We are informed, at the conclusion of the work," Magarite betokeneth grace, learnyng, or wisedome of God, or els Holie Church." And by say ing that he discovered it in Zealand inclosed in a blue shell, I understand him (from some allusions to the connection between the blueness and serenity of the heavens in the same passage) to mean, that he had ascertained, the only way of making peace at home was to get possession of this jewel, as he calls it-to become a disciple of the Church of Rome. Thus it seems he intended, that all he had written about the Margarite Pearle" might at least be applied to Holy Church. But let us give him the credit of being sincere in his recantation. An attack upon heretics, contained in the Second Book, may be thought to increase the probability of the admission. Nor is it any objection that he insists upon his constancy in seeking the favour and love of this jewel of his life; for in spite of his sneers, we are not, in the opinion of many, without decisive evidence, entitled to conclude that Chaucer declared himself an uncompromising enemy of the Romish Communion. And surely it was not very likely, that, in the moment of repentance, or of desire for reconciliation, he would admit that he had ever, in reality, opposed the Ecclesiastical authority. Some authors have supposed that his friend, the Duke of Lancaster, abjured the doctrines of the Wickle vites on Wat Tyler's insurrection, in which they were thought to be implicated. Others, maintain that he condemned the sentiments of those only who embarked in that insurrection. Whichever opinion we adopt, there can be no doubt that the Duke's conduct, in regard to these reformers, was extremely vacillating; and it may be true that those, like Chaucer, attached to him, were not more remarkable for their steady adherence to the new doctrines. Besides, the gentle and tolerant disposition of our poet did not permit him to be a bigot or an enthusiast ; and whether or no we agree with Tyrwhitt, that Chaucer, in Common with Dante, and Petrarch, and Boccaccio, only abused the Church of Rome in the manner which "every enlightened gentleman" of his time must have done, and is not therefore entitled to the name of a Reformer, there can be no question, that the mild and diffusive sentiments which the writings of the two last Italians, at least, were calculated to inspire, had no effect in strengthening in his breast the love of persecution. Indeed, the perusal of his poetry migh lead us to the supposition, and the history of his life confirms it, that he was rather liable to the influence and example of those with whom he associated, than disposed to obtrude his tenets upon them with obstinacy or arrogance. Those who can command our pathetic emotions, and may be supposed partakers of the feelings they so powerfully excite, are very frequently possessed of some measure of selfishness,-a passion more connected with the pathetic than, on superficial observation, we might be ready to suppose, and push their mildness so far as to become chargeable with undue subserviency to the views and designs of others. More than one event of Chaucer's life argues the somewhat selfish character of the father of our poetry: one circumstance, indeed, if fully authenticated, would stamp it upon him, in conjunction with the more serious accusations of dishonesty and fraud, and the whole of his conduct in regard to the tumults of which we have been speaking-some even assert, his connexions with the Duke of Lancaster-prove his want of firmness, approaching to meanness, and weakness of moral purpose. But notwithstanding the general tendency of the Testament of Love, there are several passages of it in which he continues to sneer at the conduct and habits of the Clergy. It is difficult to say why he gave loose at that time to such attacks, if he still harboured an inclination for them. But in whatever way these may be explained, there are a multitude of sentiments of a very opposite description, painful for the students of Chaucer to contemplate, and affording too strong evidence of the unsteadiness of his principles. Let not a harsher phrase be employed, though its propriety might be justified to all who consider his humiliating concessions, for the purposes of worldly nions and advancement, of the error of the opi- a consequence of the observances practice of his whole life. which chivalry imposed? Chaucer's To those opinions it will be more piety, however, as disclosed in his agreeable for a moment to advert. works, was much of a piece with the Traces of them, as I have already piety of his times; and that piety noticed, are to be found, to a certain was of a very odd character. To extent, in the Testament of Love. some it might be amusing, whilst it And really, notwithstanding the would afflict others, to consider the sentiment of Tyrwhitt formerly cited, strange contradictions which the one cannot help thinking that he barons of old were pleased to conwas extremely disaffected, at one nect with the purity of Christianity. period, to the Church of Rome, and None but those who have investigaearnest for reformation in ecclesias- ted