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.

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 entering 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,

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"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 " " 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 Sumpnour, 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 cheeks"

("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. He 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."

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,

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 judgement,
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,—

* 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.

To Canterbury ward, I mean it so,
And homeward he shall tellen other two,
Of adventures that whilom have befal.
And which of you that beareth him best of all,
That is to say, that telleth in this case
Talés of best senténce and most solace

Shall have a supper at your aller cost

Here in this place, sitting by this post.

When that ye comen again from Canterbury."

The proposition is accepted in the genial spirit in which it is offered, and by one assent." Fresh wine is brought, the pilgrims drink, and then retire to

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rest

"Withouten any longer tarrying."

The hall is therefore soon deserted of all but the attendants, who rake the fire abroad upon the immense hearth: for a few moments the reflection from the ruddy embers illumines here and there a projecting corner of the oak carvings of the ceiling, but it soon fades into a few bright sparkles, running to and fro as if to escape their doom, and dying in the attempt; till these too at last utterly disappear from our gaze. And now silence and darkness reign in the pilgrims' hall. Silence and darkness!-types of the future desolation which await the now flourishing hostelry,-of a time when the only pilgrims who shall visit its chambers will be the grateful lovers of the genius of the brilliant “ Morning Star" of our poetry, coming to worship the Poet at his own proper shrine.