CHAPTER III.

CHAUCER (1328-1400).

THE story of our English Literature has not, until now, told us much about the English people. We have seen that the first English writers were men living apart from the busy, common life of the world in Religious Houses, and though they cared greatly for their fellow-men, and wrote earnest books for their instruction and help, yet they could know little of their daily work and business, and little of the joys of home, its merry laughter or its tender sorrows. In the Norman and early Plantagenet times, we have the chroniclers telling the story of kings and rulers, and the romance writers dreaming their bright dreams of knights and ladies; but kings and rulers, knights and ladies, dwelt in a world of which the merchants, the shopkeepers, the workmen, and labourers knew little beyond the gay outside. Now, however, we are coming to a time when our English Literature begins to strike its roots down into the hearts and lives of the people; and henceforward we shall see how its range widens more and more, till all classes of persons and their interests are included in it. We can easily understand how it is just this which makes any literature strong and lasting, because when a writer speaks of things which only a few people know about and care for, such as the mere outside life and fashion of a certain time, a large number of persons will not be able to read his books, and after awhile they may drop out of sight altogether; but, on the other hand, if a writer speak with clearness and power of what we

all feel and understand, and which belongs to every one, and if he is also true to our common sense of what is right, or beautiful, or touching, or amusing, then not only can every one read his books at the time when they were written, but as long as the world lasts they will never grow old and dull, for every new generation will turn to them with the same delight that their forefathers felt when they first read them.

From the time when our literature begins to express more of the thoughts and feelings and interests of the nation generally, it becomes more and more connected with the life of the nation, and therefore with our history. The story of the life of the English nation, which we call English history, is a story of actions-it tells us what the English people did at various times; but the literature of the same time tells us what the English people were feeling and thinking about, and thus we can understand much better why such and such things were done. We may be able, perhaps, to see better this connection between literature and history, if we imagine what it would be to have a dumb companion, how often we should wonder why he did this or went there, and sometimes we might think him foolish or wrong in his actions. But, on the other hand, if we had a friend whom we loved, and who often spoke freely to us of his feelings and thoughts, and of the aims he set before him. in life, we should readily understand his actions, and be able to judge them truly. Literature and history together are like such a friend; but history alone is almost like a dumb companion.

We take up the story of our English Literature again somewhere in the middle of the fourteenth century, during the reign of Edward III. By this time the Normans and Saxons had become completely mixed together, so that there were no longer two distinct races living in England, but the two had grown into one nation, with one heart and soul. Now, too, there was but one language spoken in the

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common talk of business or of home; the great stream of the First English and the smaller stream of Norman-French had become one, and we shall find that this is so much like the English which we speak to-day, that we can understand a great deal of it without any explanation. The old hatreds now were gone, and with the hatreds the misery and gloom which hatred always must bring with it, and there were love and joy and laughter in the land. The vigour of the people was no longer wasted in the enmity between the conquered and the conquerors, and they had grown strong to strive for freedom, to conquer foreign foes, and to carry on commerce and manufactures. The old English love of truth and duty rose into new life; and we shall find that sturdy voices did not fear to speak out boldly against the corruptions of the Church, the ignorant teaching and evil lives of some of those who professed to be followers of Christ and His Apostles, and to claim help and redress for the poor and oppressed.

In the midst of this time, probably in the year 1328, there was born in London a little child, who was named Geoffrey Chaucer. His father was most likely a wine merchant, living near the Church of St. Aldermary, in Bow Lane, Cheapside. Very little is known of the life of Geoffrey Chaucer in his early days, but from what we know of him later, we may judge that he must have been a bright, happy boy, full of kindly love for all, with a keen delight in fun, and a hearty enjoyment of all the fair things which God has made for us in this world, making no fuss over trifles or grumbling at little hardships, and, best of all, with a heart turning to God in trust and love, and a strong sense of duty. Of this, however, he no doubt, like other English boys, said but little, and was in fact generally silent and shy in company.

* This date is disputed, but it is the one given on his tomb, and the arguments against it need not be entered on here.

Where Chaucer went to school is not known, but that he made good use of his time there, his after-work plainly shows; and we know from it, too, that he must have spent many a pleasant holiday hour-the winter evenings, perhaps, in Bow Lane, or long summer days in the fields around London-in reading the old poetical romances mentioned in the last chapter. While he was yet young, he began to translate one of these, called the "Roman de la Rose," from the French into English; but he did not finish the translation, for he soon found that he was himself a poet, and that he must put his own thought and feeling into English verse.

So Chaucer wrote poetry, sometimes taking an old story or legend which he had met with in his reading, but giving his own version of it, and telling it so as to carry some of his own sound sense of what was true and right, and his own trust and hope, into the minds of others. The French writers loved the rose of the garden, and made it the emblem of the beauty and splendour of a stately, high-born lady; but as soon as Chaucer began to write poetry, he chose for his favourite flower the little English daisy, with its pure white frill and shining gold within, growing anywhere yet looking always up to heaven, and giving joy to rich or poor, the old man, or the little child; and he made it speak of the truth and purity of all good women. He tells us how, when the month of May was come and the birds sang sweetly all day long, he would leave his books, which he loved so well, and go forth into the fields to see the newly-opened flowers; but he says

"Of all the flowrès in the mead

Then love I most these flowrès white and red,
Such as men callen daisies in their town.

To them have I so great affection,
As I said erst, when comen is the May,
That in my bed there dawneth me no day,
But I am up and walking in the mead,
To see this flower again the sunné spread,

When it upriseth early by the morrow,

That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow;
So glad am I, when that I have presence

Of it, to do it allé reverence,

As she that is of allé flowrés flower,
Fulfilled of all virtue and honour,

And ever alike fair and fresh of hue;
And I love it, and ever alike new,

And ever shall till that my hearté die."

And not only did the little daisy live in Chaucer's heart until he died, but he loved, too, through all the years of his long life, the merry May-time, the green fields, the hawthorn hedges white with bloom, the singing of the little birds all that freshness and gladness which make us rejoice in the spring sunshine, and feel how beautiful God's world is, and what a blessed thing it is to live in it. Chaucer was still a young poet when he left home to go to Court, as attendant upon the young Princes Lionel and John of Gaunt, sons of Edward III. During the year 1358, John of Gaunt-not then "time-honoured Lancaster," but a fine young prince of eighteen-was seeking for his wife the Lady Blanche, daughter of Henry, Duke of Lancaster; and it was probably at this time, before the Lady Blanche had quite made up her mind whether she would marry Prince John or no, that Chaucer wrote a poem, called "The Assembly of Foules" (a foule meaning, at that time, any bird). In this poem, Chaucer imagined that on Valentine's Day Dame Nature called before her all the birds of the air to choose their mates. On her own hand Nature carried her favourite, the most beautiful of them all. This was a female eagle (the Lady Blanche). The eagles, as royal birds, were to choose their mates first; and the finest of them all (Prince John) immediately chose the beautiful bird on Nature's hand. But two other eagles had also fixed on her, and great disputing arose among the birds as to which should have her. At