the sources and the records of tical matters. It may be quite true, the mystic and legendary learning of that, in many of the old novelists our forefathers, can be fully aware of and poets of Italy, we find equally the intermixture in their religious violent attacks on the monks, without opinions of the romantic superstiever dreaming of ranking these au- tions of the Paganism they professed thors amongst the Reformers. But we to have abandoned; and were the must advert to the difference of their subject generally considered of sufsituation. They did not live amongst ficient importance, there are ample heretics; and if they had, supposing materials for investigating the influthem to have remained the devoted ence which that intermixture had children of the Church, it is extreme- upon the manners and knowledge, ly probable they would have avoid- as well as the religion of the age. ed all such bitter sarcasms against But how limited soever very proits members; and is not this more found information on this topic may likely, from the deportment of the be, though illustrated by the indeCatholics of Germany during the fatigable labours of German antiage of Luther? Yet, when there quaries, the more cursory toil of our was a large body of Reformers in own husbandmen in the same vinethe country, Chaucer employed all yard, and the publication of many the powers of ridicule and argument old traditionary tales and poems, all against the establishment. He en- in the least acquainted with the gaged in the measures of its ene- times of chivalry will recollect many mies. Was this the conduct of a singular illustrations of the truth of friend, or of an opponent? Read the the principle,-of the exalted devoCanterbury Tales, the Court of tion of the ancient warriors, in some Love, where the monks and nuns respects, and their glaring contempt are introduced, evidently with some of heaven and hell in others,-of reference to a previous and severe their high-toned enthusiasm, and attack by a forgotten author on mo- their thorough conviction, if one nastic establishments, and several may judge from the language they passages even in the Testament; held, of the pre-eminence of the lady and yet it may be true that he died of their earthly love over every being a member of the Church of Rome. in the universe,-and of the dull, But, after all, his attacks are not so dreary character of Paradise itself, indiscriminate and uncompromising if not enlightened by her presence. as those of Pierce Plowman, Jack Do we not find a thousand proofs of Upland, or the author of the Plow- all this in the lays of the Troubaman's Tale. And his genius was dours of Provence, all the poets of far more allied to the splendour of the south, the romances of chivalry, the Roman Catholic faith than to and the more authentic memoirs of the dark gloomy zeal which breath- barons and princes of high renown? ed in the catechisms and declara- The following are lines of Chaucer : tions of the churches of the Waldenses. The spirit of chivalry tempered in him the ardour of religious warfare. Is not the nun in the Canterbury Tales treated with respect? And was not that treatment VOL. XVIII. "And how the Lord that her wrought, Have we not here some of the same spirit, clothed in words which would almost lead one to believe that he regarded the formation of the perfect beauty whom he sung as a more excellent specimen of God's power than all the rest of the creation? The preceding remarks have run out to so much greater length than was intended, that they must now be closed. Few of Chaucer's excellencies have been noticed, and those few imperfectly. Perhaps some may think too much has been said of him, not aware of the eminence of his genius. For it will always appear the greater, the more frequently we contrast it with the manners of those with whom he lived. We may be told, that pleasure is at all times the end of mankind; but this was especially true then, according to the curious climax of a provençal writer. Segon que dis lo Philosophs tut le homme dal mon desiront aver sciensa, de la qual nais sabers, de saber connoyssensa, de connoys sensa sens, de sens belfar, de belfar valors, de valor lauzors, de lauzor honors, d'honor pretz, de pretz plazers, e de plazer gaug e aleguers." "According to philosophers, every man desires science, whence springs learning; from learning proceeds knowledge, from knowledge sentiment, from sentiment virtue, from virtue valour, from valour praise, from praise honour, from honour estimation, from estimation pleasure, and from pleasure joy and happiness." Chaucer aspired to something higher than those to whom this was principally addressed, and he attained it. He is, and will always be, a truly English author. In refined times, we may meet with compositions similar in extravagance to the romances of our ancestors; but when such poetical and chivalrous effusions were in the zenith of their popularity, was it not something for a writer, abjuring the yoke of custom and authority, to become the poet of Nature, and of the foibles and extravagancies of human life? STORY OF A MAN-SLAYER. Or all the crimes