His character as one of the
fathers of the English language would alone make his works
important, even those which have little poetical merit.
He was
as simple as Wordsworth in preferring his homely but vigorous
Saxon tongue, when it was neglected by the court, and had not yet
attained to the dignity of a literature, and rendered a similar
service to his country to that which Dante rendered to Italy. If
Greek sufficeth for Greek, and Arabic for Arabian, and Hebrew for
Jew, and Latin for Latin, then English shall suffice for him, for
any of these will serve to teach truth "right as divers pathes
leaden divers folke the right waye to Rome." In the Testament of
Love he writes, "Let then clerkes enditen in Latin, for they have
the propertie of science, and the knowinge in that facultie, and
lette Frenchmen in their Frenche also enditen their queinte
termes, for it is kyndely to their mouthes, and let us shewe our
fantasies in soche wordes as we lerneden of our dames tonge."
He will know how to appreciate Chaucer best, who has come down to
him the natural way, through the meagre pastures of Saxon and
ante-Chaucerian poetry; and yet, so human and wise he appears
after such diet, that we are liable to misjudge him still. In
the Saxon poetry extant, in the earliest English, and the
contemporary Scottish poetry, there is less to remind the reader
of the rudeness and vigor of youth, than of the feebleness of a
declining age. It is for the most part translation of imitation
merely, with only an occasional and slight tinge of poetry,
oftentimes the falsehood and exaggeration of fable, without its
imagination to redeem it, and we look in vain to find antiquity
restored, humanized, and made blithe again by some natural
sympathy between it and the present. But Chaucer is fresh and
modern still, and no dust settles on his true passages. It
lightens along the line, and we are reminded that flowers have
bloomed, and birds sung, and hearts beaten in England. Before
the earnest gaze of the reader, the rust and moss of time
gradually drop off, and the original green life is revealed. He
was a homely and domestic man, and did breathe quite as modern
men do.
There is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, and we find
_that_ in Chaucer. We can expand at last in his breadth, and we
think that we could have been that man's acquaintance. He was
worthy to be a citizen of England, while Petrarch and Boccacio
lived in Italy, and Tell and Tamerlane in Switzerland and in
Asia, and Bruce in Scotland, and Wickliffe, and Gower, and Edward
the Third, and John of Gaunt, and the Black Prince, were his own
countrymen as well as contemporaries; all stout and stirring
names. The fame of Roger Bacon came down from the preceding
century, and the name of Dante still possessed the influence of a
living presence. On the whole, Chaucer impresses us as greater
than his reputation, and not a little like Homer and Shakespeare,
for he would have held up his head in their company. Among early
English poets he is the landlord and host, and has the authority
of such. The affectionate mention which succeeding early poets
make of him, coupling him with Homer and Virgil, is to be taken
into the account in estimating his character and influence. King
James and Dunbar of Scotland speak of him with more love and
reverence than any modern author of his predecessors of the last
century. The same childlike relation is without a parallel now.
For the most part we read him without criticism, for he does not
plead his own cause, but speaks for his readers, and has that
greatness of trust and reliance which compels popularity. He
confides in the reader, and speaks privily with him, keeping
nothing back. And in return the reader has great confidence in
him, that he tells no lies, and reads his story with indulgence,
as if it were the circumlocution of a child, but often discovers
afterwards that he has spoken with more directness and economy of
words than a sage. He is never heartless,
"For first the thing is thought within the hart,
Er any word out from the mouth astart."
And so new was all his theme in those days, that he did not have
to invent, but only to tell.
We admire Chaucer for his sturdy English wit. The easy height he
speaks from in his Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, as if he
were equal to any of the company there assembled, is as good as
any particular excellence in it. But though it is full of good
sense and humanity, it is not transcendent poetry. For
picturesque description of persons it is, perhaps, without a
parallel in English poetry; yet it is essentially humorous, as
the loftiest genius never is. Humor, however broad and genial,
takes a narrower view than enthusiasm. To his own finer vein he
added all the common wit and wisdom of his time, and everywhere
in his works his remarkable knowledge of the world, and nice
perception of character, his rare common sense and proverbial
wisdom, are apparent. His genius does not soar like Milton's,
but is genial and familiar. It shows great tenderness and
delicacy, but not the heroic sentiment. It is only a greater
portion of humanity with all its weakness. He is not heroic, as
Raleigh, nor pious, as Herbert, nor philosophical, as
Shakespeare, but he is the child of the English muse, that child
which is the father of the man. The charm of his poetry consists
often only in an exceeding naturalness, perfect sincerity, with
the behavior of a child rather than of a man.
Gentleness and delicacy of character are everywhere apparent in
his verse. The simplest and humblest words come readily to his
lips.
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