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USEFUL INFORMATION TO STUDY LITERATURE

Taking Notes
1. In preparation for writing an essay or any other piece of work, your notes might come from a number of different sources: course materials, set texts, secondary reading, interviews, or tutorials and lectures. You might gather information from radio or television broadcasts, or from experiments and research projects. he notes could also include your own ideas, generated as part of the essay planning process. !. he notes you gather in preparation for writing the essay will normally provide the detailed evidence to back up your arguments. hey might also include such things as the "uotations and page references you plan to use in your essay. Your ultimate objective in planning will be to produce a one or two page outline of the topics you intend to cover. #. $e prepared for the fact that you might take many more notes than you will ever use. his is perfectly normal. %t the note&taking stage you might not be sure exactly what evidence you will need. In addition, the information&gathering stage should also be one of digesting and refining your ideas. '. (on)t feel disappointed if you only use a "uarter or even a tenth of your materials. he proportion you finally use might vary from one subject to another, as well as depending on your own particular writing strategy. *ust because some material is not used, don)t imagine that your efforts have been wasted. +. ,hen taking notes from any source, keep in mind that you are attempting to make a compressed and accurate record of information, other people)s opinions, and possibly your own observations on the subject in "uestion. -. Your objective whilst taking the notes is to distinguish the more important from the less important points being made. .ecord the main issues, not the details. You might write down a few words of the original if you think they may be used in a "uotation. /eep these extracts as short as possible unless you will be discussing a longer passage in some detail. 0. (on)t try to write down every word of a lecture & or copy out long extracts from books. 1ne of the important features of note&taking is that you are making a digest of the originals, and translating the information into your own words. 2. 3ome students take so many notes that they don)t know which to use when it)s time to write the essay. hey feel that they are drowning in a sea of information. 4. his problem is usually caused by two common weaknesses in note&taking techni"ue: transcribing too much of the original being unselective in the choice of topics

15. here are two possible solution to this problem: 3elect only those few words of the source material which will be of use. %void being descriptive. Think more, and write less. $e rigorously selective. /eep the essay "uestion or topic more clearly in mind. ake notes only on those issues which are directly relevant to the subject in "uestion. 11. 6ven though the notes you take are only for your own use, they will be more effective if they are recorded clearly and neatly. 7ood layout of the notes will help you to recall and assess the material more readily. If in doubt use the following general guidelines.

$efore you even start, make a note of your source8s9. If this is a book, an article, or a journal, write the following information at the head of your notes: Author, title, publisher, publication date, and edition of book. :se loose&leaf %' paper. his is now the international standard for almost all educational printed matter. (on)t use small notepads. You will find it easier to keep track of your notes if they fit easily alongside your other study materials. ,rite clearly and leave a space between each note. (on)t try to cram as much as possible onto one page. /eeping the items separate will make them easier to recall. he act of laying out information in this way will cause you to assess the importance of each detail. :se some system of tabulation 8as I am doing in these notes9. his will help to keep the items separate from each other. 6ven if the progression of numbers doesn)t mean a great deal, it will help you to keep the items distinct. (on)t attempt to write continuous prose. ;otes should be abbreviated and compressed. <ull grammatical sentences are not necessary. :se abbreviations, initials, and shortened forms of commonly used terms. (on)t string the points together continuously, one after the other on the page. You will find it very difficult to untangle these items from each other after some time has passed. (evise a logical and a memorable layout. :se lettering, numbering, and indentation for sections and for sub&sections. :se headings and sub&headings. 7ood layout will help you to absorb and recall information. 3ome people use coloured inks and highlighters to assist this process of identification. :se a new page for each set of notes. his will help you to store and identify them later. /eep topics separate, and have them clearly titled and labelled to facilitate easy recall. ,rite on one side of the page only. ;umber these pages. =eave the blank sides free for possible future additions, and for any details which may be needed later. 1!. ,hat follows is an example of notes taken whilst listening to an 1pen :niversity radio broadcast & a half hour lecture by the philosopher and cultural historian, Isaiah $erlin. It was entitled )Tolstoy's Views on Art and Morality ), which was part of the third level course in literary studies A 312 The !ineteenth "entury !o#el and its $egacy% Isaiah Berlin - 'Tolstoy on Art an Morality' ! Se" #$

1. )s views on % extreme & but he asks important "uestns which disturb society !. 12'5s :niv of /a>an debate on purpose of % believes there should be simple answers to probs of life #. ?et simple @ spontaneous people @ soldiers in Aaucasus "rimean &ketches admired by urgenev @ ?uscovites but didn)t fit in milieu '. ,esterni>ers Bs 3lavophiles & conservatives9 agreed with ,s, but rejects science 83s romantic

+. ! views of % in mid 14A & % for art)s sakeC % for society)s sake -. Dierre 8'()9 and =evin 8A*9 as egs of )searchers for truth) 0. ;atural life 8even drunken violence9 better than intellectual 2. )s contradiction & to be artist or moralist 4. )s ' criteria for work of art know what you want to say & lucidly and clearly subject matter must be of essential interest artist must live or imagine concretely his material and must know the moral centre of situation

15. crit of other writers 3hkspre and 7oethe & too complex &t +ulien 8<laubert9 inauthentic urgenev and Ahekhov guilty of triviality 11. 'hat is ArtE 6motion recollected and transmitted to others F,ordsworthG ;ot self&expression & 1nly good should be transmitted 1!. $ut his own tastes were for high art Ahopin, $eethoven, @ ?o>art %rgues he himself corrupted 1#. ried to distinguish between his own art and moral tracts 1'. )%rtist cannot help burning like a flame) 1+. Aouldn)t reconcile contradictions in his own beliefs died still raging against self and society

Essay %lanning
1. Strategy & You can approach the composition of an essay using a number of different writing strategies. 3ome people like to start writing and wait to see what develops. 1thers work up scraps of ideas until they perceive a shape emerging. However, if you are in any doubt at all, it)s a good idea to plan your work. he task of writing is usually much easier if you create a set of notes which outline the points you are going to make. :sing this approach, you will create a basic structure on which your ideas can be built. !. %lans & his is a part of the essay&writing process which is best carried out using plenty of scrap paper. 7et used to the idea of shaping and re&shaping your ideas before you start writing, editing and rearranging your arguments as you give them more thought. Dlanning on&screen using a word&processor is possible, but it)s a fairly advanced techni"ue. #. Analyse the '(estion & ?ake sure you understand what the "uestion is asking for. ,hat is it giving you the chance to write aboutE ,hat is its central issueE %nalyse any of its key terms and any instructions. If you are in any doubt, ask your tutor to explain what is re"uired. '. )enerate i eas & You need to assemble ideas for the essay. 1n a first sheet of paper, make a note of anything which might be relevant to your answer. hese might be topics, ideas, observations, or instances from your study materials. Dut down anything you think of at this stage. +. *hoosing to"i+s & 1n a second sheet of paper, extract from your brainstorm listings those topics and points of argument which are of greatest relevance to the "uestion and its central issue. hrow out anything which cannot be directly related to the essay "uestion. -. %(t to"i+s in or er & 1n a third sheet of paper, put these chosen topics in some logical se"uence. %t this stage you should be formulating a basic response to the "uestion, even if it is provisional and may later be changed. ry to arrange the points so that they form a persuasive and coherent argument. 0. Arrange yo(r e,i en+e & %ll the major points in your argument need to be supported by some sort of evidence. 1n any further sheets of paper, compile a list of brief "uotations from other sources 8together with page references9 which will be offered as your evidence. 2. Make ne+essary +hanges & ,hilst you have been engaged in the first stages of planning, new ideas may have come to mind. %lternate evidence may have occurred to you, or the line of your argument may have shifted somewhat. $e prepared at this stage to rearrange your plan so

that it incorporates any of these new materials or ideas. ry out different arrangements of your essay topics until you are sure they form the most convincing and logical se"uence. 4. Finalise essay "lan & he structure of most essay plans can be summarised as Introduction & %rguments & Aonclusion. 3tate your case as briefly and rapidly as possible, present the evidence for this case in the body of your essay, then sum up and try to )lift) the argument to a higher level in your conclusion. Your final plan should be something like a list of half a do>en to ten major points of argument. 6ach one of these points will be expanded to a paragraph of something around 155&!55 words minimum in length. 15. Rele,an+e & %t all stages of essay planning, and even when writing the essay, you should keep the "uestion in mind. /eep asking yourself ) ,s this e#idence directly rele#ant to the topic , ha#e been asked to discuss- ) If in doubt, be prepared to scrap plans and formulate new ones & which is much easier than scrapping finished essays. %t all times aim for clarity and logic in your argument. 11.E-a."le & ,hat follows is an example of an outline plan drawn up in note form. It is in response to the "uestion ).o you think that depictions of se/ and #iolence in the media should or should not be more hea#ily censored-). FIt is worth studying the plan in its entirety. ake note of its internal structure.G '.o you think that depictions of se/ and #iolence in the media should or should not be more hea#ily censored-' Intro (+tion & 3ex, violence, and censorship all emotive subjects

*ase against +ensorshi"


1. Aesthetic: inhibits artistic talent, distorts art and truth. !. ,ndi#idual 0udgement: individuals have the right to decide for themselves what they watch or read. 3imilarly, nobody has the right to make up someone else)s mind. #. Violence and se/ as catharsis 8release from tension9: portrayal of these subjects can release tension through this kind of experience at )second hand). '. Violence can deter: certain films can show violence which reinforces opposition to it, e.g. & A "lockwork 1range, All 2uiet on the 'estern 3ront . +. "ensorship makes se/ dirty: we are too repressed about this subject, and censorship sustains the harmful mystery which has surrounded us for so long. -. )olitically dangerous: Aensorship in one area can lead to it being extended to others & e.g., political ideas. 0. ,mpractical: ,ho decidesE How is it to be doneE Is it not impossible to be )correct)E %ny decision has to be arbitrary

*ase /or +ensorshi"


1. &e/ is pri#ate and precious: it should not be demeaned by representations of it in public. !. &e/ can be offensi#e: some people may find it so and should not have to risk being exposed to what they would find pornographic. #. "orruption can be progressi#e: can begin with sex and continue until all )decent values) are eventually destroyed.

