write songs and sing them, "and play the flute like a lover.” Then comes Madame Eglantine, the prioress of a convent, a sweet gentlewoman, who, although the bride of the Church, wears as the motto on her brooch, "Love conquers all." Here is her picture as Chaucer gives it :

"Ful wel she sang the service devine,
Entuned in hire nose ful swetely;

And Frenche she spoke ful fayre and fetisly,
After the schole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,
For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe.
At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle;
She let no morsel from hire lippes falle,
Ne wette hire fingires in hire sauce depe.
Wel coude she carie a morsel and wel kepe
Thatte no droppe ne fell upon hire brest. . . .

"But for to speken of hire conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
She wolde weep if that she saw a mous
Caughte in a trappe if it were ded or bledde.
Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde
With rosted flesh and milk and wastel brede;
But sore wept she if on of hem were dede. . ..
Hire nose was stretis; hire eyes as grey as glas;
Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and red,
But sickerly she had a fayre forehed.

"Full fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware.
Of small corale aboute hire arm she bare

A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene;
And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene,
On whiche was ywriten a crouned A,
And after 'Amor vincit omnia."

Can we not see Madame Eglantine as plainly as if she stood before us in broad day, with her gray eyes, her little soft red mouth, her fair forehead, and her dainty ways when she sits at the table? The only other woman of the party, except a nun attendant on the Prioress, who passes without description, was the Wife of Bath, trast to the delicate Madame Eglantine:

"She was a worthy woman all hire live,

a great con

Housbondes at the chirche doore had she had five."

And besides her matrimonial experiences, she had travelled much, having been in Jerusalem, Rome, Germany, and France. She had a fair face, though somewhat red and bold; her shoes were shining new, and her stockings of fine scarlet; she rode her ambling nag easily, and wore spurs like a man.

Next comes a Monk, in a fur-trimmed mantle, his hood fastened under his chin with a curious pin of gold, and his scarf tied in a love-knot. His companion is a merry Friar, who gives easy penance to his parishioners, and administers absolution "ful swetely."

"Somwhat he lisped for his wantonnesse,

To make his English swete upon his tonge."

The Clerk of Oxford, who follows, is lean, like his horse e; his coat is threadbare; he might be twin-brother to the poor student of the present day. He would rather have a shelf full of books at his bed's head than rich clothes or any other pleasures. What a contrast to him is the Franklin, an English squire of the fourteenth century, with a beard white as a daisy, a full red face, and all the marks of a gourmand,

"Withouten bake mete never was his hous;
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,

It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke."

Then come a quartet of mechanics, all dressed in the livery of their orders, each with well-filled purses, "and shaped to have been an alderman." The Miller, the Cook, the Doctor, the Lawyer, the Merchant, the poor Parson, and his brother, the Ploughman, these last two, in our judgment, the only really pious persons in this company of religious pilgrims, make up the party. Such is a little glimpse of that group who set out on a soft April day on that immortal pilgrimage to Canterbury.

XIII.

ON THE STORIES OF THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.

HEN the Canterbury travellers first set out upon

WH

their journey, the jolly host of the Tabard proposes that they shall beguile the way by telling stories, each doing his share in turn. This is agreed upon, and it falls to the Knight to begin. He tells the story of Palamon and Arcite, two noble kinsmen who are sworn brothers in friendship till they both fall in love with the same lady, the fair Emelie, sister of Duke Theseus, who holds the two noblemen as his prisoners of war. I think you will find this, the Knight's Tale, the most interesting of all the stories. It is made gorgeous by the description of a tournament, a description so vivid that we seem to see the waving of plumes, the glitter of armor, and the very dust that rises from the field of conflict when the knights spur towards each other with raised lances. Emelie, the heroine of this story, is one of the loveliest of all Chaucer's women. We see her first in a garden, where the birds are singing and the flowers blossoming under the shadow of the great stone tower where the knights who love her are shut up in prison. These are the lines in which Chaucer describes her:

"Till it felle ones in a morwe of May
That Emelie, that fayrer was to sene
Than is the lilie upon his stalke grene,

And fresher than the May, with floures newe

(For with the rose colour strof hire hewe,

I n'ot which was finer of hem two).