which man is capable of committing, surely that which deprives a fellow-mortal of life is the most dreadful, and leaves upon the soul of the miserable perpetrator of it the deepest and the most incurable wound. No time can wash away the stains of blood from the murderer's memory,-no lapse of years can assuage the anguish which he endures; day rolls on after day, but still his miseries remain, and the sweet balm of forget fulness, which drops in mercy upon human afflictions, is denied by Heaven to him. It is from experience that I speak thus,-yes, from experience. But start not, reader, for I trust that the crime of murder, of foul and deliberate murder, is not chargeable against my soul. True it is, that the hand which is now tracing these lines-that hand took away the life of a fellow-mortal: yet, when you have read all, when you have considered all, perhaps you will not think-I trust in God you will not think-that it is the hand of a murderer. But often, indeed, do my own thoughts vary as to the nature of my guilt, often do I think that the crime which I committed was murder in its most hideous shape,-that 1 acted the part of a base and cowardly assassin,-and that by the laws, both of God and of man, my life ought to be yielded up on the scaffold. Then it is that the awful denouncement of the Almighty-blood for blood-flashes across my soul, and I am driven to the very brink of insanity. Such as my crime is, however, I will disclose it, for it is right that I should be judged of by my fellow-men, as it must one day be judged of by my Creator. In the confession which I am now to make, I will spare myself the pain of publishing my name to the world; it might be injurious to many were I to do so, and it could be of advantage to none; but let it not be imagined on this account that what I am now to relate is a fiction, (would to God it were no more!) it is real-it is all true; and if the reader, with my story before him, can give me any consolation, can whisper even a single word of comfort in my ear, I entreat him not to refrain from doing so. For many years have I been bearing a burden almost too great for human strength; and the blessing of the miserable will rest upon him who shall lighten me of that load, though but by the weight of a single straw. About eight-and-thirty years ago, I was a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh, and in due time I received my diploma as a Doctor of Physic. I then went to Paris, (according to the fashion of the day,) to spend a few months in attending the Hospitals and Lecturerooms in that city, before finally settling as a practitioner in my native town in the north of Scotland. While in Paris, I met with a young man, one Pierre Luback, who had been my class-fellow at Edinburgh, and with him I associated in all my professional studies and pursuits. We listened together sedulously and attentively to the lectures of our teachers; and we endeavoured afterwards, by practical experiments, to ascertain the truth of the doctrines which we had been taught. It was our custom, in particular, on a stated night each week, to practice dissection, according to the instructions of our anatomical professor; nor had we any difficulty in procuring subjects for this purpose, as many murders and other violent deaths were then daily taking place at Paris. Both Luback and myself were enthusiasts in our profession, and we entered with eagerness and delight into all the details which the practice of it requires; and many were the bright anticipations of future fame which we ventured to entertain. Alas! how were these anticipations, with regard to me, blighted in a single moment! It was upon an evening, about the beginning of the year 1789, that Luback and I, in walking through the environs of Paris, happened to enter a street where a public execution was just about to take place. The crowd was great, and before we were aware, we found ourselves in the middle of it, and almost at the foot of the scaffold. The criminal, who was a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, stood on the front of the scaffold, and behind him were two priests, one of them with a crucifix in his hand, and the other bearing a Bible. The young man began to address the assembled multitude in a low and broken voice, but he seemed to gather confidence as he proceeded, and the whole crowd, as they listened to him, became as still and motionless as a marble pavement. He called God to witness that he was innocent of the crime for which he was about to die. "I am poor," said he, "but I have been honest; and I thank Heaven, in this my last hour, that my conscience tells me not that I have ever wronged any man. I know that it is now too late to hope for mercy in this world, and I speak not of my innocence in the vain expectation that my life may yet be saved, but I trust that this my last and dying declaration will induce my countrymen to spare me their reproaches, till time shall discover whether the oath which I now swear is true or not." He then again lifted up his hands, and, in the most solemn manner, protested his innocence. I was much struck with this