'. )articipants might be corrupted: especially true of young children. +. Violence can encourage imitation : by displaying violence & even while condemning it &it can be legitimised and can also encourage imitation amongst a dangerous minority. -. Violence is often glorified: encourages callous attitudes. *on+l(sion & Aase against censorship much stronger. ;o necessary connection between the two topics.

0o1 to S(..ari2e
1. % summary & or prIcis & is a shorter version of a longer piece of writing. he summary captures all the most important parts of the original, but expresses them in a FmuchG shorter space. !. 3ummari>ing exercises are usually set to test your understanding of the original, and your ability to re&state its main purpose. #. 3ummari>ing is also a useful skill when gathering information or doing research. '. he summary should be expressed & as far as possible & in your own words. It)s not enough to merely copy out parts of the original. +. he "uestion will usually set a maximum number of words. If not, aim for something like one tenth of the original. F% summary which was half the length of the original would not be a summary.G -. .ead the original "uickly, and try to understand its main subject or purpose. 0. hen you will need to read it again to understand it in more detail. 2. :nderline or make a marginal note of the main issues. :se a highlighter if this helps. 4. =ook up any words or concepts you don)t know, so that you understand the author)s sentences and how they relate to each other. 15. ,ork through the text to identify its main sections or arguments. hese might be expressed as paragraphs or web pages. 11. .emember that the purpose Fand definitionG of a paragraph is that it deals with one issue or topic. 1!. (raw up a list of the topics & or make a diagram. F% simple picture of boxes or a spider diagram can often be helpful.G 1#. ,rite a one or two&sentence account of each section you identify. <ocus your attention on the main point. =eave out any illustrative examples. 1'. ,rite a sentence which states the central idea of the original text. 1+. :se this as the starting point for writing a paragraph which combines all the points you have made. 1-. he final summary should concisely and accurately capture the central meaning of the original. 10. .emember that it must be in your own words. $y writing in this way, you help to re&create the meaning of the original in a way which makes sense for you.

E-a."le o/ an Original te-t

'At a typical football match we are likely to see players committing deliberate fouls, often behind the referee's back% They might try to take a throw in or a free kick from an incorrect, but more ad#antageous positions in defiance of the clearly stated rules of the game% They sometimes challenge the rulings of the referee or linesmen in an offensi#e way which often deser#es e/emplary punishment or e#en sending off% !o wonder spectators fight amongst themsel#es, damage stadiums, or take the law into their own hands by in#ading the pitch in the hope of affecting the outcome of the match%' 4155 words6
S(..ary& :nsportsmanlike behaviour by footballers may cause hooliganism among spectators. F4 wordsG

So.e e-tra ti"s


6ven though notes are only for your own use, they will be more effective if they are recorded clearly and neatly. 7ood layout will help you to recall and assess material more readily. If in doubt use the following general guidelines. $efore you even start, make a note of your source8s9. If this is a book, an article, or a journal, write the following information at the head of your notes: Author, title, publisher, publication date, and edition of book. :se loose&leaf %' paper. his is now the international standard for almost all educational printed matter. (on)t use small notepads. You will find it easier to keep track of your notes if they fit easily alongside your other study materials. ,rite clearly and leave a space between each note. (on)t try to cram as much as possible onto one page. /eeping the items separate will make them easier to recall. he act of laying out information in this way will cause you to assess the importance of each detail. :se a new page for each set of notes. his will help you to store and identify them later. /eep topics separate, and have them clearly titled and labelled to facilitate easy recall. ,rite on one side of the page only. ;umber these pages. =eave the blank sides free for possible future additions, and for any details which may be needed later.

3(alities o/ a +hara+ter
Mental 3(alities intelligent educated smart wise gifted clever ingenious brilliant learned scholarly astute competent sensible talented intellectual precocious rational perceptive unintelligent unschooled dumb ignorant simple puerile obtuse vacuous narrow&minded shallow dull incompetent unreasonable incapable bigoted witless irrational cunning %hysi+al 3(alities strong healthy handsome beautiful pretty cute robust hardy dainty delicate charming ravishing adroit skillful lively robust weak sickly hideous ugly graceless emaciated clumsy awkward grotes"ue odious coarse repulsive ungainly unkempt decrepit frail cooperative hospitable congenial cheerful supportive urbane worldly debonair suave elegant courteous tactful cordial convivial encouraging merry moral kind considerate idealistic innocent righteous upstanding truthful honest honorable loyal helpful virtuous pure puritanical austere polite respectable Moral 3(alities immoral cruel inconsiderate unprincipled corrupt vile deceitful lying unscrupulous dishonorable untrustworthy self&centered dissolute vulgar degenerate sensual insulting base So+ial 3(alities contentious inhospitable impolite sullen antagonistic boorish provincial brus"ue obse"uious unpolished petulant crude crabby critical caustic grumpy

A(thor4s tone
%cross the top of the chart, you will find ten words that can be used to identify an authorJs tone. $elow each of the ten words are other words associated with that tone that might better pinpoint or describe a tone.
re,eren+e awe veneration lo,e affection cherish fondness admiratio n tendernes s sentiment romantic Dlatonic adoration narcissism passion lust rapture ecstasy infatuated enamor compassio n 8oy exaltati on >eal fervor ardor elation jubilant buoyanc y ha""ines s glad pleased merry glee delight cheerful gay sanguine mirth enjoy relish bliss +al. serene tran"uil placid content ho"e expect anticipate trust sa ness somber solemn melanchol y sorrow lament despair desponde nt regret dismal funereal saturnine dark gloomy dejection grave grief morose sullen woe bleak remorse forlorn distress agony anguish depressio n misery barren empty pity anger vehement enraged rage outrage antipathy irritation indignant vexation incensed petulant irascible riled bitter acrimony irate fury wrath rancor hostility miffed choleric frustration futility aggravate umbrage gall bristle hate vengeanc e detest abhorrenc e animosity enmity malice pi"ue rancor aversion loathing despise scorn contempt disdain jealousy repugnanc e repulsion resentme nt spite disgust /ear timidity apprehensio n anxiety terror horror dismay agitation sinister alarm startle uneasy "ualms angst trepidation intimidation spooky dread phobia appalled

*OM%ARIN) T5O %OEMS 5IT0 SIMILAR T0EMES Rea the t1o "oe.s 6elo1 an ans1er the '(estions7
he drum ;ikki 7iovanni daddy says the world is a drum tight and hard and I told him IJm gonna beat out my own rhythm

humbprint 6ve ?erriam In the heel of my thumb are whorls, whirls, wheels in a uni"ue design: mine alone. ,hat a treasure to ownK ?y own flesh, my own feelings. ;o other, however grand or base, can ever contain the same. ?y signature, thumbing the pages of my time. ?y universe key. ?y singularity. Impress, implant, I am myself, of all my atom parts I am the sum. %nd out of my blood and my brain I make my own interior weather, ?y own sun and rain. Imprint my mark upon the world, ,hatever I shall become.

1.

he theme of each poem deals with %. the world $. individuality A. birth (. solutions

!. Doets often use the rhythm of their poems to reinforce the theme. ,hich statement below is true about the rhythm of these poemsE %. $oth poems have a set rhythm. $. 1nly L humbprintM has a set rhythm. A. 1nly Lthe drumM has a set rhythm. (. ;either of the poems has a set rhythm. #. Doets use punctuation and capitali>ation to suit the effect they wish their poem to have. ,hy does ;ikki 7iovanni not use any punctuation or capitali>ationE %. 3he is stressing the individuality of her speaker. $. 3he is showing the lack of education of her speaker. A. 3he is deliberately omitting the standards of the world. (. 3he didnJt carefully proofread her poem and her editor thought she meant to omit them. '. Lthe world isCa drumM ,hat is this line an example ofE %. alliteration $. personification A. simile (. metaphor +. 3tudy both poems. ,hat in each poem leads you to believe that the speaker is youngE

-. ,hy do you think the poets chose to use young speakers for their poemsE

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ANALYSIN) FI*TION 9 LITERARY TERMS


