House of Fame; but the design is greatly altered and improved,
and many of the thoughts and descriptions are entirely his own; yet such
is the coincidence and happy union of the work with its prototype, that
it is almost impossible to distinguish those portions for which he is
indebted to Chaucer from those of his own invention. The conclusion, as
descriptive of his own feelings at an early period of his own life, is
particularly interesting.--ROSCOE.

Chaucer's House of Fame is adorned with statues

Of all manner of minstrales,
And gestours that tellen tales
Both of weeping and of game.

Just such a gestour, or narrative poet, was Chaucer himself; for, as
Warton has remarked, he excelled alike in the pathetic and the gay, and,
if he was more admirable in one than in the other, his "tales of
weeping" were superior to his "tales of game." None of our poets, except
Shakespeare, can compete with him in versatility of genius. His numerous
characters are conceived with equal truth and distinctness; his dialogue
is lively and natural; his humour is sometimes broad, sometimes subtle,
and always racy; his tenderness is unrivalled in its mingled depth,
simplicity and refinement; his descriptions, whether serious or comic,
have never been surpassed in ease and vividness. His pre-eminence
appears the more conspicuous when we contrast his living strains with
the feeble diffuse monotony of his successors and predecessors. He may
be compared, says Thomas Warton, to a premature summer's day in an
English spring. The autobiographical passages in his works afford a
glimpse of the varied tastes and pursuits which rendered him one of the
most comprehensive writers in the world. His keen observation of mankind
was blended with the plodding of a student. He tells us that he lived
the life of a hermit, and was entirely ignorant of what was passing
among the neighbours who "dwelt almost at his door." His custom when the
duties of the day were over was to withdraw to his house, and sit down
"as dumb as any stone" to his books, till he was "dazed" with reading.
His love of nature could alone compete in intensity with his love of
literature. The single thing which had power to entice him from the
studies he held "in reverence" was the singing of birds and the blooming
of flowers. The month of May had a peculiar fascination for him. "Then,"
he exclaims, "farewell my book," and transported by the opening beauties
of the year he gav