suddenly interrupted by honest Harry Bailey, the Host, who plays the part of Moderator or Chorus to Chaucer's pleasant comedy. The Host begs him, with many strong expressions of ridicule and disgust, to give them no more of such "drafty rhyming," and entreats him to let them hear something less worn-out and tiresome. The poet then proposes to entertain the party with "a litel thinge in prose,' and relates the allegorical story of Meliboeus and his wife Patience. It is evident that Chaucer, well aware of the immeasurable superiority of the newly revived classical literature over the barbarous and now exhausted invention of the Romanż poets, has chosen this ingenious method of ridiculing the commonplace tales of chivalry; but so exquisitely grave is the irony in this passage, that many critics have taken the Rime of Sir Thopas' for a serious composition, and have regretted it was left a fragment!

6

The other prose tale (we have mentioned Meliboeus) is supposed to be related by the Parson, who is always described as a model of Christian humility, piety, and wisdom; which does not, however, save him from the terrible suspicion of being a Lollard, i. e., a heretical and seditious revolutionist.

This composition hardly can be called a "tale," for it contains neither persons nor events; but it is very curious as a specimen of the sermons of the early Reformers; for a sermon it is, and nothing else—a sermon upon the Seven Deadly Sins, divided and subdivided with all the pedantic regularity of the day. It also gives us a very curious insight into the domestic life, the manners, the costume, and even the cookery, of the fourteenth century. Some critics have contended that this sermon was added to the Canterbury Tales by Chaucer at the instigation of his confessors, as a species of penitence for the light and immoral tone of much of his writings, and particularly as a sort of recantation, or amende honorable, for his innumerable attacks on the monks. But this supposition is in direct contradiction with every line of his admirable portrait of the Parson; and, however natural it may have been for the licentious Boccaccio to have done such public penance for his ridicule of the "Frati," and his numberless sensual and immoral scenes, his English follower was "made of sterner stuff." The friend of John of Gaunt, and the disciple of Wickliffe, was not so easily to be worked upon by monastic subtlety as the more superstitious and sensuous Italian.

The language of Chaucer is a strong exemplification of the remark. we made in our first chapter respecting the structure of the English language. The ground of his diction will be ever found to be the pure vigorous Anglo-Saxon English of the people, inlaid, if we may so style it, with an immense quantity of Norman-French words. We may compare this diction to some of those exquisite specimens of incrusting left us by the obscure but great artists of the Middle

Ages, in which the polish of metal or ivory contrasts so richly with the lustrous ebony.

The difficulty of reading this great poet is very much exaggerated: a very moderate acquaintance with the French and Italian of the fourteenth century, and the observation of a few simple rules of pronunciation, will enable any educated person to read and to enjoy. In particular it is to be remarked that the final letter e, occurring in so many English words, had not yet become an e mute; and must constantly be pronounced, as well as the termination of the past tense, ed, in a separate syllable. The accent also is more varied in its po sition than is now common in the language. Read with these pre cautions, Chaucer will be found as harmonious as he is tender, mag nificent, humorous, or sublime.

Until the reader is able and willing to appreciate the innumerable beauties of the Canterbury Tales, it is not to be expected that he can make acquaintance with the graceful though somewhat pedantic 'Court of Love,' an allegorical poem, bearing the strongest marks of its Provençal origin; or with the exquisite delicacy and pure chivalry of the 'Flower and the Leaf;' of which latter poem Campbell speaks as follows, enthusiastically but justly :-"The Flower and the Leaf is an exquisite piece of fairy fancy. With a moral that is just sufficient to apologise for a dream, and yet which sits so lightly on the story as not to abridge its most visionary parts, there is, in the whole scenery and objects of the poem, an air of wonder. and sweetness, an easy and surprising transition, that is truly magical."

We cannot conclude this brief and imperfect notice of this great poet without strongly recommending all those who desire to know something of the true character of English literature to lose no time in making acquaintance with the admirable productions of "our father Chaucer," as Gascoigne affectionately calls him: the difficulties of his style have been unreasonably exaggerated, and the labour which surmounts them will be abundantly repaid. "It will conduct you," to use the beautiful words of Milton, "to a hill-side; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."

CHAPTER III.

SIDNEY AND SPENSER.

Elizabethan Era-Ages of Pericles, Augustus, the Medici, Louis XVI.-. Chivalry-Sidney-the Arcadia-His Style-Spenser-Shepherd's Calendar -Pastoral-Spenser at Court-Burleigh and Leicester-Settlement in Ireland-the Faery Queen-Spenser's Death-Criticism of the Faery QueenStyle, Language, and Versification.

Nor

IN the history of most countries the period of the highest literary glory will generally be found to coincide with that of some very marked and permanent achievements in commerce or in war. is this circumstance surprising. Those men who best can perform great actions are in general best able to think sublime thoughts. It was not a fortuitous assemblage, in the same country and at the same period, of such minds as those of Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, that has made us assume the age of Pericles as the culminating point of Athenian literature. No! the defeat of the Persians cannot but be considered as having a great deal to do with the existence of that splendid period.

In the same way the far-famed age of Louis XIV. was undoubtedly prepared, if not produced, by the long religious wars of the Refor mation, the national enthusiasm being also raised by the brilliant exploits of French arms in Germany and Flanders.