scene. There was so much earnestness in the young man's manner, and his countenance bore such evident marks of sincerity and virtue, that I could not but think that he spoke truth. I felt as if I could have given all that I had in the world at that moment to have been the bearer of his pardon. The young man having finished his address, turned round, and, in a little while, the fatal preparations were completed; the rope was placed about his neck, and a white cloth was drawn over his handsome and sunburnt countenance. I turned away faint and sick-hearted; a momentary pause ensued; the noise of a falling board was heard, and a groan from the surrounding multitude told me that all was over. Luback and I hastened through the crowd, after having cast a single glance at the suspended and convulsed body; and we could see from the sorrow depicted in the countenances of all the by-standers, how much the fate of the unfortunate sufferer was lamente ed. It happened that the evening of this execution was one of those which, according to the arrangement of our studies already mentioned, was appropriated by us to the practice of dissection; and it was our intention on this particular night to investigate a new and singular theory connected with the organs of respiration, which had been a short time before proposed by a German professor. The apartment which we had hired as our dissecting-room was situated in an obscure lane in one of the northern outlets of the city; and we had agreed with a person, who made his livelihood by the traffic, to furnish us each week with a fresh subject for dissection. The evening of which I speak, I remember well, was dark and stormy, and it was about eight o'clock when Luback and I reached our apartment. The usual arrange ments had been made by Luback's servant; and we found the body which was to form the subject of our investigation stretched out upon the dissecting-table, and covered with a white cloth. On examining our instruments, however, we soon discovered that part of the apparatus with which our proposed experiments were to be made had not been provided, and Luback immediately set off, accompanied by his servant, in order to procure the necessary articles; and, in the mean time, it was agreed that I should proceed to lay open the body, and make the proper arrangements for entering upon our experiments immediately on Luback's return. With this view, 1 removed the cloth from the corpse, but what was my surprise, when I discovered in it the features of the young man whose execution I had that evening witnessed! There was the same air of serenity and composure in the countenance which had struck me so much, and except that the lips were slightly convulsed, it did not seem that death had produced upon him any change. The clothing had been almost wholly stripped off, but part of the fatal cord still remained twisted around the neck. I had prepared my knife, but when I looked upon the calm and beautiful countenance of the young man, and recollected the words which he had spoken on the scaffold, I hesita ted to use it. I felt as it if was a living body which was lying before me, and I shuddered as I laid the edge of the knife on the young man's bosom. But this was only the feeling of a moment; I smiled at myself for my folly, and trimming the tapers, and placing the mso as to give me the best light, I addressed myself seriously to my work. And now I must tell what I have resolved to tell-the horrible truth, which I have never yet disclosed to any human being, but which I have thought of, and dreamed of, in my secret soul, every morning and every night, for almost forty years, and the recollection of which has every day become more intolerable, and more grievous to be borne. I beseech you, reader, to judge as gently as you can while you hear it. I had set the edge of the knife, I have said, to the young man's bosom, and I was preparing to make the first cut, when my hand accidentally passed over the region of the heart, and to my great astonishment, I felt that the pulsation of the arteries was still going on. I had before remarked that the body was flexible, and still retained a considerable degree of heat, but this had not surprised me, for these appearances often remain for many hours after the last spark of life has been extinguished; but the beating of the heart seemed to indicate life, and I knew not what to think. I laid my hand again upon the spot, and the pulsations were now strong and regular. I cannot tell what was passing in my mind at this time, for I was agitated and alarmed, but I knew-yes, I knew, and remember clearly what I did. I held my hand over the young man's heart, and pressed it down-I leant upon it heavily, and with my whole weight: the throbbing was strong for a moment, but it gradually became fainter and fainter, and at length died wholly away. I knew not why I did this-I only know that I did it, and I know that thereby I took away the life of a fellow-mortal. Would to God that I had now the power, though at the expense of every thing dear to me, of undoing what was then done!-but it is idle to talk thus. A sharp quivering ran |