:o+a6(lary & he author)s choice of individual words & which may be drawn from various registers such as collo"uial, literary, technical, slang, journalism, and may vary from simple and direct to complex and sophisticated. )ra..ar & he relationships of the words in sentences, which might include such items as the use of adjectives for description, of verbs to denote action, switching between tenses to move between present and past, or any use of unusual combinations of words or phrases to create special effects. Synta- & he arrangement and logical coherence of words in a sentence. he possibilities for re& arrangement are often used for emphasis or dramatic effect. Fig(res o/ s"ee+h & he rhetorical devices often used to give decorative and imaginative expression to literature. <or example & simile, metaphor, puns, irony. Literary e,i+es & he devices commonly used in literature to give added depth to a work. <or example, imagery, point of view, symbolism, allusions. Tone & he author)s attitude to the subject as revealed in the style and the manner of the writing. his might be for instance serious, comic, or ironic. Narrator& he person telling the story. his may be the author, assuming a full knowledge of characters and their feelings: this is an omniscient narrator. It might alternatively be a fictional character invented by the author. here may also be multiple narrators. You should always be prepared to make a clear distinction between %uthor, ;arrator, and Aharacter & even though in some texts these may be 8or appear to be9 the same. Narrati,e .o e & his is usually either the first person singular 8)I am going to tell you a story about...)9 or the third person singular 8) he duchess felt alarmed...)9. Narrati,e & he story which is being told: that is, the history of the events, characters, or whatever matters the narrator wishes to relate to the reader. *hara+terisation & he means by which characters are depicted or created & commonly by accounts of their physical appearance, psychological characteristics, direct speech, and the opinions of the narrator or other characters about them. %oint o/ ,ie1 & he literary strategy by which an author presents the events of a narrative from the perspective of a particular person & which may be the narrator or may be a fictional character. he point of view may be consistent, or it may switch between narrator and character8s9. It should not be confused with the mere opinion of a character or the narrator. Str(+t(re & he planned underlying framework or shape of a piece of work. between its parts in terms of arrangement or construction. he relationship

The.e & he underlying topic or issue, often of a general or abstract nature, as distinct from the overt subject with which the work deals. It should be possible to express theme in a single word or short phrase & such as )death), )education), or )coming of age). )enre & he literary category or type 8for instance, short story, novella, or novel9 to which the work belongs and with whose conventions it might be compared. ,e become aware of genre through cultural experience and know for instance that in detective stories murder mysteries are solvedN in fairy stories beautiful girls marry the princeN and in some modern short stories not much happens. *(lt(ral +onte-t & he historical and cultural context and the circumstances in which the work was produced, which might have some bearing on its possible meanings. % text produced under conditions of strict censorship might conceal its meanings beneath symbolism or allegory.

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50AT IS LITERATURE;

LITERATURE<n7= creative writing of recogni>ed artistic valueN the profession or art of a writerN Oher place in literature is secureO 1. he body of written works of a language, period, or culture. !. Imaginative or creative writing, especially of recogni>ed artistic value: 7$iterature must be an analysis of e/perience and a synthesis of the findings into a unity8 8.ebecca ,est9. #. he art or occupation of a literary writer. '. he body of written work produced by scholars or researchers in a given field: medical literature% +. Drinted material: collected all the a#ailable literature on the sub0ect% -. Music% %ll the compositions of a certain kind or for a specific instrument or ensemble: the symphonic literature% F?iddle 6nglish, book learning, from 1ld <rench litterature, from =atin litterPtQra, from litterPtus, lettered.

Literary

i+tionary

literat(re, a body of written works related by subjectRmatter 8e.g. the literature of computing9, by language or place of origin 8e.g. .ussian literature9, or by prevailing cultural standards of merit. In this last sense, SliteratureJ is taken to include oral, dramatic, and broadcast compositions that may not have been published in written form but which have been 8or deserve to be9 preserved. 3ince the 14th century, the broader sense of literature as a totality of written or printed works has given way to more exclusive definitions based on criteria of imaginative, creative, or artistic value, usually related to a work)s absence of factual or practical reference. 6ven more restrictive has been the academic concentration upon poetry, drama, and fiction. :ntil the midR!5th century, many kinds of non&fictional writingTin philosophy, history, biography, criticism, topography, science, and politicsTwere counted as literatureN implicit in this broader usage is a definition of literature as that body of works whichTfor whatever reasonTdeserves to be preserved as part of the current reproduction of meanings within a given culture 8unlike yesterday)s newspaper, which belongs in the disposable category of ephemera9. his sense seems more tenable than the later attempts to divide literatureTas creative, imaginative, fictional, or non&practicalTfrom factual writings or practically effective works of propaganda, rhetoric, or didactic writing. he .ussian <ormalists attempt to define literariness in terms of linguistic deviations is important in the theory of poetry, but has not addressed the more difficult problem of the nonRfictional prose forms.

For.s o/ literat(re
%oetry
% poem is commonly defined as a composition written in verse 8although verse has been e"ually used for epic and dramatic fiction9. Doems rely heavily on imagery, precise word choice, and metaphorN they may take the form of measures consisting of patterns of stresses 8metric feet9 or of patterns of different&length syllables 8as in classical prosody9N and they may or may not utili>e rhyme. 1ne cannot readily characteri>e poetry precisely. ypically though, poetry as a form of literature makes some significant use of the formal properties of the words it uses T the

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properties attached to the written or spoken form of the words, rather than to their meaning. ?etre depends on syllables and on rhythms of speechN rhyme and allitaration depend on words that have similar pronunciation. 3ome recent poets, such as e.e.cummings, made extensive use of words) visual form. Doetry perhaps pre&dates other forms of literature: early known examples include the 3umerian 6pic of 7ilbamesh 8dated from around !055 $.A.9, parts of the $ible, the surviving works of Homer 8the Iliad and the 1dyssey9, and the Indian epics .amayana and ?ahabharata. In cultures based primarily on oral traditions the formal characteristics of poetry often have a mnemonic function, and important texts: legal, genealogical or moral, for example, may appear first in verse form. ?uch poetry uses specific forms: the haiku, the limerick, or the sonnet, for example. % traditional haiku written in *apanese must have something to do with nature, contain seventeen onji 8syllables9, distributed over three lines in groups of five, seven, and five, and should also have a kigo, a specific word indicating a season. % limerick has five lines, with a rhyme scheme of %%$$%, and line lengths of #,#,!,!,# stressed syllables. It traditionally has a less reverent attitude towards nature. =anguage and tradition dictate some poetic norms: Dersian poetry always rhymes, 7reek poetry rarely rhymes, Italian or <rench poetry often does, 6nglish and 7erman can go either way 8although modern non&rhyming poetry often, perhaps unfairly, has a more OseriousO aura9. Derhaps the most paradigmatic style of 6nglish poetry, blank verse, as exemplified in works by 3hakespeare and by ?ilton, consists of unrhymed iambic pentamenters. 3ome languages prefer longer linesN some shorter ones. 3ome of these conventions result from the ease of fitting a specific language)s vocabulary and grammar into certain structures, rather than into othersN for example, some languages contain more rhyming words than others, or typically have longer words. 1ther structural conventions come about as the result of historical accidents, where many speakers of a language associate good poetry with a verse form preferred by a particular skilled or popular poet. ,orks for theatre 8see below9 traditionally took verse form. his has now become rare outside opera and musicals, although many would argue that the language of drama remains intrinsically poetic. In recent years, digital poetry has arisen that takes advantage of the artistic, publishing, and synthetic "ualities of digital media.

Dra.a
% play or drama offers another classical literary form that has continued to evolve over the years. It generally comprises chiefly dialogue between characters, and usually aims at dramatic C theatrical performance 8see theatre9 rather than at reading. (uring the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, opera developed as a combination of poetry, drama, and music. ;early all drama took verse form until comparatively recently. 3hakespeare could be considered drama. .omeo and *uliet, for example, is a classic romantic drama generally accepted as literature. & & 7eek drama exemplifies the earliest form of drama of which we have substantial knowledge. ragedy, as a dramatic genre, developed as a performance associated with religious and civic festivals, typically enacting or developing upon well&known historical or mythological themes. ragedies generally presented very serious heme. & & ,ith the advent of newer technologies, scripts written for non&stage media have been added to this form. ,ar of the ,orlds 8radio9 in 14#2 saw the advent of literature written for radio broadcast, and many works of (rama have been adapted for film or television. Aonversely, television, film, and radio literature have been adapted to printed or electronic media.

Essays
%n essay consists of a discussion of a topic from an author)s personal point of view, exemplified by works by <rancis $acon or by Aharles =amb.

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)6ssay) in 6nglish derives from the <rench )essai), meaning )attempt). hus one can find open& ended, provocative andCor inconclusive essays. he term OessaysO first applied to the self& reflective musings of ?ichel de ?ontaigne, and even today he has a reputation as the father of this literary form. 7enres related to the essay may include: the memoir, telling the story of an author)s life from the author)s personal point of view the epistle: usually a formal, didactic, or elegant letter. the blog, an informal short rant about a particular topic or topics, usually opinion

%rose /i+tion
Drose consists of writing that does not adhere to any particular formal structures 8other than simple grammar9N Onon&poetic writing,O writing, perhaps. he term sometimes appears pejoratively, but prosaic writing simply says something without necessarily trying to say it in a beautiful way, or using beautiful words. Drose writing can of course take beautiful formN but less by virtue of the formal features of words 8rhymes, alliteration, metre9 but rather by style, placement, or inclusion of graphics. $ut one need not mark the distinction precisely, and perhaps cannot do so. ;ote the classifications: Oprose poetryO, which attempts to convey the aesthetic richness typical of poetry using only prose Ofree verseO, or poetry not adhering to any of the structures of one or another formal poetic style

;arrative fiction 8narrative prose9 generally favours prose for the writing of novels, short stories, graphic novels, and the like. 3ingular examples of these exist throughout history, but they did not develop into systematic and discrete literary forms until relatively recent centuries. =ength often serves to categori>e works of prose fiction. %lthough limits remain somewhat arbitrary, modern publishing conventions dictate the following: % ?ini 3aga is a short story of e/actly +5 words % <lash fiction is generally defined as a piece of prose under a thousand words. % short story comprises prose writing of less than 15,555 to !5,555 words, but typically more than +55 words, which may or may not have a narrative arc. % story containing between !5,555 and +5,555 words falls into the novella category. % work of fiction containing more than +5,555 words falls s"uarely into the realm of the novel.

