Chaucer and His Times

back as Henry III's reign fabliaux had been imported from France, but they took no real root in English soil, and though their coarse jests and indecent situations were fully app

e seriousness. It is true that the Continental animal epic had begun to make its influence felt in England, but it was still the Continental epic: it belonged to the days of literary free-trade before the national spirit made itself felt in literature. Satire, it is true, had long since made its appearance in England, but except for rude popular rhymes and an occasional poem of greater pretensions-such as the Land of Cokaygne-it was in Latin, and had nothing distinctively English about it. In the Miracle Plays, it is true, we find that mixture of shrewd common-sense a

solutely untouched. We all know the blank sensation of having our best story received with stony politeness, and the despair of trying to explain a joke. Certain things, however, do appeal in greater or less degree to the majority of people, and among these is the element of unexpectedness. The whole point of the modern musical comedy consists in making the actor behave as no sane person ever dreamed of behaving in actual life. If it were the fashion to enter a room in a series of cart-wheels we should see nothing funny in it. The audience roars with laughter when the elderly gentleman sits on his hat, because hats are not intended to be used as cushions. Nor is this element of unexpectedness confined to mere farce. It constitutes more than half the point of a brilliant repartee or play upon words. The child's misuse of terms is amusing because it suggests something which would never have occurred to us. And it is this which underlies the assertion that humour consists in incongruity. True humour,

ises to the height of the great Shakespearean dramas, he does reveal possibilities hitherto undreamed of in English liter

te such physical peculiarity-hence the popularity of costume songs, and pantomime generally, which call for no mental effort on the part of the audience. But while farce is undoubtedly the lowest form of comedy, it does not necessarily follow that it is to be despised. The greatest authors do not disdain to make use of it, only they keep it subordinate to ot

rresistibly funny, and it is easy to fancy the delight of the audience when, thinking the flood has come, he cuts the cord and comes bumping on to the floor; for the truest farce of all is the practical joke which makes someone else ridiculous. All the coarser tales are full of such episodes. It would make no difference if the incidents were transfer

hrough false sentiment, not infrequently softens down the harsher lines in a character. There is no bitterness in true laughter; we cannot wholly despise what amuses us. In a tract the Cook and the

ondon, whyl t

oughte, he clawe

athies are with him, though we fully appreciate the force of the Maunciple's plea that he shall not be permitted to tell his tale. The picture of the rest of the pilgrims shovi

ssible to judge her from the conventional moral standpoint. Comedy lays stress on her good-humour and her sense, and, above all, on her power of amusing the company. Compare her for one moment with Mrs. Sinclair in Clarissa, or the old hag in Dombey and Son, and the effect produced by comic treatm

tional element of humour which may be added by the fact that it is Mr. So-and-so, who prides himself on his dignified deportment, is not purely farcical. In like manner, a brilliant repartee is amusing, though we may have no notion who uttered it: in fact, not infrequently the same story is told, with equal effect, about two or more different men. At the same time a remark, witty in itself, often gains additional force from its context, and in certain cases the chief point depends on the setting. The wit-traps so beloved by Restoration comedy writers, of which George Meredith speaks in his Essay on Comedy, are typical examples of pure wit. It does not matter

which tells us how small is the number of those who having done well desire to hide their good deeds; the eagle's complaint, in the Hous of Fame, that the poet is "noyous for to carie"; Placebo's explanation of the reason why he has never yet quarrelled with any lord of "heigh estaat," are good examples

upport of his faith in dreams, is inimitable. This cock quotes Josephus and Macrobius and Cato with such pompous gravity that he almost persuades us to share his own sense of his importance. The grave disquisition on predestination and free-will which prefaces the account of his untoward fate has an irresi

ero brende[1

om the comic point of view, and while here again there is nothing inher

rom farce or wit in that it

rpose, Crite

with our

ower his sense of the ridiculous. Ben Jonson passes from the comedy of Every Man in his Humour to the bitterness of Volpone, Swift from the comparative lightness of Gulliver in Lilliput, to the savage brutality of the Hounyhymns. Of satire pure and simple few examples are to be

and pi

es bret-ful

d with tyd

sical mythology, and other equally serious matters, that the more witty portions stand out conspicuously, and the reader is apt to find some difficulty in seeing t

