attentions, and looking down every now and then to the tender motto of the gold brooch attached to her beads-Amor vincit omnia. She wears a wimple, or neckcovering, "full secmely ypinched," a handsome black cloak, and white tunic beneath the dress of the Benedictine order, to which she belongs. Her nose is "tretis," that is to say, long and well proportioned; her eyes are grey; her mouth full small, soft, and red; and her fair forehead "a span broad." In a series of the most exquisite touches has Chaucer painted her character; her pretty innocent oath-but "by Saint Eloy;" her singing the "service divine" so sweetly entuned in her nose; her precise and proper French, "after the school of Stratford-atte-Bow;" her distaste even for her rank, because of the stateliness of manner it entailed; and her tenderness of heart, which would make her "Weep, if that she saw a mouse

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled."

With an attention no less marked than the Knight's, and scarcely less graceful, the host receives his distinguished lady-guest at the door, and, addressing her as "courteously as it had been a maid," leads the way to the table. In the Prioress' train follow a nun and three priests; and next to them the Wife of Bath and the Squire, she laughing loudly and heartily, and he blushing at some remark the merry dame has made concerning his absent lady-love. Strange contrast! the one steeped to the very lips in romance, seeing everything by the "purple light of love," sensitive as the famous plant itself to every touch that threatens to approach the sanctuary of his heart-the corner where the holy ministrations of love are for ever going on: the other no longer young, but still beautiful, consummately sensual and worldly, as utterly divested of the poetry of beauty as a handsome woman can well be. We make that qualification, for it is difficult to look unmoved on that winning countenance, so "fair and red of hue," and which is so well set off by her black hat—

"As broad as is a beaver or a targe."

Her full luxuriant-looking form is attired in a closely-fitting red surcoat or jacket, and in a blue petticoat or "fote-mantel," bound round "her hippes large" by a golden girdle. Well, although

"Husbands at the church-door has she had five,"

we may be pretty sure that it will not be long before a sixth is added to the number. Of all the pilgrims, her companion, the Squire, is perhaps the most poetical, and appears in the most poetical costume, with his curled locks adorning his youthful, ingenuous, and manly face; his embroidered dress looking

"As it were a mead,

All full of freshe flowrés white and red;"

and his graceful and active form revealing, in every movement, that he possesses all the vigour with the freshness of the "month of May;" that he is a lusty bachelor" as well as a "lover," who can one while honourably partake all the dangers of his father's foreign expeditions, and the next be content to be doing nothing but "singing" or "floyting* all the day." The Knight and the Squire

Playing on the flute,

have with them but a single attendant, a yeoman, " clad in coat and hood of green," wearing a sword and buckler on one side, and a "gay" dagger on the other, and having a mighty bow in his hand. His "peacock arrows bright and keen" are under his belt, and his horn is slung by the green baudrick across his shoulders.

"A forester soothly is he as I guess."

It has been remarked that we often hate those whose opinions differ but to a moderate extent from our own, much more than we do those with whom we have not one opinion in common; thinking, perhaps, that we are in more danger of being mixed up in the eyes of the world with the first than with the last. Some such feeling appears to actuate two, at least, of the three reverend men who are now ente ring the hall, namely, the respectable Monk and the half-vagabond Friar, who, whilst looking somewhat suspiciously on each other, seem to agree in their aversion to the Parson before them. He, however, with his meek, placid countenance, and crossed hands, walks quietly up to the table, quite unconscious of the sentiments he has excited: his habit, a scarlet surcoat and hood, with a girdle of beads round his waist, proclaims the ministering priest. And where, in the literature of any age or nation, may we look for so perfectly sublime a character in such a simple homely shape as in this now before us? A man poor in circumstances, but rich in "holy thought and work," who, even in his poverty, will rather give to all his poor parishioners about, than "cursen," like his brethren, "for his tithes," who delays not,

"for no rain, ne thunder,

In sickness and in mischief* to visit
The farthest in his parish;"

and who, though fully qualified by his learning and abilities to fill the highest offices of the Church, yet remains "full patient" in his adversity, teaching "Christe's lore" to all, but letting all at the same time see that he first follows it himself. No wonder a man of this character finds little sympathy with a rich Monk, who can see no reason why he should be always poring over a book in a cloister, when he might be "pricking and hunting for the hare," and whose appearance bespeaks the luxurious tastes and appetites of its owner—“ a lord full fat and in good point." He wears a black gown, the large sleeves worked or purfled at the edges with the finest fur; his hood, now thrown back and revealing his bald head, shining "as any glass," is fastened under his chin by a curious pin of gold, with a love-knot in the greater end.