% novel consists simply of a long story written in prose, yet the form developed comparatively recently. Icelandic prose sagas dating from about the 11th century bridge the gap between traditional national verse epics and the modern psychogical novel. In mainland 6urope, the 3paniard Aervantes wrote perhaps the first influential novel: .on 2ui/ote, the first part of which was published in 1-5+ and the second in 1-1+. 6arlier collections of tales, such as $occaccio)s (ecameron and Ahaucer)s The "arterbury Tales, have comparable forms and would classify as novels if written today. 6arlier works written in %sia resemble even more strongly the novel as we now think of it T for example, works such as the "hinesese 9omance of the Three *ingdoms and the +apanese Tale of :en0i by =ady ?urasaki. Aompare to he $ook of 1ne thousand and 1ne ;ights. 6arly novels in 6urope did not, at the time, count as significant literature, perhaps because OmereO prose writing seemed easy and unimportant. It has become clear, however, that prose writing can provide aesthetic pleasure without adhering to poetic forms. %dditionally, the freedom authors gain in not having to concern themselves with verse structure translates often into a more complex plot or into one richer in precise detail than one typically finds even in narrative poetry. his freedom also allows an author to experiment with many different literary and presentation styles T including poetryT in the scope of a single novel.

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Other "rose literat(re


Dhilosophy, history, journalism, and legal and scientific writings traditionally ranked as literature. hey offer some of the oldest prose writings in existenceN novels and prose stories earned the names OfictionO to distinguish them from factual writing or nonfiction, which writers historically have crafted in prose. he OliteraryO nature of science writing has become less pronounced over the last two centuries, as advances and speciali>ation have made new scientific research inaccessible to most audiencesN science now appears mostly in journals. 3cientific works of 6uclid, %ristotle, Aopernicus, and ;ewton still possess great valueN but since the science in them has largely become outdated, they no longer serve for scientific instruction, yet they remain too technical to sit well in most programmes of literary study. 1utside of Ohistory of scienceO programmes students rarely read such works. ?any books Opopulari>ingO science might still deserve the title OliteratureON history will tell. Dhilosophy, too, has become an increasingly academic discipline. ?ore of its practitioners lament this situation than occurs with the sciencesN nonetheless most new philosophical work appears in academic journals. ?ajor philosophers through history && Dlato, %ristotle, %ugust, (escartes, ;iet>sche && have become as canonical as any writers. 3ome recent philosophy works are argued to merit the title OliteratureO, such as some of the works by 3imon $lackburnN but much of it does not, and some areas, such as logic, have become extremely technical to a degree similar to that of mathematics. % great deal of historical writing can still rank as literature, particularly the genre known as creative nonfiction. 3o can a great deal of journalism, such as literary journalism. However these areas have become extremely large, and often have a primarily utilitarian purpose: to record data or convey immediate information. %s a result the writing in these fields often lacks a literary "uality, although it often and in its better moments has that "uality. ?ajor OliteraryO historians include Herodotus, hucydides and Drocopius, all of whom count as canonical literary figures. =aw offers a less clear case. 3ome writings of Dlato and %ristotle, or even the early parts of the $ible, might count as legal literature. he law tables of Hammurabi of $abylon might count. .oman civil law as codified in the Aorpus *uris Aivilis during the reign of *ustinian I of the $y>antine 6mpire has a reputation as significant literature. he founding documents of many countries, including the :nited 3tates Aonstitution, can count as literatureN however legal writing now rarely exhibits literary merit. 7ame (esign 3cripts & In essence never seen by the player of a game and only by the developers andCor publishers, the audience for these pieces is usually very small. 3till, many game scripts contain immersive stories and detailed worlds making them hidden literary gems. ?ost of these fields, then, through speciali>ation or proliferation, no longer generally constitute OliteratureO in the sense under discussion. hey may sometimes count as Oliterary literatureON more often they produce what one might call Otechnical literatureO or Oprofessional literatureO.

.elated ;arrative <orms


7raphic novels and comic books present stories told in a combination of se"uential artwork, dialogue and text. <ilms, videos and broadcast soap operas have carved out a niche which often parallels the functionality of prose fiction. Interactive <iction, a term for a prose&based genre of computer games, occupies a small literary niche. 6letronic literature is a developing literary genre meant to be read on a computer screen, often making use of hypertext.

)enres o/ literat(re
% literary genre refers to the traditional divisions of literature of various kinds according to a particular criterion of writing.

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Literary genre
% literary genre is a genre of literature, that is O a loose set of criteria for a category of literary compositionO, depending on literary technics, tone, or content. he most general genres in literature are 8in chronological order9 epic, tragedy,comedy, novel, and short stiry. hey can all be in the genresprose and poetry, which shows best how loosely genres are defined. %dditionally, a genre like satire, allegory or pastoral might appear in any of the above, not only as a subgenre 8see below9, but as a mixture of genres. <inally, they are defined by the general cultural movements of the historical period in which they were composed.

S(6genres
7enres are often divided into subgenres.=iterature, for instance, is divided into three basic kinds of literature, classic genres of %ncient 7reece, poetry,drama, and prose. Doetry may then be subdivided into epic, lyric, and dramatic. 3ubdivisions of drama includes formost comedy and tragedy, while eg. comedy itself has subgenres, including farce, comedy of manners, burles"ue , satire, and so on. However, any of these terms would be called OgenreO, and its possible more general terms implied. o be even more flexible, hybrid forms of different terms have been used, like a prose poem or a tragicomedy. 3cience <iction has many recogni>ed subgenresN a science fiction story may be rooted in real scientific expectations as they are understood at the time of writing 8see Hard science fiction9. % more general term, coined by .obert %. Heinlein, is Ospeculative fiction,O an umbrella term covering all such genres that depict alternate realities. 6ven fiction that depicts innovations ruled out by current scientific theory, such as stories about or based on faster& than light travel, are still science fiction, because science is a main subject in the piece of art. (ramatic poetry, for instance, might include comedy, tragedy, melodrama, and mixtures like tragicomedy. his parsing into subgenres can continue: OcomedyO has its own genres, for example, including comedy of manners, sentimental comedy, burles"ue comedy, and satirical comedy. :sually, the criteria used to divide up works into genres are not consistent, and may change constantly, and be subject of argument, change and challenge by both authors and critics. However, even very loose terms like fiction 8Oliterature created from the imagination, not presented as fact, though it may be based on a true story or situationO9 are not applied to any fictitious literature, which is almost restricted to the use for novel, short story, and novella, but not fables, and is also usually a prose text. % subgenre may join non&contradicting criteria: 9omance and mystery are marked out by their plots, and 'estern by its setting, which means that a work can easily be a ,estern romance or ,estern mystery. 7enres may be easily be confused with literary techni"ues, but though only loosely defined, they are not the same, examples are parody, <rame story, constrained writing, stream of consciousness.

I."ortant ter.s /or "oetry


allegory 8%=&eh&71.&ee9: a narrative that serves as an extended metaphor. %llegories are written in the form of fables, parables, poems, stories, and almost any other style or genre. he main purpose of an allegory is to tell a story that has characters, a setting, as well as other types of symbols, that have both literal and figurative meanings. he difference between an allegory and a symbol is that an allegory is a complete narrative that conveys abstract ideas to get a point across, while a symbol is a representation of an idea or concept that can have a different meaning throughout a literary work 8A ;andbook to $iterature9. 1ne well&known example of an allegory is (anteJs The .i#ine "omedy% In ,nferno, (ante is on a pilgrimage to try to understand his own life, but his character also represents every man who is in search of his purpose in the world 8 Merriam 'ebster <ncyclopedia of $iterature9. %lthough Birgil literally guides (ante on his journey through

