but hunting, though this has never been considered a proper pursuit for the clergy. He was indifferent to what was said of him, and spared no cost to keep the most splendid greyhounds and horses for hard riding and hare-hunting. I saw his sleeves edged with the rare furgrisat the wrist, and that the finest in the land; his hood was fastened under his chin with a curious gold pin, which had a love-knot in the largest end. His pate was bald and shiny, his eyes rolled in his head; his favourite roast dish was a fat swan.[57]

AFrerether was, a wantoun and a merye,friarA lymytour,[58]a ful solempne man.solemnIn alle the ordres foure[59]is noon that canIs able to doSo moche of daliaunce and fair langage.dalliance·······Ful wel biloved and famulier was hefamiliarWith frankeleyns[60]overal in his cuntre,countryAnd eek with worthi wommen of the toun:also, rich·······Ful sweetly herde he confessioun,And plesaunt was his absolucioun;[61]He was an esy man to yeve penanceeasyTher as he wiste to han a good pitance;when, knewFor unto a poure ordre for to gevepoorIs signe that a man is wel i-schreve.shrivenFor if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt,boastHe wiste that a man was repentaunt.knewFor many a man so hard is of his herte,heartHe may not wepe though him sore smerte;he may smartTherfore in-stede of wepyng and prayeres,Men moot yive silver to the poure freres.mayA friar there was, so frisky and so merry—A limitour, a most important man,In the four orders there is none that canOutdo him in sweet talk and playfulness.········He was most intimate and popularWith all the franklins dwelling near and far,And with the wealthy women of the town.········So sweetly did he hear confession ay;In absolution pleasant was his way.In giving penance, very kind was heWhen people made it worth his while to be;For giving largely to some order poorShows that a man is free from sin, be sure,And if a man begrudged him not his dole,He knew he was repentant in his soul.For many a man so hard of heart we see,He cannot weep, however sad he be;Therefore, instead of weeping and long prayers,Men can give money unto the poor friars.

He carried a number of pretty pins and knives about him that he made presents of to people; and he could sing well, and play on the rotta.[62]He never mingled with poor, ragged, sick people—it is not respectable to have anything to do with such, but only with rich people who could give good dinners.

Somwhat he lipsede for his wantownesse,To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge;tongueSomewhat he lispéd for his wantonness,To make his English sweet upon his tongue;

and when he played and sang, his eyes twinkled like the stars on a frosty night.

AMarchauntwas ther with a forked berd,beardIn motteleye, and highe on hors he sat,motley, horseUppon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat.Flemish beaverA merchant was there with a forkéd beard,In motley dress’d—high on his horse he sat,And on his head a Flemish beaver hat.

AClerk[63]ther was of Oxenford also,OxfordThat unto logik hadde longe ygo.logic, goneAs lene was his hors as is a rake,lean, horseAnd he was not right fat, I undertake;But lokede holwe, and therto soburly.looked hollowFul thredbare was his overest courtepy.uppermost short cloakFor he hadde geten him yit no benefice,gotNe was so worldly for to have office,For him was lever have at his beddes heedehe wouldTwenty bookes, clothed in blak or reede,Of Aristotil, and his philosophie,Than robus riche, or fithul, or sawtrie.robesA clerk of Oxford was amid the throng,Who had applied his heart to learning long.His horse, it was as skinny as a rake,Andhewas not too fat, I’ll undertake!But had a sober, rather hollow look;And very threadbare was his outer cloak.For he as yet no benefice had got:Worldly enough for office he was not!For liefer would he have at his bed’s headA score of books, all bound in black or red,Of Aristotle, and his philosophy,Than rich attire, fiddle, or psaltery.

Yet although the poor scholar was so wise and diligent, he had hardly any money, but all he could get from his friends he spent on books and on learning; and often he prayed for those who gave him the means to study. He spoke little—never more than he was obliged—but what he did speak was always sensible and wise.

Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche,tending toAnd gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.would, learnFull of true worth and goodness was his speech,And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

Then there was a

Nowher so besy a man as he ther nas,was notAnd yit he seemede besier than he was.·······He roode but hoomly in a medlé cootemixed fabricGird with a seynt of silk, with barres smale.beltNever has been a busier man than he,Yet busier than he was, he seemed to be.·······He rode but homely-clad, in medley coat,Girt with a belt of silk, with little bars.

The Franklin.

Table Dormant.