"a mirror has no tendency," it reflects, but it does not, or should not, distort. In two cases only does Chaucer deliberately draw a one-sided picture, and both are topical skits, too slight to regard as satire proper. The Compleint of Mars, which is not specially witty or amusin

good-fellowship, a certain virility, a determination to paint men and women as they know them. Neither is particularly squeamish, both enjoy a rough jest, and have little patience with over-refinement. Both give one a sense of sturdy honesty and kindliness, and know how to combine tenderness with strength. Both, with all their tolerance,

us tale of Virginia, turns to the Pardoner for

ere anon a

cri

lost for pitee

11] thou Pardo

the or japes[11

ten and drunk. But it is noteworthy that the pilgrims, who have listened to the Miller's tale without a

telle us of no

al thing, that

thanne wol we

tory or a sermon comes equally readily to his lips, and he promises

s," quod he, "bu

st thing, whyl

o himself, he takes not the slightest notice. His tongue loosened by the al

d he, "in chirc

han an haute

ut as round as

by rote that

alwey oon, a

orum est C

money, he proceeds to show his credentials, sprinkl

with my pred

stire men t

ly Jewes shepe," a miraculous mitten which will cause

have I wonne,

ark sith I w

., etc. After this he preaches a vehement sermon again

to make

pens, and na

e is nat but

for correcc

, whan that t

soules goon a-bl

n what he says that the reference is unmistakable and the whol

olk that doon u

preaching is neither more nor l

theme is yet,

orum est C

··

he and begge i

no labour w

··

ey, wolle, che

even of the

orest widwe

onde

he gat him

erson[119] gat

relate one of the moral tales which he has found most

s whylom wa

that hauntede

, at the outset, how the preacher succeeds in dominating his illiterate audiences when he speaks in the village churches. Having got well into his stride, the Pardoner passes on to the promised tale. Among the riotous company are three young men. One day, as they sit drinking in a tavern, they hear the bell toll, and sending a servant to inqui

of thise r

hat tree, and t

ne of golde y

te busshels, a

which of them shall run to the town for meat and drink, while the other two keep guard. The lot falls on the youngest, but no sooner has he gone than the two who remain plot to murder him when he comes b

he mighte his r

two and reserves the third for his own use.

is was doon, thu

te and drinke,

d we wol his

ind Death where

ously into his professional manner. Carried away by his own eloquence, he forgets that he began by explaining the trick of the whole thing. No doubt, as he himself had said, he has used the tale often enough as a means of extorting money, and with the most convincing fervour he begs the pilgrims-with his confession fresh in their minds-to beware of covetousness, and to press forward and make their offerings to his holy relics. So naturally have we been led on step by step, so easily has he passed from cynicism to sermon, and from sermon to application, that it is something of a shock when the Host, instead of hastening to kiss the relics as he is bidden, responds to the invitation with a coarse jest. The anger of the Pardoner at this indignity

gossiping, foolish crowd, but while it is evident that he has no very high opinion of the intelligence of people in the mass, there is no trace of bitterness in his descriptions. The well-meaning busybodies who come to comfort Criseyde are as helplessly incompetent as "the goos, the cokkow

k diversely

, as many wit

as dooth a swa

es after hir f

of thise ol

it was lyk

hadde winges

s the Grekes h

e Troye to

n thise olde

od oon, "is eve

en of armes b

] hem this cite

d that al swich t

d[126] to his

He lyeth, it

ce y-maad

leyen at thise

es thus they j

7] peple de

at been maad

in her lewedne

ladly to the

having paraded their knowledge of "sondry harding of metal," "fern-a

bles us to see the other person's point of view, to distinguish between crimes and misdemeanours, so that we no more wish to convert Sir Toby from the error of his ways than to reduce the fat boy's appetite. Above all, it is humour which points out those endearing peculiarities, those little foibles and harmless weaknesses which give Parson Adams and the Vicar of Wakefield so warm a place in our affections. There is no sting in such laughter, no conscious superiority; on the c

he gate of Macbeth's castle, or the grave-diggers of Elsinore singing at their work, it is not because he wants our thoughts to dwell on either the one or the other. They have their place as part of the tragedy, and it is the sense of tragedy, not the triviality of the incident which is uppermost in our mind. But the comic poet saunters gaily through life pausing to notice every trifle as he passes. He views the world as the unaccustomed traveller views a foreign

ke it at once realistic and remote. We are never wholly absorbed by what amuses us, in the sense that we are absorbed by what appeals to our tragic emotions. Laughter implies a certain detachment, whereas in tragedy

f in a thousand minute touches. Friar John, in t

ench he droof

his potente[12

ppe, and sette h

sues dan Rus

Out! harrow!

ox!" and afte

staves many

ogge, and Talbo

with a dista

lf, and eek th

ered for berki

of the men an

hem thoughte hi

as feendes d

yden as men wolde

re flowen[131]

ve cam the sw

do not tumble over each other. The humour consists in the point of view which finds such incidents wor

ic effect: he has no desire to sound the depths of human nature or to dwell upon the darker and more terrible side of life. Shakespeare's comedy is often touched with a suggestion of something faintly tragic. Even Falstaff is by no means a wholly comic figure, and the wisdom of Jaques, with all its affectation, contains a truth that goes beneath the surface. Chaucer seldom shows us the revealing power of comedy, but, like Shakespeare, he is not afraid to blend gaiety and gravity in the same p