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the mystical inferno, he can also be seen as the reason and human wisdom that (ante has been looking for in his life. alliteration 8a&=I &uh&.%Y&shuhn9: a pattern of sound that includes the repetition of consonant sounds. he repetition can be located at the beginning of successive words or inside the words. Doets often use alliteration to audibly represent the action that is taking place. <or instance, in the ,nferno, (ante states: OI saw it there, but I saw nothing in it, except the rising of the boiling bubblesO 8!-19. he repetition of the ObO sounds represents the sounds of bubbling, or the bursting action of the boiling pitch. In addition, in 3ir Dhillip 3idney)s Astrophel and &tella, the poet states: O$iting my truant pen, beating myself for spiteO 8=ine 1#9. his repetition of the OtO sound represents the action of the poetN one can hear and visuali>e his anguish as he bites the pen. %lso in Astrophel and &tella, the poet states, O1ft turning others) leaves, to see if thence would flow, C 3ome fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn)d brainO 80&29. %gain, the poet repeats the OfrO sounds to emphasi>e the speaker)s desire for inspiration in expressing his feelings. Doets may also use alliteration to call attention to a phrase and fix it into the reader)s mindN thus, it is useful for emphasis. herefore, not only does alliteration provide poetry or prose with a uni"ue sound, it can place emphasis on specific phrases and represent the action that is taking place all(sion 8a&=11&>huhn9: a reference in a literary work to a person, place, or thing in history or another work of literature. %llusions are often indirect or brief references to well&known characters or events. 3pecific examples of allusions can be found throughout (anteJs ,nferno. In a passage, (ante alludes to the 7reek mythological figures, Dhaethon and Icarus, to express his fear as he descends from the air into the eighth circle of hell. He states: , doubt if )haethon feared more that time he dropped the sun reins of his father's chariot and burned the streak of sky we see today or if poor ,carus did feeling his sides unfeathering as the wa/ began to melt, his father shouting= >'rong, your course is wrongO 8Aanto UBII: 15-&1119. %llusions are often used to summari>e broad, complex ideas or emotions in one "uick, powerful image. <or example, to communicate the idea of self&sacrifice one may refer to *esus, as part of *esus) story portrays him dying on the cross in order to save mankind 8?atthew !0:'+&+-9. In addition, to express righteousness, one might allude to ;oah who Ohad no faults and was the only good man of his timeO 87enesis -:4&!!9. <urthermore, the idea of fatherhood or patriarchial love can be well understood by alluding to %braham, who was the ancestor of many nations 87enesis 10:#&-9. <inally, Aain is an excellent example to convey banishment, rejection, or evil, for he was cast out of his homeland by 7od 87enesis ':1!9. hus, allusions serve an important function in writing in that they allow the reader to understand a difficult concept by relating to an already familiar story. +onnotation 8/%H&nuh& %6&shun9: an association that comes along with a particular word. Aonnotations relate not to a word)s actual meaning, or denotation, but rather to the ideas or "ualities that are implied by that word. % good example is the word Ogold.O he denotation of gold is a malleable, ductile, yellow element. he connotations, however, are the ideas associated with gold, such as greed, luxury, or avarice. %nother example occurs in the $ook of 7enesis. *acob says: L(an will be a serpent by the roadside, a viper along the path, that bites the horseJs heels so that its rider tumbles backwardO 87en '4:109. In this passage, (an is not literally going to become a snake. However, describing (an as a OsnakeO and OviperO forces the reader to associate him with the negative "ualities that are commonly associated with reptiles, such as slyness, danger, and evil. (an becomes like a snake, sly and dangerous to the riders. ,riters use connotation to make their writing more vivid and interesting to read. +o("let 8/:D&let9: a style of poetry defined as a complete thought written in two lines with rhyming ends. he most popular of the couplets is the heroic couplet. he heroic couplet consists of two rhyming lines of iambic pentameter usually having a pause in the middle of each line. 1ne of ,illiam 3hakespeareJs trademarks was to end a sonnet with a couplet, as in the poem L3hall I Aompare hee to a 3ummerJs (ayM:

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&o long as men can breathe or eyes can see, &o long as li#es this, and this gi#es life to thee% ?y using the couplet &hakespeare would often signal the end of a scene in his plays as well% An e/ample of a scene@s end signaled by a couplet is the end of Act ,V of 1thello% The scene ends with .esdemona@s lines= :ood night% :ood night% ;ea#en me such uses send% !ot to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend% enotation 8(66&no& %6&shuhn9: the exact meaning of a word, without the feelings or suggestions that the word may imply. It is the opposite of LconnotationM in that it is the LdictionaryM meaning of a word, without attached feelings or associations. 3ome examples of denotations are: 1. heart: an organ that circulates blood throughout the body. Here the word OheartO denotes the actual organ, while in another context, the word OheartO may connote feelings of love or heartache. !. s1eater: a knitted garment for the upper body. he word OsweaterO may denote pullover sweaters or cardigans, while LsweaterM may also connote feelings of warmness or security. (enotation allows the reader to know the exact meaning of a word so that he or she will better understand the work of literature. elegy 86=&e&je9: a type of literature defined as a song or poem, written in elegiac couplets, that expresses sorrow or lamentation, usually for one who has died. his type of work stemmed out of a 7reek work known as a Oelegus,O a song of mourning or lamentation that is accompanied by the flute. $eginning in the 1-th century, elegies took the form we know today. wo famous elegies include homas 7rayJs O6legy ,ritten in a Aountry AhurchyardO and ,alt ,hitmanJs O,hen =ilacs =ast in the (ooryard $loomJdO. 7rayJs elegy is notable in that it mourned the loss of a way of life rather than the loss of an individual. His work, which some consider to be almost political, showed extreme discontent for strife and tyranny set upon 6ngland by 1liver Aromwell. his work also acted as an outlet for 7rayJs dissatisfaction with those poets who wrote in accordance with the thoughts and beliefs of the upper class. In his elegy, 7ray mourned for his country and mourned for its citi>ens. ,hitman, inspired by the assassination of %braham =incoln, wrote his elegy in its classic form, showing sorrow for the loss of an individual. 3ee A 9eader@s "ompanion to 'orld $iterature, and .ictionary of 'orld $iterature. e"igra. 8ep&e&gram9: a short poem or verse that seeks to ridicule a thought or event, usually with witticism or sarcasm. hese literary works were very popular during the .enaissance in 6urope in the late 1'th century and the ;eoclassical period, which began after the .estoration in 1--5. hey were most commonly found in classic =atin literature, 6uropean and 6nglish literature. In %ncient 7reek, an epigram originally meant a short inscription, but its meaning was later broadened to include any very short poems. Doems that are meditative or satiric all fall into this category. hese short poems formulated from the light verse species, which concentrated on the tone of voice and the attitude of the lyric or narrative speaker toward the subject. ,ith a relaxed manner, lyricists would recite poems to their subjects that were comical or whimsical. 3amuel aylor Aoleridge 81001&12#'9, an 6nglish poet, essayist and critic, constructed an epigram to show humor in .omanticism. His thoughts, L1n a Bolunteer 3ingerM, compares and contrasts the death of swans with that of humans: &wans sing before they die Atwere no bad thing &hould certain people die before they singB The ballad, 7$ord 9andall8 illustrates a young man who set off to meet his one true lo#e and ends up becoming 7sick at heart8 with what he finds% The young man later arri#es home to his family about to die and to each family member he lea#es something sentimental% 'hen asked what he lea#es to his true lo#e, he responds= , lea#e her hell and fireC This epigram tried to depict what happens to lo#e gone sour% <pigrams ha#e been used throughout the centuries not only to criticiDe but also to promote impro#ement% /ig(rati,e lang(age 8fig&Y11.&a&tive =%;&gwije9: a type of language that varies from the norms of literal language, in which words mean exactly what they say. %lso known as the Oornaments of

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language,O figurative language does not mean exactly what it says, but instead forces the reader to make an imaginative leap in order to comprehend an author)s point. It usually involves a comparison between two things that may not, at first, seem to relate to one another. In a simile, for example, an author may compare a person to an animal: OHe ran like a hare down the streetO is the figurative way to describe the man running and OHe ran very "uickly down the streetO is the literal way to describe him. <igurative language facilitates understanding because it relates something unfamiliar to something familiar. 3ome popular examples of figurative language include a simile and metaphor. gothi+ 8goth&I/9: a literary style popular during the end of the 12th century and the beginning of the 14th. his style usually portrayed fantastic tales dealing with horror, despair, the grotes"ue and other OdarkO subjects. 7othic literature was named for the apparent influence of the dark gothic architecture of the period on the genre. %lso, many of these 7othic tales took places in such OgothicO surroundings, sometimes a dark and stormy castle as shown in ?ary ,ollstoncraft 3helly)s 3rankenstein, or $ram 3toker)s infamous .racula. 1ther times, this story of darkness may occur in a more everyday setting, such as the "uaint house where the man goes mad from the ObeatingO of his guilt in 6dgar %llan Doe)s O he ell& ale HeartO % In essence, these stories were romances, largely due to their love of the imaginary over the logical, and were told from many different point of view. his literature gave birth to many other forms, such as suspense, ghost stories, horror, mystery, and also Doe)s detective stories. 7othic literature wasn)t so different from other genres in form as it was in content and its focus on the OweirdO aspects of life. his movement began to slowly open may people)s eyes to the possible uses of the supernatural in literature. hy"er6ole 8hi&per&bo&lee9: an extravagant exaggeration. <rom the 7reek for Oovercasting,O hyperbole is a figure of speech that is a grossly exaggerated description or statement. In literature, such exaggeration is used for emphasis or vivid descriptions. In drama, hyperbole is "uite common, especially in heroic drama. Hyperbole is a fundamental part of both burles"ue writing and the Ltall talesM from ,estern %merica. he conscious overstatements of these tales are forms of hyperbole. ?any other examples of hyperbole can be found in the romance fiction and comedy genres. Hyperbole is even a part of our day&to&day speech: SYouJve grown like a bean sproutJ or SIJm older than the hills.J Hyperbole is used to increase the effect of a description, whether it is metaphoric or comic. In poetry, hyperbole can emphasi>e or dramati>e a personJs opinions or emotions. 3killed poets use hyperbole to describe intense emotions and mental states. 1thello uses hyperbole to describe his anger at the possibility of Iago lying about his wifeJs infidelity in %ct III, 3cene III of 3hakespeareJs play 1thello:
,f thou dost slander her and torture me, !e#er pray moreE abandon all remorseE 1n horror@s head accumulateE .o deeds to make hea#en weep, all earth amaDedE 3or nothing canst thou to damnation add :reater than that%

