THE MOTHER AND CHILD PUT TO THE MERCY OF THE The same Constance, accused by the king's mother of having produced him a monstrous child, is treated as above, against the will of the Constable of the realm, who is forced to obey his master's orders. Weepen both young and old, in all that placo, The fourth day toward the ship she went: But nathéless she tak'th in good intent The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strond He can me keep from harm, and eke from shame, The true piteous emphasis on the words of this line is not to be surpassed. Thou saw'st thy child yslain before thine eyen, The art of truly serving. 2 In a multitude. O little child, alas! what is thy guilt, As let my little child dwell here with thee. The silence of the pitying constable, here hurriedly passed over by poor Constance, as if she would not distress him by pressing him for what he could not do, is a specimen of those eloquent powers of omission, for which great masters in writing are famous. Constance immediately continues : An' if thou darest not saven him from blame, The mixture of natural kindliness, bewildered feeling, and indelible good-breeding in this perpetual leave-taking, is excessively affecting. And with a holy intent She blesseth her, and into the ship she went. Glorious, sainted Griselda in our next. XXVIII. SPECIMENS OF CHAUCER. NO. IV.-STORY OF GRISELDA. THE famous story of Griselda, or Patient Grizel, who supposes her husband to kill her children and to dismiss her finally from his bed under circumstances of the greatest outrage, and yet behaves meekly under all, was not long since the most popular story in Europe, and still deeply affects us. Writers have asserted that there actually was some such person. In vain has the husband been pronounced a monster, and the story impossible. In vain have critics in subsequent time, not giving sufficient heed to the difference between civilised and feudal ages, or to the beauties with which the narrative has been mingled, declared it to be no better than the sight of a "torment on the rack." The story has had shoals of narrators, particularly in old France, and been repeated and dwelt upon by the greatest and tenderest geniuses, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and Chaucer. The whole heart of Christendom has embraced the heroine. She has passed into a proverb; ladies of quality have called their children after her, the name surviving (we believe) among them to this day, in spite of its griesly sound; and we defy the manliest man, of any feeling, to read it in Chaucer's own consecutive stanzas (whatever he may do here) without feeling his eyes moisten. How is this to be accounted for? The hus 7 Once. band is perfectly monstrous and unnatural ;— there can be no doubt of that ;-he pursues his trial of his wife's patience for twelve years, and she is supposed to love as well as to obey him all the time,-him, the murderer of her children! This, also, is unnatural,-impossible. A year, a month, a week, would have been bad enough. The lie was bad in itself. And yet, in spite of that utter renouncement of the fiction, to which civilisation finally brings us, we feel for the invincibly obedient creature; we are deeply interested; we acknowledge instinctively, that the story had a right to its fame; nay, (not to speak it profanely,) that like other permanent and popular stories, of a solemn cast, it is a sort of revelation in its way, at once startling us with contrasts of good and evil, and ending in filling us with hope and exaltation. How is this? The secret is, that a principle—the sense of duty-is set up in it above all considerations; that the duty, once believed in by a good and humble nature, is exalted by it, in consequence of its very torments, above all torment, and all weakness. We are not expected to copy it, much less to approve or be blind to the hard-heartedness that fetches it out; but the blow is struck loudly in the ears of mankind, in order that they may think of duty itself, and draw their own conclusions in favour of their own sense of it, when they see what marvellous effect it can have even in its utmost extravagance, and how unable we are to help respecting it, in proportion to the very depth of its self-abasement. We feel that the same woman could have gone through any trial which she thought becoming a woman, of a kind such as we should all admire in the wisest and justest ages. We feel even her weakness to be her strength, one of the wonderfullest privileges of virtue. We are travelling, at present, far out of the proposed design of these specimens, which were intended to consist of little more than extracts, and the briefest possible summary of the author's characteristics. But the reader will pardon an occasional yielding to temptations like these. Our present number shall consist of as brief a sketch as we can give, of the successive incidents of Chaucer's story, which are managed with a skill exquisite as the feeling; and whenever we come to an irresistible Specimen, it shall be extracted. At Saluzzo in Piedmont, under the Alps, Down at the root of Vesulus the cold, there reigned a feudal lord, a Marquis, who was beloved by his people, but too much given to his amusement, and an enemy of marriage; which alarmed them, lest he should die child. less, and leave his inheritance in the hands of strangers. They therefore, at last, sent him a deputation which addressed him on the subject, and he agreed to take a wife, on condition that they should respect his choice wheresoever it might fall. Now among the poorest of the Marquis's people, There dwelt a man Tender of age was "Grisildis" or "Grisilda" (for the poet calls her both), but she was a maiden of a thoughtful and steady nature, and as excellent a daughter as could be, thinking of nothing but her sheep, her spinning, and her "old poor father," whom she supported by her labour, and waited upon with the greatest duty and obedience. Upon