oisy band issuing from the courtyard of the Southwark
inn on that May morning in the fourteenth century. Let us go nearer,
and have a look at them.

There is a grave and gentle Knight, who has fought in many wars, and
who has many a time hurled his adversary down in tournament before the
eyes of all the ladies there, and who has taken the place of honour at
many a mighty feast. There, riding beside him, is a blooming Squire,
his son, fresh as the month of May, singing day and night from very
gladness of heart,--an impetuous young fellow, who is looking forward
to the time when he will flesh his maiden sword, and shout his first
war-cry in a stricken field. There is an Abbot, mounted on a brown
steed. He is middle-aged, his bald crown shines like glass, and his
face looks as if it were anointed with oil. He has been a valiant
trencher-man at many a well-furnished feast. Above all things, he
loves hunting; and when he rides, men can hear his bridle ringing in
the whistling wind loud and clear as a chapel bell. There is a thin,
ill-conditioned Clerk, perched perilously on a steed as thin and
ill-conditioned as himself. He will never be rich, I fear. He is a
great student, and would rather have a few books bound in black and red
hanging above his bed than be sheriff of the county. There is a
Prioress, so gentle and tender-hearted that she weeps if she hears the
whimper of a beaten hound, or sees a mouse caught in a trap. There
rides the laughing Wife of Bath, bold-faced and fair. She is an adept
in love-matters. Five husbands already "she has fried in their own
grease" till they were glad to get into their graves to escape the
scourge of her tongue. Heaven rest their souls, and swiftly send a
sixth! She wears a hat large as a targe or buckler, brings the
artillery of her eyes to bear on the young Squire, and jokes him about
his sweetheart. Beside her is a worthy Parson, who delivers faithfully
the message of his Master. Although he is poor, he gives away the half
of his tithes in charity. His parish is waste and wide, yet if
sickness or misfortune should befall one of his flock, he rides, in
spite of wind, or rain, or thunder, to administer consolation. Among
the crowd rides a rich Franklin, who sits in the Guildhall on the dais.
He is profuse and hospitable as summer. All day his table stands in
the hall covered with meats and drinks, and every one who enters is
welcome. There is a Ship-man, whose bear