In this passage, 1thello is telling Iago that if he is lying then 1thello will have no pity and Iago will have no hope for salvation. %dding horrors with still more horrors, 1thello is describing his potential rage. 1thello even declares that the 6arth will be confounded with horror at 1thelloJs actions in such a state of madness. lyri+ 8=66.&ick9: a lyric is a song&like poem written mainly to express the feelings of emotions or thought from a particular person, thus separating it from narrative poems. hese poems are generally short, averaging roughly twelve to thirty lines, and rarely go beyond sixty lines. hese poems express vivid imagination as well as emotion and all flow fairly concisely. $ecause of this aspect, as well as their steady rhythm, they were often used in song. In fact, most people still see a OlyricO as anything that is sung along to a musical instrument. It is believed that the lyric began in its earliest stage in %ncient 6gypt around !-55 $A in the forms of elegies, odes, or hymns generated out of religious ceremonies. 3ome of the more note&worthy authors who have used the lyric include ,illiam $lake, ,illiam ,ordsworth, *ohn /eats, and ,illiam 3hakespeare&who helped populari>e the sonnet, another type of lyric. he importance of understanding the lyric can best be shown through its remarkable ability to express with such imagination the innermost emotions of the soul. .eta"hor 8met&%H&for9 Ffrom the 7k. carrying one place to another G: a type of figurative language in which a statement is made that says that one thing is something else but, literally, it is not. In

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connecting one object, event, or place, to another, a metaphor can uncover new and intriguing "ualities of the original thing that we may not normally notice or even consider important. ?etaphoric language is used in order to reali>e a new and different meaning. %s an effect, a metaphor functions primarily to increase stylistic colorfulness and variety. ?etaphor is a great contributor to poetry when the reader understands a likeness between two essentially different things. In his )oetics, %ristotle claims that for one to master the use of metaphor is LVa sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an intuitive perception of the similarity in dissimilarsM 8 The )oet's .ictionary9. % metaphor may be found in a simple comparison or largely as the image of an entire poem. <or example, 6mily (ickinsonJs poem L?y =ife had stood W a =oaded 7unM makes use of a series of comparisons between the speaker and a gun. (ickinson opens the work with the following: L?y =ife had stood W a =oaded 7un & C In corners W till a (ay C he 1wner passed W identified & C %nd carried me awayM. 1f course, the narrator is not really a gun. he metaphor carries with it all the "ualities of a L=oaded 7unM. he speaker in the poem is making a series of comparisons between themselves and the "ualities of a gun. he narrator had been waiting a long time before their love found them. he narrator loves her fellow so desperately that she feels as a protective gun that would kill anyone wishing to harm him. o this effect, (ickinson writes, O o foe of His W IJm deadly foe W.O (ickinsonJs poem ends up being one extended comparison through the use of metaphor between herself and a gun with LVbut the power to killM. .etony.y 8me& %H&nah&me9: a figure of speech which substitutes one term with another that is being associated with the that term. % name transfer takes place to demonstrate an association of a whole to a part or how two things are associated in some way. his allows a reader to recogni>e similarities or common features among terms. It may provide a more common meaning to a word. However, it may be a parallel shift that provides basically the same meaningN it is just said another way. <or example, in the book of 7enesis #:14, it refers to %dam by saying that Lby the sweat of your brow, you will eat your food.M 3weat represents the hard labor that %dam will have to endure to produce the food that will sustain his life. he sweat on his brow is a vivid picture of how hard he is working to attain a goal. %nother example is in 7enesis !0:!2 when Isaac tells *acob that L7od will give you...an abundance of grain and new wine.M his grain and wine represents the wealth that *acob will attain by stealing the birth right. hese riches are like money that is for consumption or material possessions to trade for other goods needed for survival. <urthermore, in the play 1thello, %ct I 3cene I features metonymy when Iago refers to 1thello as L the devilM that Lwill make a grandsire of you.M his phrase represents a person that is seen as deceitful or evil. %n understanding of metonymy aids a reader to see how an author interchanges words to further describe a termJs meaning. narrati,e "oe. 8nar&.%H&tiv po&6?9: a poem that tells a story. % narrative poem can come in many forms and styles, both complex and simple, short or long, as long as it tells a story. % few examples of a narrative poem are epics, ballads, and metrical romances. In western literature, narrative poetry dates back to the $abylonian epic of 7ilgamesh and Homer)s epics the Iliad and the 1dyssey. In 6ngland and 3cotland, storytelling poems have long been popularN in the late ?iddle %ges, ballads&or storytelling songs&circulated widely. he art of narrative poetry is difficult in that it re"uires the author to possess the skills of a writer of fiction, the ability to draw characters and settings briefly, to engage attention, and to shape a plot, while calling for all the skills of a poet besides. "ersoni/i+ation XD6.&son&6&fih&ka&sh6n9: % figure of speech where animals, ideas or inorganic objects are given human characteristics. 1ne example of this is *ames 3tephensJs poem O he ,indO in which wind preforms several actions. In the poem 3tephens writes, L he wind stood up and gave a shout. He whistled on his two fingers.M 1f course the wind did not actually Ostand up,O but this image of the wind creates a vivid picture of the wind)s wild actions. %nother example of personification in this poem is L/icked the withered leaves aboutV.%nd thumped the branches with his hand.M Here, the wind is kicking leaves about, just like a person would and using hands to thump branches like a person would also. $y giving human characteristics to things that do not have them, it makes these objects and their actions easier to visuali>e for a reader. $y giving the wind human characteristics, 3tephens makes this poem more interesting and achieves a much more vivid image of the way wind whips around a room. Dersonification is most often used in poetry, coming to popularity during the 12th century. rhy.e 8rime9: repetition of an identical or similarly accented sound or sounds in a work. =yricists may find multiple ways to rhyme within a verse. 6nd rhymes have words that rhyme at the end of a verse&line. Internal rhymes have words that rhyme within it. %lgernon A. 3winburne 812#0& 14549, a rebel and 6nglish poet, used internal rhymes in many of his Bictorian poems such as

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Lsister, my sister, 1 fleet sweet swallow.M here are cross rhymes in which the rhyme occurs at the end of one line and in the middle of the nextN and random rhymes, in which the rhymes seem to occur accidentally in no specific combination, often mixed with unrhymed lines. hese sort of rhymes try to bring a creative edge to verses that usually have perfect rhymes in a se"uential order. Historically, rhyme came into poetry late, showing in the ,estern world around %( !55 in the Ahurch =atin of ;orth %frica. Its popularity grew in ?edieval =atin poetry. he fre"uently used spelling in 6nglish, rYhYyYmYe , comes from a false identification of the 7reek word Lrhythmos.M Its true origin comes from Drovencal, which is a relation to Drovence, a region of <rance. he traditional 3cottish ballad, L6dward,M uses end rhymes to describe what he has done with his sword and property:
And what wul ye doe wi@ your towirs and your ha@ That were sae fair to see, 1,le let thame stand tul they doun fa@ 9hyme gi#es poems flow and rhythm, helping the lyricist tell a story and con#ey a mood%

rhy.e s+he.e 8rime skeem9: the pattern of rhyme used in a poem, generally indicated by matching lowercase letters to show which lines rhyme. he letter OaO notes the first line, and all other lines rhyming with the first line. he first line that does not rhyme with the first, or OaO line, and all others that rhyme with this line, is noted by the letter ObO, and so on. he rhyme scheme may follow a fixed pattern 8as in a sonnet9 or may be arranged freely according to the poet)s re"uirements. he use of a scheme, or pattern, came about before poems were written downN when they were passed along in song or oral poetry. 3ince many of these poems were long, telling of great heroes, battles, and other important cultural events, the rhyme scheme helped with memori>ation. % rhyme scheme also helps give a verse movement, providing a break before changing thoughts. he four&line stan>a, or "uatrain, is usually written with the first line rhyming with the third line, and the second line rhyming with the fourth line, abab. he 6nglish sonnet generally has three "uatrains and a couplet, such as abab, cdcd, efef, gg. he Italian sonnet has two "uatrains and a sestet, or six&line stan>a, such as abba, abba, cde, cde. .hyme schemes were adapted to meet the artistic and expressive needs of the poet. Henry Howard 3urrey is credited with introducing the sonnet form to 6ngland. his form differed from the Italian form because he found that there were fewer rhyming words in 6nglish than there were in Italian.
&hall , compare thee to a summer's dayThou art more lo#ely and more temperate% 9ough winds do shake the darling buds of May% And summer's lease hath all too short a date% </cerpt from &hakespeare's >&onnet FV,,,>, rhyme scheme= a b a b%

si.ile 8sim&6H&lee9: a simile is a type of figurative language, language that does not mean exactly what it says, that makes a comparison between two otherwise unalike objects or ideas by connecting them with the words OlikeO or Oas.O he reader can see a similar connection with the verbs resemble, compare and liken. 3imiles allow an author to emphasi>e a certain characteristic of an object by comparing that object to an unrelated object that is an example of that characteristic. %n example of a simile can be seen in the poem L.obin Hood and %llin a (aleM:
'ith that came in a wealthy knight, 'hich was both gra#e and old, And after him a finikin lass, .id shine like glistening gold%