AFrankeleinwas in his compainye;Whit was his berde, as is the dayesye.daisyOf his complexioun he was sangwyn,Wel loved he in the morwe a sop of wyn.morning·······Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous,baked meats (pies)Of flessch and fissch, and that so plentevousHit snewed[64]in his hous of mete and drynke,snowedOf alle deyntees that men cowde thynke.could think ofAfter the sondry sesouns of the yeersundrySo chaungede he his mete and his soper.supper·······His table dormant[65]in his halle alwayStood redy covered al the longe day.There was a Franklin in his company,And white his beard was, as the daisies be.With ruddy tints did his complexion shine;Well loved he in the morn a sop of wine.········Without good meat, well cooked, was ne’er his house,Both fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,It seemed as though it snowed with meat and drink,And every dainty that a man could think.According to the seasons of the yearHe changed his meats and varied his good cheer.········His table-dormant in his hall alwayStood ready furnished forth throughout the day.

He was the most hospitable of men, and very well-to-do. He kept open house, for everybody to come and eat when they liked. He had often been sheriff and knight of the shire; for he was very highly thought of.

An anlas and gipser al of silkallHeng at his gerdul, whit as morne mylk.A dagger and a hawking-pouch of silkHung at his girdle, white as morning milk.

A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Webber (weaver), a Dyer, and a Tapiser (tapestry-maker) came next, with the Cook they brought with them, a Shipman, a Doctor of Physic, and a ‘worthy[66]woman,’ called the Wife of Bath, because she lived near that city.

The Doctor of Physic.

The Wife of Bath.

She was so expert in weaving cloth, that there was no one who could come up to her; and she thought so much of herself, that if another woman even went up to the church altar before her, she considered it a slight upon her. The Wife of Bath was middle-aged, and somewhat deaf: she had had five husbands, but they had all died—she was such a shrew: and she had taken pilgrimages to Cologne and Rome, and many other places; for she had plenty of money, as one might see by her showy dress.

Hire hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed,hoseFul streyte yteyd, and schoos ful moyst and newe.Bold was hire face, and fair and rede of hew.Her stockings were of finest scarlet red,All straitly tied, and shoes all moist and new.Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.

She was well wimpled with fine kerchiefs, and her hat was as broad as a buckler or a target.

Then came the poor Parson—poor in condition, but ‘rich in holy thought and work’—who was so good, and staunch, and true, so tender to sinners and severe to sin, regarding no ranks or state, but always at his post, an example to men.

Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asondur,wideBut he ne lafte not for reyne ne thondur,ceasedIn siknesse nor in meschief to visiteThe ferrest in his parissche, moche and lite,furthestUppon his feet, and in his hond a staf.·······But Cristes lore and his apostles twelveHe taught, and ferst he folwed it himselve.[67]followedWide was his parish, the houses far asunder,But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,In sickness and in woe to visit allWho needed—far or near, and great and small—On foot, and having in his hand a staff.········Christ’s and the twelve apostles’ law he taught,But first himself obey’d it, as he ought.

Then the parson’s brother, who was only a Ploughman, and worked hard in the fields, kind to his neighbours, ever honest, loving God above all things. He wore a tabard, and rode on a mare.[68]

There was also a Miller, a Manciple, a Reve, a Summoner, a Pardoner, and myself [Chaucer].

The Ploughman.

The Summoner.

The Pardoner.

The Summoner[69]was a terrible-looking person, and rode with the Pardoner, who was his friend: the Pardoner singing a lively song, and the Summoner growling out a bass to it, with a loud, harsh voice. As for his looks, he had

A fyr-reed cherubynes face,[70]For sawceflem he was with eyghen narwe.pimplyA ‘fiery-cherubin’ red face,For pimply he was, with narrow eyes.

Children were sore afraid of him when they saw him, he was so repulsive, and so cruel in extorting his gains. He was a very bad man: for though it was his duty to call up before the Archdeacon’s court anybody whom he found doing wrong, yet he would let the wickedest people off, if they bribed him with money; and many poor people who did nothing wrong he forced to give him their hard earnings, threatening else to report them falsely to the Archdeacon. He carried a large cake with him for a buckler, and wore a garland big enough for the sign-post of an inn.[71]

The Pardoner[72]was a great cheat too, and so the friends were well matched; he had long thin hair, as yellow as wax, that hung in shreds on his shoulders. He wore no hood, but kept it in his wallet: he thought himself quite in the tip-top of fashion.

