Lectures on the English Poets; Delivered at the Surrey Institution. William Hazlitt

      It is not possible for any two writers to be more opposite in this respect. Spenser delighted in luxurious enjoyment; Chaucer, in severe activity of mind. As Spenser was the most romantic and visionary, Chaucer was the most practical of all the great poets, the most a man of business and the world. His poetry reads like history. Every thing has a downright reality; at least in the relator's mind. A simile, or a sentiment, is as if it were given in upon evidence. Thus he describes Cressid's first avowal of her love.

      "And as the new abashed nightingale,

       That stinteth first when she beginneth sing,

       When that she heareth any herde's tale,

       Or in the hedges any wight stirring,

       And after, sicker, doth her voice outring;

       Right so Cresseide, when that her dread stent,

       Open'd her heart, and told him her intent."

      This is so true and natural, and beautifully simple, that the two things seem identified with each other. Again, it is said in the Knight's Tale—

      "Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day,

       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 the finer of hem two."

      This scrupulousness about the literal preference, as if some question of matter of fact was at issue, is remarkable. I might mention that other, where he compares the meeting between Palamon and Arcite to a hunter waiting for a lion in a gap;—

      "That stondeth at a gap with a spere,

       Whan hunted is the lion or the bere,

       And hereth him come rushing in the greves,

       And breking both the boughes and the leves:"—

      or that still finer one of Constance, when she is condemned to death:—

      "Have ye not seen somtime a pale face

       (Among a prees) of him that hath been lad

       Toward his deth, wheras he geteth no grace,

       And swiche a colour in his face hath had,

       Men mighten know him that was so bestad,

       Amonges all the faces in that route;

       So stant Custance, and loketh hire aboute."

      The beauty, the pathos here does not seem to be of the poet's seeking, but a part of the necessary texture of the fable. He speaks of what he wishes to describe with the accuracy, the discrimination of one who relates what has happened to himself, or has had the best information from those who have been eye-witnesses of it. The strokes of his pencil always tell. He dwells only on the essential, on that which would be interesting to the persons really concerned: yet as he never omits any material circumstance, he is prolix from the number of points on which he touches, without being diffuse on any one; and is sometimes tedious from the fidelity with which he adheres to his subject, as other writers are from the frequency of their digressions from it. The chain of his story is composed of a number of fine links, closely connected together, and rivetted by a single blow. There is an instance of the minuteness which he introduces into his most serious descriptions in his account of Palamon when left alone in his cell:

      "Swiche sorrow he maketh that the grete tour

       Resouned of his yelling and clamour:

       The pure fetters on his shinnes grete

       Were of his bitter salte teres wete."

      The mention of this last circumstance looks like a part of the instructions he had to follow, which he had no discretionary power to leave out or introduce at pleasure. He is contented to find grace and beauty in truth. He exhibits for the most part the naked object, with little drapery thrown over it. His metaphors, which are few, are not for ornament, but use, and as like as possible to the things themselves. He does not affect to shew his power over the reader's mind, but the power which his subject has over his own. The readers of Chaucer's poetry feel more nearly what the persons he describes must have felt, than perhaps those of any other poet. His sentiments are not voluntary effusions of the poet's fancy, but founded on the natural impulses and habitual prejudices of the characters he has to represent. There is an inveteracy of purpose, a sincerity of feeling, which never relaxes or grows vapid, in whatever they do or say. There is no artificial, pompous display, but a strict parsimony of the poet's materials, like the rude simplicity of the age in which he lived. His poetry resembles the root just springing from the ground, rather than the full-blown flower. His muse is no "babbling gossip of the air," fluent and redundant; but, like a stammerer, or a dumb person, that has just found the use of speech, crowds many things together with eager haste, with anxious pauses, and fond repetitions to prevent mistake. His words point as an index to the objects, like the eye or finger. There were none of the common-places of poetic diction in our author's time, no reflected lights of fancy, no borrowed roseate tints; he was obliged to inspect things for himself, to look narrowly, and almost to handle the object, as in the obscurity of morning we partly see and partly grope our way; so that his descriptions have a sort of tangible character belonging to them, and produce the effect of sculpture on the mind. Chaucer had an equal eye for truth of nature and discrimination of character; and his interest in what he saw gave new distinctness and force to his power of observation. The picturesque and the dramatic are in him closely blended together, and hardly distinguishable; for he principally describes external appearances as indicating character, as symbols of internal sentiment. There is a meaning in what he sees; and it is this which catches his eye by sympathy. Thus the costume and dress of the Canterbury Pilgrims—of the Knight—the Squire—the Oxford Scholar—the Gap-toothed Wife of Bath, and the rest, speak for themselves. To take one or two of these at random:

      "There was also a nonne, a Prioresse,

       That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy;

       Hire gretest othe n'as but by seint Eloy:

       And she was cleped Madame Eglentine.

       Ful wel she sange the service divine

       Entuned in hire nose ful swetely;

       And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly,

       After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,

       For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe.

       At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle;

       She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle,

       Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe.

      * * * * * *

      And sikerly she was of great disport,

       And ful plesant, and amiable of port,

       And peined hire to contrefeten chere

       Of court, and ben estatelich of manere,

       And to ben holden digne of reverence.

       But for to speken of hire conscience,

       She was so charitable and so pitous,

       She wolde wepe 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,

       Or if men smote it with a yerde smert:

       And all was conscience and tendre herte.

       Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was;

       Hire nose tretis; hire eyen grey as glas;

       Hire mouth ful smale; and therto soft and red;

       But sickerly she hadde a fayre forehed.