CHAPTER XII.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE TABARD INN.

The muster-The destination-Chivalry-The Church-Professional-Agricultural-Operative-Purpose of the chapter.

FLY

`LY back on the wings of thought five hundred years, and, with our first great poet as guide, enter the court-yard of "The Tabard Inn" in Southwark, hard by "The Bell." As we pass in, the merry welcome of the big bluff host rings rich and mellow on the ear. Every nook of the hostelry, although its chambers and its stables are noted for their size, is filled to overflowing. For April has come, with its sweet and fruitful showers; the tender green of the young corn begins to embroider the bare brown fields; the air rings with the song of birds; and thoughts of pilgrimage, undertaken often for piety, but oftener for amusement, begin to stir in the minds of English folk. The devoted servants of the Church often managed, by a trip in the bright and balmy spring-time, to unite piety with pleasure. The destination of the eight-and-twenty pilgrims met in the Tabard is the shrine of murdered Becket at Canterbury; and with early dawn, roused by the active host, they ride on their way towards Rochester over the pleasant daisied turf of Kent. The host rides with them; for last night at supper they hit upon a plan of beguiling the time by telling tales in turn, and consented to submit themselves to the direction and judgment of the jolly innkeeper, at whose suggestion this agreeable pastime had been chosen. Geoffrey Chaucer, the first great En

glish poet, is also of the company, for it is to him that we owe these portraits of the men of his time.

Mark the motley group, as the hoofs ring softly on the moist and chalky soil. First, on a fine charger rides a Knight in undress, wearing a frock of fustian, all stained with the rubbing of the armour which he has lately doffed. Gentle and meek as he now looks, the blood of many foes, slain on fifteen deadly battle-fields in Prussia, Spain, Africa, and the East, has streamed from his steel. His son, a dainty Squire of twenty years, rides with him in a short flowered gown of brilliant colours, made in the height of the fashion with long wide sleeves. The joy of a fresh, loving heart pours out in a constant stream of music and song. A fine flute-player, a capital rider, a graceful dancer, a poet, a penman, an artist, this gallant youth presents a graphic and enchanting likeness of a young English gentleman in the time of Edward the Third. Carving at his father's table stands out prominently among the duties of his squirehood. A third figure, that of the Yeoman or Forester, completes the group of chivalrous portraits limned by Geoffrey Chaucer. This brown-faced bowman, with hood and coat of green, under his belt a sheaf of arrows trimly dressed by himself with peacock feathers, a strong bow in his hand, a sword and buckler on his left side, and on the other a keen ornamented dagger, a silver jewel shining on his breast, and a horn slung from a green baldric, supplies us with a vivid photograph of the men who won the day for England at Crecy and Poitiers.

So much for Chivalry: now for the Church. No fewer than seven various figures connect themselves more or less nearly with this great power of the Middle Ages. We mark in the variegated crowd a Prioress, a Monk, a Mendicant Friar or Limitour, a Summoner, a Pardoner, a poor Parson, and byand-by a Canon. Giving due precedence to the lady, let us sketch the outlines of the Prioress, Madame Eglantine. Her long, well-shaped nose, her small red mouth, her eyes gray as

glass, and her broad white forehead entitle her to be considered a beauty. Her well-made dress-her pretty bracelet of coral, green, and gold, with its motto, "Amor vincit omnia" (Love conquers all)-but especially the delicacy of her demeanour at table, where she never lets anything drip on her breast, and does not dip her fingers too far into the sauce-betoken one used to good society, as things went then. Her gentle smile, her sweet singing through the nose, and her knowledge of French, learned at Stratford and very different from the Parisian tongue, afford additional proof that she belongs unmistakably to the high-bred ladies of the land. Like others delicately nurtured, her tears spring at the merest trifle. A dead mouse or a beaten lapdog sets them flowing in a trice. Equally fine is the Benedictine Monk, from whose bridle sweet bells jingle as he rides. His bright rolling eyes, fat red face, and portly form, developed by indulgence in roast swan, and kept in good case by riding after his greyhounds, well befit the grandeur of his dress. His sleeves are edged with the rarest fur, a curious gold pin fastens his hood, and pliant boots press the sleek sides of his berry-brown horse. The Friar, called Limitour because he begs within a certain limited district, has a wide acquaintance among the farmers and innkeepers within his beat, being an especial pet with their wives and daughters, for whom he carries about a tippet full of knives and pins. His merry talk, his easy penances, his capital songs, make his presence welcome everywhere. The Summoner, whose business is to cite delinquents before an archdeacon's court, is one of the most repulsive portraits in the group. His fiery face and blotched brows result from excessive wine and coarse feeding. Between him and the Friar a fierce grudge burns, which displays itself in their pungent tales. The Pardoner typifies that canting, cheating class whose doings stirred the wrath of John Wyclif. He bears a wallet full of pardons, "from Rome al hote," as Chaucer slyly says, a glass case of pigs' bones, and other things, which he intends to palm