In this poem, the lass did not literally glisten like gold, but by comparing the lass to the gold the author emphasi>es her beauty, radiance and purity, all things associated with gold. 3imilarly, in ;. 3cott ?omadayJs simple poem, L3imile.M he says that the two characters in the poem are like deer who walk in a single line with their heads high with their ears forward and their eyes watchful. $y comparing the walkers to the nervous deer, ?omaday emphasi>es their care and caution. short story 8short store&ey9: a prose narrative that is brief in nature. he short story also has many of the same characteristics of a novel including characters, setting and plot. However, due to length constraints, these characteristics and devices generally may not be as fully developed or as complex as those developed for a full&length novel. here are many authors well known for the short story including 6dgar %llan Doe, 3herwood %nderson and 6rnest Hemingway. %ccording to the book $iterary Terms by /arl $ecksonand %rthur 7an>, L%merican writers since Doe, who first theori>ed on the structure and purpose of the short story, have paid considerable attention to the

21

formM 8!+09. he written LprotocolM regarding what comprises a short versus a long story is vague. However, a general standard might be that the short story could be read in one sitting. ; AJs .ictionary of $iterary Terms "uotes 6dgar %llan DoeJs description as being Sa short prose narrative, re"uiring from a half&hour to one or two hours in its perusalJ 8!519. Dlease refer to $iterary Terms by /arl $eckson and %rthur 7an> and ; AJs .ictionary of $iterary Terms by /athleen ?orner and .alph .ausch for further information. slant rhy.e 8slZnt rime9 is also known as near rhyme, half rhyme, off rhyme, imperfect rhyme, obli"ue rhyme, or pararhyme. % distinctive system or pattern of metrical structure and verse composition in which two words have only their final consonant sounds and no preceding vowel or consonant sounds in common. Instead of perfect or identical sounds or rhyme, it is the repetition of near or similar sounds or the pairing of accented and unaccented sounds that if both were accented would be perfect rhymes 8stopped and wept, parable and shell9. %lliteration, assonance, and consonance are accepted as slant rhyme due to their usage of sound combinations 8spilled and spoiled, chitter and chatter9. $y not allowing the reader to predict or expect what is coming slant rhyme allows the poet to express things in different or certain ways. 3lant rhyme was most common in the Irish, ,elsh and Icelandic verse and prose long before Henry Baughn used it in 6nglish. ;ot until ,illiam $utler Yeats and 7erald ?anley Hopkins began to use slant rhyme did it become regularly used in 6nglish.,ilfred 1wen was one of the first poets to reali>e the impact of rhyming consonants in a consistent pattern. % ,orld ,ar I soldier he sought a powerful means to convey the harshness of war. /illed in action, his most famous work was written in the year prior to his death.
!ow men will go content with what we spoiled 1r, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled, They will be swift with the swiftness of the tigress% !one will break ranks, though nations trek from progress% "ourage was mine, and , had mystery, 'isdom was mine, and , had mastery= To miss the march of this retreating world ,nto #ain citadels that are not walled%

sonnet 8sonn&I 9: a sonnet is a distinctive poetic style that uses system or pattern of metrical structure and verse composition usually consisting of fourteen lines, arranged in a set rhyme scheme or pattern. here are two main styles of sonnet, the Italian sonnet and the 6nglish sonnet. he Italian or Detrarchan sonnet, named after Detrarch 81#5'&1#0'9 a fourteenth century writer and the best known poet to use this form, was developed by the Italian poet 7uittone of %re>>o 81!#5&1!4'9 in the thirteenth century. :sually written in iambic pentameter, it consists first of an octave, or eight lines, which asks a "uestion or states a problem or proposition and follows the rhyme scheme a&b&b&a, a&b&b&a. he sestet, or last six lines, offers an answer, or a resolution to the proposed problem, and follows the rhyme scheme c&d&e&c&d&e.
'hen , consider how my light is spent <re half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide $odged with me useless, though my soul more bent To ser#e therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chideE >.oth :od e/act day labor, light denied-> , fondly askE but )atience to pre#ent That murmur, soon replies, >:od doth not need <ither man's work or his own giftsE who best ?ear his mild yoke, they ser#e him best% ;is state ,s kingly% Thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest= They also ser#e who only stand and wait%>

*ohn ?ilton, O,hen I Aonsider How ?y =ight Is 3pentO & he sonnet was first brought to 6ngland by homas ,yatt and Henry Howard, 6arl of 3urrey, in the sixteenth century, where the second sonnet form arose. he 6nglish or 3hakespearean sonnet was named after ,illiam 3hakespeare 81+-'&1-1-9 who most believed to the best writer to use the form. %dapting the Italian form to the 6nglish, the octave and sestet were replaced by three "uatrains, each having its own independent rhyme scheme typically rhyming every other line, and ending with a rhyme couplet. Instead of the Italianic break between the octave and the sestet, the break comes between the twelfth and

22

thirteenth lines. he ending couplet is often the main thought change of the poem, and has an epigramatic ending. It follows the rhyme scheme a&b&a&b, c&d&c&d, e&f&e&f, g&g.
Shakes"eare> Sonnet ?:III7 &hall , compare thee to a summer@s dayE Thou art more lo#ely and more temperate= 9ough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer@s lease hath all to short a date= &ometime too hot the eye of hea#en shines, And often is his gold comple/ion dimm@d= And e#ery fair from fair sometime declines, ?y chance, or nature@s changing course, untrimm@d% ?y thy eternal summer shall not fade !or lose possession of that fair thou owestE !or shall .eath brag thou wandered in his shade, 'hen in eternal lines to time thou growest= &o long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, &o long li#es this, and this gi#es life to thee% a b a b c d c d e f e f g g

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A BRIEF 0ISTORY OF T0E EN)LIS0 LAN)UA)E


%dapted from (ouglas <. Hasty
,e speak 6nglish but do we know where it comes fromE ,e did not know until we start to study on this subject and we learn where it comes from and how it has developed. he importance of this part is that we can not understand reading literature if we do not know the history of the language, the culture, and the people. he history of 6nglish begins a little after %.(. -55. he ancestors of the language were wandering in the forests of northern 6urope. heir language was a part of 7ermanic branch of Indo&6uropean <amily. he people talking this language spread to the northern coast of 6urope in the time of .oman 6mpire. %mong this people the tribes called %ngels,3axons,*utes which is called %nglo& 3axons come to 6ngland. he first =atin effect was in that period. =atin effected the language with the merchants traveling the tribes. 3ome of the words taken from =atin areN kettle,wine,cheese, butter, cheap. ,hen %nglo&3axons became Ahristian in +40 they learned =atin. %ccording to the effects to 6nglish, the history of the language divided in to threeN 1ld 6nglish80th century&11559, ?iddle 6nglish81155&1'+5C1+559, ?odern 6nglish 81+55&now9. In some books ?odern 6nglish is divided in to two 6arly modern 81+55&10559, =ate ?odern 81055&now9. ,hen 6ngland was established there were several kingdoms and the most advanced one was ;urthumbria. It was this period that the best of the 1ld 6nglish literature was written, including the epic poem ?eowulf, that is why we must read part of this epic poem. In the 2th century ;urthumbrian power declined, ,est 3axons became the leading power. he most famous king of the ,est 3axons was %lfred the 7reat, who founded and established schools, translated or caused to be translated many books from =atin in to 6nglish. %fter many years of hit&and&run raids between the 6uropean kingdoms, the ;orseman landed in the year of 2-- and later the east coast of the island was ;orsemanJs. ;orse language effected the 6nglish considerably. ;orse wasnJt so different from 6nglish and 6nglish people could understand ;orseman. here were considerable interchanges and word borrowings 8sky,give,law,egg,outlaw,leg,ugly,talk9. %lso borrowed pronouns like they,their,them. It is supposed also that the ;orseman influenced the sound structure and the grammar of 6nglish. %lso in the 1'th century .ome 6mpire weakened because 7oths attacked to ?editerranean countries of .oman 6mpire and %nglo&3axons attacked to empire. 1n the other hand the Aeltic tribes in 3cotland and ,ales developed. %t the end in '15 the last roman emperor left the island to Aeltic and %nglo&3axons. Aeltic and %nglo&3axons fought for 155 years and %nglo&3axons killed all the Aeltics. In ++5 %nglo W3axons established 6ngland. (uring .oma 6mpire =atin was not the native language of the kingdom because people in the country were talking Aeltic. 1ld 6nglish had some sound which we do not know have now. In grammar , 1ld 6nglish was much more highly inflected that ?iddle 6nglish because there were case endings for nouns, more person and number endings of words and a more complicated pronoun systems, various endings for adjectives. In vocabulary 1ld 6nglish is "uiet different from ?iddle 6nglish. ?ost of the 1ld 6nglish words are native 6nglish which were not borrowed from other languages. 1n the other hand 1ld 6nglish contains borrowed words coming from ;orse and =atin. Old English, until 1066 & Immigrants from (enmark and ;, 7ermany arrived in $ritain in the + th and -th Aenturies %.(., speaking in related dialects belonging to the 7ermanic and eutonic branches of the Indo&6uropean language family. oday, 6nglish is most closely related to <lemish, (utch, and 7erman, and is somewhat related to Icelandic, ;orwegian, (anish, and 3wedish. Icelandic, unchanged for 1,555 years, is very close to 1ld 6nglish. Biking invasions, begun in the 2 th Aentury, gave 6nglish a ;orwegian and (anish influence which lasted until the ;orman Aon"uest of 15--. Old English Words& he %ngles came from an angle&shaped land area in contemporary 7ermany. heir name O%ngliO from the =atin and commonly&spoken, pre&+th Aentury 7erman

