No One Can Read The Prioress's Tale, Understanding The
Spirit In Which It Was Written, And In Which The Child
Sings _O
alma redemptoris mater_, or the account of the departure of
Constance with her child upon the sea, in
The Man of Lawe's tale,
without feeling the native innocence and refinement of the
author. Nor can we be mistaken respecting the essential purity
of his character, disregarding the apology of the manners of the
age. A simple pathos and feminine gentleness, which Wordsworth
only occasionally approaches, but does not equal, are peculiar to
him. We are tempted to say that his genius was feminine, not
masculine. It was such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to
find in woman, though not the appreciation of it; perhaps it is
not to be found at all in woman, but is only the feminine in man.
Such pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature is hardly to
be found in any poet.
Chaucer's remarkably trustful and affectionate character appears
in his familiar, yet innocent and reverent, manner of speaking of
his God. He comes into his thought without any false reverence,
and with no more parade than the zephyr to his ear. If Nature is
our mother, then God is our father. There is less love and
simple, practical trust in Shakespeare and Milton. How rarely in
our English tongue do we find expressed any affection for God.
Certainly, there is no sentiment so rare as the love of God.
Herbert almost alone expresses it, "Ah, my dear God!" Our poet
uses similar words with propriety; and whenever he sees a
beautiful person, or other object, prides himself on the
"maistry" of his God. He even recommends Dido to be his bride, -
"if that God that heaven and yearth made,
Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse,
And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness."
But in justification of our praise, we must refer to his works
themselves; to the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the account
of Gentilesse, the Flower and the Leaf, the stories of Griselda,
Virginia, Ariadne, and Blanche the Dutchesse, and much more of
less distinguished merit. There are many poets of more taste,
and better manners, who knew how to leave out their dulness; but
such negative genius cannot detain us long; we shall return to
Chaucer still with love. Some natures, which are really rude and
ill-developed, have yet a higher standard of perfection than
others which are refined and well balanced. Even the clown has
taste, whose dictates, though he disregards them, are higher and
purer than those which the artist obeys. If we have to wander
through many dull and prosaic passages in Chaucer, we have at
least the satisfaction of knowing that it is not an artificial
dulness, but too easily matched by many passages in life. We
confess that we feel a disposition commonly to concentrate
sweets, and accumulate pleasures; but the poet may be presumed
always to speak as a traveller, who leads us through a varied
scenery, from one eminence to another, and it is, perhaps, more
pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine thought in its natural
setting. Surely fate has enshrined it in these circumstances for
some end. Nature strews her nuts and flowers broadcast, and
never collects them into heaps. This was the soil it grew in,
and this the hour it bloomed in; if sun, wind, and rain came here
to cherish and expand the flower, shall not we come here to pluck
it?
A true poem is distinguished not so much by a felicitous
expression, or any thought it suggests, as by the atmosphere
which surrounds it. Most have beauty of outline merely, and are
striking as the form and bearing of a stranger; but true verses
come toward us indistinctly, as the very breath of all
friendliness, and envelop us in their spirit and fragrance. Much
of our poetry has the very best manners, but no character. It is
only an unusual precision and elasticity of speech, as if its
author had taken, not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary.
It has the distinct outline of sculpture, and chronicles an early
hour. Under the influence of passion all men speak thus
distinctly, but wrath is not always divine.
There are two classes of men called poets. The one cultivates
life, the other art, - one seeks food for nutriment, the other for
flavor; one satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate.
There are two kinds of writing, both great and rare; one that of
genius, or the inspired, the other of intellect and taste, in the
intervals of inspiration. The former is above criticism, always
correct, giving the law to criticism. It vibrates and pulsates
with life forever. It is sacred, and to be read with reverence,
as the works of nature are studied. There are few instances of a
sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has spoken words,
but the speaker is then careless of the record. Such a style
removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not
take his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts. It is
the stream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now here, now
there, now in this man, now in that. It matters not through what
ice-crystals it is seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream
running under ground. It is in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns,
Arethuse; but ever the same. The other is self-possessed and
wise. It is reverent of genius, and greedy of inspiration. It
is conscious in the highest and the least degree. It consists
with the most perfect command of the faculties. It dwells in a
repose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as
oases or palms in the horizon of sand. The train of thought
moves with subdued and measured step, like a caravan. But the
pen is only an instrument in its hand, and not instinct with
life, like a longer arm.
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