off on simple country folk as holy relics. He will thus often in a day make more money than two months' stipend of the Parson. The trick of talking well being a necessary appendage to this imposture, he is described as a good reader and a fluent preacher. Our love clings especially to the poor Parson, who spares no labour or pains in ministering to the spiritual wants of his parishioners. Far asunder as are the dwellings of his flock, no stress of weather, no rain or thunder, can keep him from trudging round, staff in hand, to pay his pastoral visits. Living a simple godly life, doing his work himself, wasting no time in ambitious runs to London, he can afford, though meek and lowly in the main, to speak boldly and sharply out to those who may prove obstinate in opposition to the truth.

Professional and business life has its worthy representatives in the Sergeant of Law, the Doctor of Physic, the Clerk of Oxford, the Merchant, the Manciple, and last, though assuredly not least, that fair specimen of the English bourgeoise the jolly Wife of Bath.

With head choke-full of law, knowing by heart every statute and every judgment pronounced since the time of the Conqueror, the Sergeant trots on in a coat of common mixed cloth, girt with a belt of silk. So great is his renown that he has often been deputed to act as Justice of Assize; so great his legal skill that no flaw can be detected in a document prepared by his busy brain. The Doctor is dressed in a garment of blood-red and sky-blue, lined with taffeta and the thin silk called sendal. Dabbling in astrology and fortune-telling as well as in medicine, he savours strongly of what moderns call a quack. The Black Death gave him a golden harvest, which he still garners with What he knows of digestion leads him to measure out his own food, and to eat only the most nutritive things. The Clerk is a lean, laconic, threadbare bookworm, as yet without a living in the Church, but content in the meantime to devote himself to Aristotle and the other worthies, clothed in black or

care.

red, that lie always at his bed-head. The Merchant, whose forked beard falls over a coat of motley, wears a Flanders beaver and well-clasped boots. Sharp and hard as steel in his bargains, he allows none to know the secrets of his trade, and talks loudly of his profits on every occasion. The Manciple, whose business it is to buy victuals for an Inn of Court, can deal so cunningly with his learned employers as to fill his pockets with the profits of his purchasing.

There upon an ambling palfrey sits the stout and comely Wife of Bath, who has been to the church door with five husbands. Her round, red face is surmounted with a broad-leafed hat like a buckler; her kerchiefs are of fine heavy cloth; her tight scarlet stockings and new shoes with sharp spurs show off her feet and ankles to full advantage. She has travelled much on pilgrimage, has visited Jerusalem thrice, seeing on the way Rome, Bologna, Compostella, and Cologne; and she is certainly not overburdened with bashfulness in her talk. Before be ginning her story, she will treat her audience to the full details of her matrimonial experience, making the prologue twice as long as the tale.

The Franklin, the Reeve, and the Ploughman give us an idea of those who farmed the soil of merry England long ago. Nowhere have we a finer picture than that of the jolly Vavasour or country gentleman of the time, whose rosy face and beard of daisy whiteness claim at once our veneration and our love. In his own shire he is a man of no small note, having acted as sheriff, and having been often returned to serve in Parliament. The close-shaven, close-cropped, spindle-shanked man, with the surcoat of sky-blue, and with the rusty blade by his side, whose gray hack Scot keeps ever at the tail of the crowd, lives in a cozy house embowered in green trees upon a Norfolk heath near Baldeswell. Once a carpenter, he has risen by shrewdness and push to be the Reeve or Steward of a landed proprietor in that He overlooks the working of the entire estate, keeping a