"Now certainly he is a fair preláte."

The Friar, "a wanton and merry," with his tippet stuffed full of knives and pins (presents for the fair wives with whom he is so great a favourite), and lisping

"For his wantonness

"To make his English sweet upon the tongue"

looks still less inclined to mortify his appetites, or to want any of the good things of life for any other reason than the difficulty of obtaining them ;—a small difficulty with him, whilst there are riotous "franklins," or " franklins," or "worthy women,"

*Misfortune.

to be absolved of their sins-whilst he maintains his reputation as the best beggar in his house;—or, lastly, whilst his "harping" and his “ songs" make him a welcome guest at the "taverns" where our Friar appears in all his glory, with his eyes twinkling

"As do the starrês in a frosty night."

But the supper-bell rings, and the remainder of the pilgrims rapidly obey the signal; a glimpse of each in passing is all that the time will admit of. Foremost comes the Sumpn our, one of that "rabble" which Milton denounces-a summoner of offenders to the ecclesiastical courts, with his "fire-red cherubinnes face," and the "knobbs sitting on his checks"—

("Of his visage children were sore afeard")—

the very incarnation of gross, depraved self-indulgence. The immense garland on his head, however, shows he has no mean opinion of his personal attractions. Every remark he makes is plentifully interlarded with the Latin law-terms he has picked up in his attendance on the courts; but beware how you ask him their meaning: already he hath spent all his philosophy." With him comes his "friend and compeer," the Pardoner, his lanky yellow hair falling about his shoulders, and bearing before him his precious wallet—

"Bret full of pardon came from Rome all hot,"—

can be

and containing also his invaluable relics—the veil of "Our Lady," and a piece of the sail of St. Peter's boat. The Miller, who is immediately behind him, seems to listen with marked disrelish to his small goat's voice, and to look with something very like disgust upon his beardless face: he evidently would half like to throw him over the gallery. Certainly no man. more unlike the object of the Miller's contempt and aversion than the Miller himself, so big of brawn and bone, with his stiff spade-like beard and manly countenance, from the beauty of which, it must at the same time be confessed, the nose, with its large wart and tuft of red bristling hairs, somewhat detracts. His favourite bagpipes are under his arm; he is habited in a "white coat" and "blue hood." The "slender choleric" Reve, or Steward, comes next, having his hair shaved off around his ears, and a long rusty sword by his side, seeming to intimate that he finds that too, as well as his sharp wits (on which "no auditor can win), sometimes in requisition to enable him so well to keep his "garner." The weather, the seed, the crops, form the subjects of his conversation with the Merchant at his side, who is dressed in a "motley" garment of red, lined with blue, and figured with white and blue flowers; he has a Flanders beaver hat upon his head, and boots, with "fair' 'and handsome clasps, upon his feet. The man of business is inscribed on his face. Pausing for a moment beside the door, that he may enter with becoming dignity, appears the opulent and eminent Serjeant of the Law, wearing the characteristic feature of his order, the coif, and the no less character. istic feature of the individual, the "homely medley coat." He not only is a man full rich of excellence, but takes care to be thought so by his wise speech; and, whilst the busiest man in his profession, seems ever to be still busier than he is. Such is the man of law-the Judge "full often at assize." Another professional man! -the Doctor of Physic, in his low hood and bright purple surcoat and stockings;

none like him to speak of physic and of surgery, and of the general business of the healing art; for he is "grounded in astronomy," and keeps

"His patient a full great deal

In hourês by his magic natural."

It is not, however, to be overlooked, that he knows "the cause of every malady”— a knowledge that incredulous unimaginative people may think of more importance to his fame, as a "very perfect practiser," than the being "grounded in astronomy."