Griseld', this pooré creáture, Upon her cheer he would him oft avise. The Marquis announced to his people that he had chosen a wife, and the wedding-day arrived, but nobody saw the lady; at which there was great wonder. Clothes and jewels were prepared, and the feast too; and the Marquis, with a great retinue, and accompanied by music, took his way to the village where Griselda lived. Griselda had heard of his coming, and said: to herself, that she would get her work done faster than usual, on purpose to stand at the door, like other maidens, and see the sight; but just as she was going to look out, she heard the Marquis call her, and she set down a water-pot she had in her hand, and knelt down before him with her usual steady countenance. The Marquis asked for her father, and going in-doors to him, took him by the hand, and said, with many courteous words and leaveasking, that he had come to marry his daughter. The poor man turned red, and stood abashed and quaking, but begged his lord to do as seemed good to him; and then the Marquis asked Griselda if she would have him, and vow to obey him in all things, be they what they might; and she answered trembling, but in like manner; and he led her forth and presented her to the people as his wife. The ladies, now Griselda's attendants, took off her old peasant's clothes, not much pleased to handle them, and dressed her anew in fine clothes, so that the people hardly knew her again for her beauty. Her hairés have they comb'd that lay untresséd 1 Nouches-nuts?-buttons in that shape made of gold or jewellery. Thus Walter lowly, nay but royally, and Griselda behaved so well, and discreetly, and behaved so kindly to every one, making up disputes, and speaking such gentle and sensible words, And couldé so the people's heart embrace, That each her lov'th that looketh on her face. In due time the Marchioness had a daughter, and the Marquis had always treated his consort well, and behaved like a man of sense and reflection; but now he informed her that his people were dissatisfied at his having raised her to be his wife; and, reminding her of her vow to obey him in all things, told her that she must agree to let him do with the little child whatsoever he pleased. Griselda kept her vow to the letter, not even changing countenance; and shortly afterwards an ill-looking fellow came, and took the child from her, intimating that he was to kill it. Griselda asked permission to kiss her child ere it died, and she took it in her bosom, and blessed and kissed it with a sad face, and prayed the man to bury its "little body" in some place where the birds and beasts could not get it. But the man said nothing. He took the child and went his way; and the Marquis bade him carry it to the Countess of Pavia, his sister, with directions to bring it up in secret. Griselda lived on, behaving like an excellent wife, and four years afterwards she had another child, a son, which the Marquis demanded of her, as he had done the daughter, laying his injunctions on her at the same time to be patient. Griselda said she would, adding, as a proof nevertheless what bitter feelings she had to control, I have not had no part of children twain, But first, sickness; and after, woe and pain. The same "ugly sergeant" now came again, and took away the second child, carrying it like the former to Bologna; and twelve years after, to the astonishment and indignation of the poet, and the people too, but making no alteration whatsoever in the obedience of the wife, the Marquis informs her, that his subjects are dissatisfied at his having her for a wife at all, and that he had got a dispensation from the Pope to marry another, for whom she must make way, and be divorced, and return home; adding insultingly, that she might take back with her the dowry which she brought him. Woefully, but ever patiently, does Griselda consent, not, however, without a tender exclamation at the difference between her marriage day and this; and as she receives the instruction about the dowry as a hint that she is to give up her fine clothes, and resume her old ones, which she says it would be impossible to find, she makes him the following exquisite prayer and remonstrance.-If we had to write for only a certain select set of readers, never should we think of bespeaking their due reverence for a passage like the following, and its simple, primitive, and most affecting thoughts and words. But a publication like the present must accommodate itself to the chances of perusal in all quarters, either by alteration or explanation; and, therefore, in not altering any of these words, or daring to gainsay the sacred tenderness they bring before us, we must observe, that as there is not a more pathetic passage to the pathos and the pure words go inseparably be found in the whole circle of human writ, so together: and his is the most refined heart, educated or uneducated, that receives them with the delicatest and profoundest emotion. "My Lord, ye wot that in my father's place Ye did me strip out of my pooré weed, [How much, by the way, this old and more lengthened pronunciation of the word poor, pooré (French, paurre,) adds to the piteous emphasis of it.] And richély ye clad me of your grace; To you brought I nought elles out of drede, 1 "Ye could not do so dishonest a thing The people follow her weeping and wailing, but she went ever as usual, with staid eyes, nor all the while did she speak a word. As to her poor father, he cursed the day he was born. And so with her father, for a space, dwelt "this flower of wifely patience," nor showed any sense of offence, nor remembrance of her high estate. At length arrives news of the coming of the new Marchioness, with such array of pomp as had never been seen in all Lombardy; and the Marquis, who has, in the mean time, sent to Bologna for his son and daughter, once more desires Griselda to come to him, and tells her, that as he has not women enough in his