no special
pains as to style or poetic ornament; but every careless touch tells,
every sly line reveals character; the description of each man's
horse-furniture and array reads like a memoir. The Nun's pretty oath
bewrays her. We see the bold, well-favoured countenance of the Wife of
Bath beneath her hat, as "broad as a buckler or a targe"; and the horse
of the Clerk, "as lean as is a rake," tells tales of his master's
cheer. Our modern dress is worthless as an indication of the
character, or even of the social rank, of the wearer; in the olden time
it was significant of personal tastes and appetites, of profession, and
condition of life generally. See how Chaucer brings out a character by
touching merely on a few points of attire and personal appearance:--

"I saw his sleeves were purfiled at the hand
With fur, and that the finest of the land;
And for to fasten his hood under his chin
He had of gold ywrought a curious pin.
A love-knot in the greater end there was;
His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
And eke his face as if it was anoint."

What more would you have? You could not have known the monk better if
you had lived all your life in the monastery with him. The sleeves
daintly purfiled with fur give one side of him, the curious pin with
the love-knot another, and the shining crown and face complete the
character and the picture. The sun itself could not photograph more
truly.

On their way the pilgrims tell tales, and these are as various as their
relaters; in fact, the Prologue is the soil out of which they all grow.
Dramatic propriety is everywhere instinctively preserved. "The
Knight's Tale" is noble, splendid, and chivalric as his own nature; the
tale told by the Wife of Bath is exactly what one would expect. With
what good-humour the rosy sinner confesses her sins! how hilarious she
is in her repentance! "The Miller's Tale" is coarse and
full-flavoured,--just the kind of thing to be told by a rough,
humourous fellow who is hardly yet sober. And here it may be said that
although there is a good deal of coarseness in the "Canterbury Tales,"
there is not the slightest tinge of pruriency. There is such a
single-heartedness and innocence in Chaucer's vulgarest and broadest
stories, such a keen eye for humour, and such a hearty enjoyment of it,
and at the same time such an absence of any delight in impurity for
impurity's sake, that but little danger can arise from their perusa