Let us commend to all lovers of good living the pilgrim who is next coming along the gallery, this good-looking stately gentleman, with the snow-white beard and sanguine complexion, and the white silk gipciere, or purse, hanging from his waist. It is the Franklin, some time knight of the shire, "Epicurus' owen son;" who is evidently snuffing up with eager pleasure certain delicate scents floating hitherwards from the kitchen, and offering up prayers that no unlucky accident may mar the delights of the table, that the sauce may not want in sharpness and poignancy, or his favourite dish be done a turn too much. is certainly an epicure, but he is also what epicures sometimes are not, exceedingly hospitable: you shall never enter his house without finding great store of baked meats, fish and flesh, or without experiencing the truth of the popular remark

"It snewed in his house of meat and drink."

He

Lastly, come crowding in together the Manciple, so "wise in buying of victual" for the temple to which he belongs, dressed in a light-blue surcoat, and little light-brown cap: the Shipman, whose hue "the hot summer" has made "all brown," whose beard has been shaken in "many a tempest," and who seems to be still treading his favourite deck: the Cook, famous for his "blancmanger," who has been preparing for the culinary exertions of the morrow by a little extra refreshment this evening: the Ploughman-the Parson's brother, a man possessing much of the Parson's spirit: and the Haberdasher, the Carpenter, the Weaver, the Dyer, and the Maker of tapestry, with their silver-wrought knives, showing they are each of them well to do in the world, and in every respect

Two only of the pilgrims are now missing from the board, the Clerk of Oxenford and the Poet: and here they come; the poor Clerk, in his "threadbare" garment, and his "hollow" face lighted up by an air of inexpressible animation at some remark that has dropped from the lips of his inspired companion. And could Chaucer look unmoved at such a character as the Clerk?-a character so much like his own in all respects but rank and worldly circumstance, that we are not sure but he has here pointed out those mental characteristics which he did not choose to include in his own nominal portrait; which, be it observed too, is merely personal. The Clerk has his own love of books, and study

"Of Aristotle and his philosophy;"

whilst of Chaucer, perhaps, might be more justly said than of the Clerk, "Not a word spake he moré than was need,

And that was said in form and reverence,

And short and quick, and full of high sentence.

Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.**

Supper is now brought in; fish, flesh, and fowl, baked meats, roast meats, and boiled, high-seasoned dishes, burning as it were, with wild-fire, and others gaily painted and turreted with paper. Among the liquors handed round, due honour is done to the famous ale, of which the proverb says―

"The nappy strong ale of Southwark

Keeps many a gossip frae the kirk.”

"Strong" wines, also are there, either "neat as imported," according to the old tavern inscriptions, such as those of Rochelle, Bourdeaux, Anjou, Gascony, Oseye, &c., or compounded under the names of hippocras, pigment, and claret. Both ale and wine are carried by the attendants in goblets of wood and pewter. Pilgrims have generally sharp appetites, and Chaucer's are by no means an exception; they have commenced in good earnest the business of the table.

Scarcely is the supper over, and the "reckonings" made, before our host, who has evidently for some time been impatient to tell the guests of the merry fancy that possesses him, bursts out with

"Now lordings truély

Ye be to me right welcome heartily;
For by my truth, if that I shall not lie,
I saw not this year such a company
At once in this herberwe + as is now.
Fain would I do you mirth, and I wist how.
And of a mirth I am right now bethought,
To do you ease, and it shall cost you nought.
Ye go to Canterbury; God you speed,
The blissful martyr quité you your meed;
And well I wot, as ye go by the way
Ye shapen you to talken and to play :
For truely comfórt ne mirth is none
To riden by the way dumb as the stone.
And therefore would I maken you disport,
As I said erst, and do you some comfort.
And if you liketh all by one assent
Now for to standen at my judgément,
And for to worken as I shall you say
To-morrow, when ye riden on the way,
Now by my father's soulé that is dead,
But ye be merry, smiteth off my head.

Hold up your hands withouten moré speech."

With an exquisite touch of practical wisdom, Chaucer says,— "He thought it was not worth to make it wise;"

so they bade him "say his verdict."

"Lordings, quod he, now heark'neth for the best,
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain :
This is the point, to speak it plat and plain,
That each of you, to shorten with your way

In this voyage, shall tellen talés tway

* It may be added also, that one of the most interesting passages of Chaucer's life-his visit to Petrarch in Italy, is referred to by the Clerk in his tale of the Patient Grisilde.'

From arbour apparently, a word often applied anciently to inns, lodgings, &c.