household to wait upon his new wife, and set everything in order for her, he must request her to do it; which she does, with all ready obedience, and then goes forth with the rest, to meet the new lady. At dinner, the Marquis again calls her, and asks her what she thinks of his choice. She commends it heartily, and prays God to give him prosperity; only adding, that she hopes he will not try the nature of so young a creature as he tried hers, since she has been brought up more tenderly, and perhaps could not bear it. And when this Walter saw her patience, He gathers her in his arms, and kisses her; but she takes no heed of it, out of astonishment, nor hears anything he says; upon which he exclaims, that as sure as Christ died for him, she is his wife, and he will have no other, nor ever had ;—and with that, he introduces his supposed bride to her as her own daughter, with his son by her side; and Griselda, overcome at last, faints away. When she this heard, aswooné down she falleth She both her youngé children to her calleth, And in her arméa piteously weeping, She bathed both their visage and their hairs. O, such a piteous thing it was to see "Grand mercy! Lord, God thank it you (quoth she), "O tender, O dear, O youngé children mine! Hath done you keep ;" and in that samé stound And in her swoon so sadly holdeth she XXIX.-SPECIMENS OF CHAUCER. NO. V.-FURTHER SPECIMENS OF HIS PLEASANTRY AND SATIRE. THE FAIRIES SUPERSEDED BY THE FRIARS. CHAUCER was one of the Reformers of his time, and, like the celebrated poets and wits of most countries, Catholic included, took pleasure in exposing the abuses of the church; not because he was an ill-natured man, and disliked the church itself (for no one has done greater honour to the true Christian pastor than he, in a passage already quoted,) but because his very good-nature and love of truth made him the more dislike the abuses of the best things in the most reverend places. He measures his satire, however, according to its desert, and is severest upon the severe and mercenary,-the holders of such livings as give no life but rather take it. In the following exquisite banter he rallies the more jovial and plebeian part of the church, the ordinary begging-friars, with a sly good-humour. And observe how he contrives to sprinkle the passage with his poetry. The versification also is obviously good, even to the most modern ears. In oldé dayés of the King Artóur, Of which that Britons speaken great honour, I speak of many hundred years ago, For now the greaté charity and prayers That searchen every land and every stream, As thick as motés in the sunné beem, Blessing hallés, chambers, kitchenés, and bowers, AN IMPUDENT DRUNKEN SELLER ог PARDONS AND That is, they could scarcely remain to look at (I do my best to speak out loud) her, or stand still.-And so, with feasting and joy, ends this divine, cruel story of Patient And ring it out, as round as go'th a bell, For I can all by roté that I tell ; Griselda; the happiness of which is superior (I learn all I say by heart) to the pain, not only because it ends so well, but because there is ever present in it, like that of a saint in a picture, the sweet, sad face of the fortitude of woman. 1 Sad-composed in manner-unaltered. 2 Reck-care. My theme is always one, and ever was, "Covetousness is the root of all evil." Chaucer has fitted his Latin capitally well in with the measure, a nicety singularly ill observed by poets in general. First I pronouncé whennés that I come, And then my bullés (the Pope's bulls) show I, all and some; Bullés of Popés and of Cardinales, Of Patriarchs, and of Bishopés, I show, (To give a colour and relish to his sermon, like saffron in pastry)— And for to steer men to devotion. The preacher here banters his own relics, and then proceeds with the following ludicrous picture and exquisitely impudent avowal : Then pain I me to stretchen forth my neck, (Go so briskly together) That it is joy to see my business. Of avarice and of such cursedness Is all my preaching, for to make them free To give their pence, and NAMELY,-UNTO ME; I reck never, when that they be buried, (That is, though their souls go by bushels into the lower regions, like so many blackberries.) man. In principio, mulier est hominis confusio Woman, from the first, was the confusion of "In principio," observes Sir Walter, in a note on the passage in his edition of 'Dryden,' refers to the beginning of Saint John's Gospel. And in a note on the word confusio, he says it is taken from a fabulous conversation between the Emperor Adrian and the philosopher Secundus, reported by Vincent de Beauvais, in his 'Speculum Historiale.' Quid est mulier? Hominis confusio: insaturabilis bestia, &c. What is woman? The confusion of man, &c. "The Cock's polite version (he adds) is very ludicrous." How pleasant to hear one great writer thus making another laugh, as if they were sitting over a table together, though five centuries are between them. But genius can make the lightest as well as gravest things the property of all time. Its laughs, as well as its sighs, are immortal. XXX.-SPECIMENS OF CHAUCER. NO. VI. MISCELLANEOUS SPECIMENS OF HIS DESCRIPTION, PORTRAIT-PAINTING, AND FINE SENSE. BIRDS IN THE SPRING. Full lusty was the weather and benign; PATIENCE AND EQUAL DEALING IN LOVE. For one thing, Sirs, safely dare I say, That friendés ever each other must obey, If they will longé holden company: Love will not be constrain'd by mastery: When mastery cometh, the god of Love anon BEATETH his wings, AND FAREWELL! HE IS GONE. [Compare the ease, life, and gesticulation of this -the audible suddenness and farewell of it—with the balanced and formal imitation by Pope"Love, free as air, at sight of human ties Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies."] Love is a thing as, any spirit, free. (he has the advantage over others that are not so.) Patience is a high virtué certain, For it vanquisheth, as these clerkés sain, |