Er it was day, as she was wont to do,

She was arisen, and al redy dight,
For May woll have no slogardie a-night.
The seson priketh every gentil herte,

And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte..
Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse,
Behind hire back a yerde long, I gesse,
And in the gardin as the sonne uprist
She walketh up and doun wher as hire list,

She gathereth floures, partie white and red,
To make a sotile gerlond for hire hed,

And as an angel hevenliche she song."

Meantime the two prisoners, Palamon and Arcite, enclosed in the great stone tower over the garden, get their first sight of Emelie.

66

'Bright was the sonne and clere that morwening,

And Palamon, this woful prisoner,

As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,

Was risen, and romed in a chambre on high,

In which he all the noble citee sigh,

And eke the gardin, ful of branches grene.
Ther as this freshe Emelie, the shene,
Was in hire walk, and romed up and down.
This sorweful prisoner, this Palamon,
Goth in his chambre, roming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe. . . .
And so befell, by aventure or eas,

That through a window thikke of many a barre
Of yren grete and square as any sparre,
He cast his eyen upon Emelia,

And therewithal he blent and cried, "A!"
As though he stungen were unto the herte.
And with that crie Arcite anon upsterte,
And saide, Cosin min, what eyleth thee?
That art so pale and dedly for to see?

Why criedst thou? Who hath thee don offense?
For goddes love take all in patience
Our prison, for it may none other be,
Fortune hath yeven us this adversite.' . .
This Palamon answerde, and sayd again:
'This prison caused me not for to crie,
But I was hurt right now, thrughout min eye
Into min herte; that woll my bane be,
The fayrnesse of a lady that I see
Yond in the gardin, roming to and fro,
Is cause of all my crying and my wo.
I n'ot whe'r she be woman or goddess,
But Venus is it sothly, as I gesse.'
And with that word Arcita gan espie,
Wher as this lady romed to and fro,

And with that sight hire beautee hurt him so,
That if that Palamon were wounded sore,

Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or more,

And with a sigh he saye pitously,

'The freshe beautee sleth me sodenly

Of her that rometh in the yonder place,
And but I have hire mercy and hire grace,
That I may seen hire at the leste way,

I n'am but ded, ther n'is no more to say.'
This Palamon, when he these wordes herd,
Dispitously he looked and answerd:

'Whether sayst thou this, in ernest or in play?'
'Nay,' said Arcite, 'in ernest, by my fay.'
This Palamon gan knit his browes twey,
'It were,' quod he, 'to thee no gret honour
For to be false, ne for to be traytour
To me, that am thy cosin and thy brother,
Ysworn ful depe and eche of us to other.
Thus art thou of my counseil out of doute,
And now thou woldest falsly ben aboute
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,
And ever shal til that man herte sterve.
Now, certes, false Arcite, thou shalt no so.
I loved hire firste, and tolde thee o my woe.'
This Arcita full proudly spake again,
'Thou shalt,' quod he, 'be rather false than I.
And thou art false, I tell thee utterly,

For, par amour, I loved hire first or thou.

What wolt thou sayn? Thou wisted nat right now
Whether she were a woman or a goddesse.

Thin is affection of holiness,

And min is love as to a creature.
For which I tolde thee min aventure,
As to my cosin and my brother sworne;
I pose that thou lovedst hire beforn.
Wost thou not wel the old clerkes sawe,
That who shall give a lover any lawe?

A man moste needes love maugre his hed,
He may not fleen though he shulde be ded. . . .
And therfore at the kinges court, my brother,

Eche man for himself, ther is non other.
Love if thee lust, for I love, and ay shal.
And soth, leve brother, this is al.'"

And on this throwing down of the gauntlet on the part of Arcite, the quarrel between the two kinsmen gets hotter and hotter, while in the garden below faire Emelie goes on picking her flowers, quite unconscious of all this pother over her head. I will not tell you all the story, because it is the one of all The Canterbury Tales which I should most strongly advise you to read.