That period in the history of English letters which corresponds to the epochs to which we have alluded is the age of Elizabeth. It is the Elizabethan era which represents, among us, the age of Pericles, that of Augustus, that of the Medici, that of Leo, that of Louis; nay, it may be asserted, and without any exaggerated national vanity, that the productions of this one era of English literature may boldly be opposed to the intellectual triumphs of all the other epochs mentioned, taken collectively.

In this case, as in the others, a gigantic revolution had taken place, recent indeed, but not so recent as to leave men's minds under the more immediate action of party spirit and political enmity. The intellect of England had lately been engaged in a struggle for its liberty and its religion; it had had time to repose, but not to be enfeebled: it now started on its race of immortality, glowing, indeed, from the arena, but not weakened; its muscles strung with wrestling, but not exhausted. During the actual ardour of any great political struggle. men's minds are naturally too intent upon the more immediate and personal question, and their views too much narrowed and distorted by prejudice and polemics, for any great achievements in general

literature to be expected; but it is in the period of tranquillity immediately succeeding such great national revolutions that the human intellect soars aloft with steadiest, broadest, and sublimest wing into the calmer empyrean of poetry or philosophy—

"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot

Which men call Earth."

The great revolution to which we have been alluding is, we hardly need say, the Reformation; the doctrines of which were first solidly established in England under the sceptre of Elizabeth, and in whose vehement struggles was trained that generation which was to be adorned by Sidney, by Spenser, and by Raleigh.

The other condition, too, which we have specified as necessary to the production of a great and immortal era in literature, viz. à high degree of military glory, was certainly to be found in this reign: we need only mention the annihilation of the Spanish Armada.

In England, at all periods of our history, literature, speaking generally, has almost always emanated from the people, and consequently has always talked the language of the people, and addressed itself to the people's sympathies; and this is the reason of the greater vital force which it must be allowed to possess. Homer and Shakspeare will ever be read with increasing ardour and veneration, and this because their works reflect, not so much a period or a nation, as the universal heart of man-the same in every climate and in every age.

Besides this fortunate circumstance there were also certain influences at work, peculiar to that brilliant period, and calculated to produce and foster the rapid development which then took place. We have seen the tone of the Italian poetry first infused, so to speak, into English literature by Chaucer and Gower, and the immense influx of classic ideas and classic language which flowed in at that time. At first, however, the crasis (to use a term of the old medicine) between the dissimilar and discordant elements-the ancient Saxonism, the modern classicism, and the romantic spirit of the chivalrous literature-was not, as might have been expected, perfect or complete; and it was not till the time of Elizabeth that the amalgamation of these elements was sufficiently brought about to produce a harmonious and healthy result. The spirit of the Reformation, also—an inquiring, active, practical, and fervent spirit-was necessary to complete the union of these discordant ingredients.

Chivalry, indeed, as a political or social system, had ceased to exist at the period of Elizabeth: that is to say, chivalry no longer exerted any very perceptible influence on the relations of men with the state or with each other. But though it no longer existed as an active and energetic influence, modifying either social life or political relations; though it no longer gave any tone to the general physiogno

my of the times, its moral influence still existed with powerful though diminished force: it still perceptibly modified the manners of the court and of the higher classes; the idol was indeed cast down from the altar, but a solemn and holy atmosphere of sanctity still breathed around the walls of the temple; the pure, the ennobling, the heroic portion of the knightly spirit yet glowed with no decaying fervour in the hearts of such men as Essex, Raleigh, Sidney; and found a worthy voice in the sweet dignity of Spenser's song.

Though the joust and tournament had degenerated from their ancient splendour (and this because they were no longer so necessary as of old), and had become the idle pageant of a magnificent court, many of the gallant tilters of Whitehall had not forgotten the principles of the chivalric character-"high thoughts, seated," to use the beautiful language of Sidney, "in a heart of courtesy."

Of this majestic period the brightest figure is that of Sir Philip Sidney, the most complete embodiment of all the graces and virtues which can adorn or ennoble humanity. He was at once the Bayard and the Petrarch of English history, a name to which every Briton looks back with pride, admiration, and regret. Noble of birth, beautiful in person, splendid and generous, of a bravery almost incredible, wise in council, learned himself, and a powerful and generous protector of learning-in him seem to be united all the solidest gifts and the most attractive ornaments of body and of mind. The throne of Poland, to which he was elected, could hardly have conferred additional splendour upon so consummate a character; and we almost approve of the jealous admiration of Elizabeth, who prevented him from mounting that throne, that she might not lose the "jewel of her court." Very brief, indeed, was the career of this glorious star of the Elizabethan firmament, but the brightness of its setting was well worthy of its rising and meridian ray; and the field of Zutphen was sanctified by those words which can hardly be paralleled in the history of ancient or modern heroism: "this man's necessity is greater than mine." But the hand which faintly motioned the cup to the lips of the dying soldier was the same which wrote the knightly pages of the Arcadia,' and touched the softest note of "that small lute" which "gave ease to Petrarch's pain," and drew from the sonnet a tender melody not unworthy of the poet of Arqua.

There are few productions of similar importance whose character and merits have been so much misrepresented by modern ignorance and superficial criticism as Sidney's great work, the romance of the 'Arcadia.'

Disraeli has collected, in his 'Amenities of Literature,' a large number of depreciating criticisms made by various authors on the 'Arcadia' of Sidney. Walpole pronounced it "a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance;" Gifford affirms "that the plan is poor, the incidents trite, the style pedantic;" Dunlop complains that