Dischevele, sauf his cappe, he rood al bare.exceptSuche glaryng eyghen hadde he, as an hare.such, eyesA vernicle[73]hadde he sowed on his cappe;His walet lay byforn him in his lappe.before·······But trewely to tellen atte laste,trulyHe was in churche a noble ecclesiaste.Wel cowde he rede a lessoun or a storye,[74]But altherbest he sang an offertorie:best of allFor wel he wyste, whan that song was songeknew, whenHe moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge,preach, whetTo wynne silver, as he right wel cowde:winTherfore he sang ful meriely and lowde.Dishevell’d, save his cap, he rode barehead:Such glaring eyes, like to a hare, he had!A vernicle was sewed upon his cap;His wallet lay before him, in his lap.·······But honestly to tell the truth at last,He was in church a noble ecclesiast.Well could he read a lesson or a story,But ever best he sang the offertory:For well he knew that after he had sung,For preaching he must polish up his tongue,And thus make money, as he right well could:Therefore he sang full merrily and loud.

Now I have told you as much as I can what people came into the Tabard Inn that night, and why they were all travelling together, and where they were going.

Mine Host.

Our host made us very welcome, and gave us a capital supper. He was a thoroughly good fellow, our host—a large, stout man, with bright, prominent eyes, sensible and well behaved, and very merry.

After supper, he made us all laugh a good deal with his witty jests; and when we had all paid our reckonings, he addressed us all:—

And sayde thus: Lo, lordynges, trewelytrulyYe ben to me right welcome hertily:For by my trouthe, if that I schal not lye,shall, lieI ne saugh this yeer so mery a companyesawAt oones in this herbergh, as is now.inn (auberge)Fayn wolde I do yow merthe, wiste I how.And of a merthe I am right now bythought,To doon you eese, and it schal coste nought.do, easeAnd said to us: “My masters, certainlyYe be to me right welcome, heartily:For by my truth, and flattering none, say I,I have not seen so large a companyAt once inside my inn this year, as now!I’d gladly make you mirth if I knew how.And of a pleasant game I’m just bethoughtTo cheer the journey—it shall cost you nought!

“Whoever wants to know how, hold up your hands.” We all held up our hands, and begged him to say on.

“Well, my masters,” said he, “I say that each of you shall tell the rest four stories—two on the way to Canterbury, and two on the way home. For you know it is small fun riding along as dumb as a stone. And whichever in the party tells the best story, shall have a supper at this inn at the cost of the rest when you come back. To amuse you better, I will myself gladly join your party, and ride to Canterbury at my own expense, and be at once guide and judge; and whoever gainsays my judgment shall pay for all we spend by the way. Now, tell me if you all agree, and I will get me ready in time to start.”

We were all well pleased; and the next morning, at daybreak, our clever host called us all together, and we rode off to a place called the Watering of St. Thomas.[75]There we halted, and drew lots who should tell the story first, knight, clerk, lady prioress, and everybody.

The lot fell to the knight, which every one was glad of; and as soon as we set forward, he began at once.

Notes by the Way.

One of the things most deserving of notice in reading Chaucer is his singularly strong grasp of character. In the ‘Canterbury Tales’ this is self-evident, and the succinct catalogue of the thirty-one pilgrims, which in feebler hands would have been dry enough, is a masterpiece of good-humoured satire, moral teaching, and, above all, photographic portraits from life. You will notice that Chaucer meant to make his ‘Canterbury Tales’ much longer than he lived to do. His innkeeper proposes that each of the pilgrims shall tell four stories. Only twenty-four of these exist.

You will never find any character drawn by Chaucer acting, speaking, or looking inconsistently. He has always well hold of his man, and he turns him inside out relentlessly. He very seldom analyzes thought or motives, but he shows you whatisso clearly, that you know whatmustbe without his telling you.

The good-humourednaïvetéof mine host, like all his class, never forgetful of business in the midst of play, is wonderfully well hit off; for the innkeeper clearly would be the gainer by this pleasant stratagem: and he prevents any one’s giving him the slip by going with them to Canterbury and back. The guests are glad enough of his company, for he could be especially useful to them on the way.

The stories, also, will be found perfectly characteristic of the tellers—there is no story given to a narrator whose rank, education, or disposition make it inconsistent. Each tells a tale whose incidents savour of his natural occupation and sympathies, and the view each takes of right or wrong modes of conduct is well seen in the manner as well as the matter.

Chaucer’s personal distrust of and contempt for the contemporary Church and its creatures was the natural and healthy aversion of a pure mind and a sincerely religious heart to a form of godliness denying the power thereof—a Church which had become really corrupt. It is significant of his perfect artistic thoroughness that, with this aversion, he never puts an immoral or unfitting tale into the mouth of nun or friar; for it would be most unlikely that these persons, whatever their private character might be, would criminate themselves in public.

Onceupon a time, as old stories tell us, there was a duke named Theseus, lord and governor of Athens, in Greece, and in his time such a conqueror that there was none greater under the sun. Full many a rich country owned his sway.

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