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mutated into the 1ld 6nglish O6ngleO. =ater, O6ngleO changed to O%ngel&cynO meaning O%ngle& raceO by %.(. 1555, changing to O6ngla&landO. 3ome 1ld 6nglish words which have survived intact include: feet, geese, teeth, men, women, lice, and mice. he modern word OlikeO can be a noun, adjective, verb, and preposition. In 1ld 6nglish, though, the word was different for each type: gelica as a noun, geic as an adjective, lician as a verb, and gelice as a preposition. Middle English, from 1066 until the 15 th Centur & he ;orman Invasion and Aon"uest of $ritain in 15-- and the resulting <rench Aourt of ,illiam the Aon"ueror gave the ;orwegian& (utch influenced 6nglish a ;orman&Darisian&<rench effect. <rom 15-- until about 1'55, =atin, <rench, and 6nglish were spoken. 6nglish almost disappeared entirely into obscurity during this period by the <rench and =atin dominated court and government. However, in 1#-!, the Darliament opened with 6nglish as the language of choice, and the language was saved from extinction. Dresent&day 6nglish is approximately +5[ 7ermanic 86nglish and 3candinavian9 and +5[ .omance 8<rench and =atin9. Middle English Words! ?any new words added to ?iddle 6nglish during this period came from ;orman <rench, Darisian <rench, and 3candinavian. ;orman <rench words imported into ?iddle 6nglish include: catch, wage, warden, reward, and warrant. Darisian <rench gave ?iddle 6nglish: chase, guarantee, regard, guardian, and gage. 3candinavian gave to ?iddle 6nglish the important word of law. 6nglish nobility had titles which were derived from both ?iddle 6nglish and <rench. <rench provided: prince, duke, peer, marGuis, #iscount, and baron. ?iddle 6nglish independently developed king, Gueen, lord, lady, and earl. 7overnmental administrative divisions from <rench include county, city, #illage, 0ustice, palace, mansion, and residence. ?iddle 6nglish words include town, home, house, and hall. E"rl Modern English, from the 15 th Centur to the 17th Centur ! (uring this period, 6nglish became more organi>ed and began to resemble the modern version of 6nglish. %lthough the word order and sentence construction was still slightly different, 6arly ?odern 6nglish was at least recogni>able to the 6arly ?odern 6nglish speaker. <or example, the 1ld 6nglish >To us pleases sailing> became >'e like sailing%> Alassical elements, from 7reek and =atin, profoundly influenced work creation and origin. <rom 7reek, 6arly ?odern 6nglish received grammar, logic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. %lso, the >tele > prefix meaning OfarO later used to develop telephone and tele#ision was taken. Modern English, from the 17th Centur to Modern #imes& ?odern 6nglish developed through the efforts of literary and political writings, where literacy was uniformly found. ?odern 6nglish was heavily influenced by classical usage, the emergence of the university&educated class, 3hakespeare, the common language found in the 6ast ?idlands section of present&day 6ngland, and an organi>ed effort to document and standardi>e 6nglish. Aurrent inflections have remained almost unchanged for '55 years, but sounds of vowels and consonants have changed greatly. %s a result, spelling has also changed considerably. <or example, from 6arly 6nglish to ?odern 6nglish, lyf became life, deel became deal, hoom became home, mone became moon, and hous became house. $d%"nt"ges "nd &is"d%"nt"ges of Modern English & ?odern 6nglish is composed of several languages, with grammar rules, spelling, and word usage both complimenting and competing for clarity. he disadvantages of ?odern 6nglish include: an alphabet which is unable to ade"uately represent all needed sounds without using repeated or combined letters, a limit of !# letters of the !- in the alphabet which can effectively express twice the number of sounds actually needed, and a system of spelling which is not based upon pronunciation but foreign language word origin and countless changes throughout history. he advantages of ?odern 6nglish include: single consonants which are clearly understood and usually represent the same sounds in the same positions, the lack of accent marks found in other languages which permits "uicker writing, and the present spelling displays 6uropean language origins and connections which allows 6uropean language speakers to become immediately aware of thousands of words. Modern English Words ! $ritish 6nglish, known as 3tandard 6nglish or 1xford 6nglish, underwent changes as the coloni>ation of ;orth %merican and the creation of the :nited 3tates occurred. $ritish 6nglish words changed into %merican 6nglish words, such as centre to center, metre to meter, theatre to theater, fa#our to fa#or, honour to honor, labour to labor, neighbour to neighbor, cheGue to check, conne/ion to connection, gaol to 0ail, the storey of a house to story, and tyre for tire. 3ince 1455, words with consistent spelling but different meanings from

25

$ritish 6nglish to %merican 6nglish include: to let for to rent, dual carriageway for di#ided highway, lift for ele#ator, amber for yellow, to ring for to telephone, Debra crossing for pedestrian crossing, and pa#ement for sidewalk. $meri'"n English, from the 18th Centur until Modern #imes& :ntil the 12th Aentury, $ritish and %merican 6nglish were remarkably similar with almost no variance. Immigration to %merica by other 6nglish peoples changed the language by 1055. ;oah ,ebster, author of the first authoritative %merican 6nglish dictionary, created many changes. he > re> endings became > er> and the > our> endings became > or>. 3pelling by pronunciation and personal choice from ,ebster were influences. Cough, (ought, #horough, #hought, "nd #hrough! ,hy do these OoughO words have the same central spelling but are so differentE his is a characteristic of 6nglish, which imported similarly spelled or defined words from different languages over the past 1,555 years. Cough & <rom the ?iddle High 7erman kuchen meaning to breathe hea#ily, to the <rench&1ld 6nglish cohhian, to the ?iddle 6nglish coughen is derived the current word cough. (ought & <rom the 7reek hegeisthai meaning to lead, to the =atin sagire meaning to percei#e keenly, to the 1ld High 7erman suohhen meaning to seek, to the <rench&1ld 6nglish secan, to the ?iddle 6nglish sekken, is derived the past tense sought of the present tense of the verb to seek. #horough & <rom the <rench&1ld 6nglish thurh and thuruh to the ?iddle 6nglish thorow is derived the current word thorough. #hought & <rom the 1ld 6nglish thencan, which is related to the <rench&1ld 6nglish word hoht, which remained the same in ?iddle 6nglish, is derived the current word thought. #hrough &<rom the 3anskrit word tarati, meaning he crossed o#er, came the =atin word, trans meaning across or beyond. $eginning with 1ld High 7erman durh, to the <rench&1ld 6nglish thurh, to the ?iddle 6nglish thurh, thruh, or through, is derived the current word through.

0istory an

Str(+t(re o/ the English Lang(age

)eneral *onsi erations


English the language which originated in 6ngland and is now widely spoken on six continents. It is the primary language of the :nited 3tates, the :nited /ingdom, Aanada, %ustralia, Ireland, ;ew \ealand, and various small island nations in the Aaribbean 3ea and the Dacific 1cean. It is also an official language of India, the Dhilippines, and many countries in sub&3aharan %frica, including 3outh %frica. 6nglish is a member of the western group of the 7ermanic languages 8itself part of the Indo&6uropean language family9 and is closely related to <risian, 7erman, and ;etherlandic 8(utch and <lemish9. In the 1-th century, 6nglish was the mother tongue of only a few million people living in 6ngland, but owing to that nation)s coloni>ation of other parts of the globe and other historical factors, 6nglish was the native language of more than #+5 million people by the late !5th century. It is thus the mother tongue of more people than any other language except ?andarin Ahinese. 6nglish is the most widely taught foreign language and is also the most widely used second language&&i%e%, one that two people communicate in when they cannot understand each other)s native speech. It became the international language of scientific and technical discourse in the !5th century and was also widely adopted for use in business and diplomacy. In the entire world, one person in seven speaks 6nglish as either a primary or secondary language. 6nglish is an analytic 8i%e%, relatively uninflected9 language, whereas Droto&Indo&6uropean, the ancestral tongue of most 6uropean, Iranian, and ;orth Indian languages, is synthetic, or inflected. 8Inflections are changes in the form of words to indicate such distinctions as tense, person, number, and gender.9 1ver thousands of years, 6nglish has lost most of its inflections, while other 6uropean languages have retained more of theirs. Indeed, 6nglish is the only

26

6uropean language in which adjectives have no distinctive endings, aside from determiners and endings denoting degrees of comparison. %nother characteristic is flexibility of function. his means that one word can function as various parts of speech in different contexts. <or example, the word ObookO can be an adjective in Obook review,O a noun in Oread a book,O or a verb in Obook a room.O $ecause other 6uropean languages retain more inflectional endings than does 6nglish, they almost never have this characteristic. % third feature, openness of vocabulary, allows 6nglish to admit words freely from other languages and to create compounds and derivatives. In 6ngland, $ritish .eceived Dronunciation 8.D9 is the usual speech of educated people. In the :nited 3tates, Inland ;orthern 8popularly known as 7eneral %merican9 is commonly used. In both countries, however, other pronunciations are acceptable. $ritish .eceived Dronunciation and %merican Inland ;orthern show several divergences: 819 %fter some vowels %merican has a semiconsonantal glide. 8!9 he vowel in Ocod,O Obox,O and OdockO is pronounced like OawO in $ritish and a sound similar to OahO in %merican. 8#9 he vowel in Obut,O Ocut,O and Orung,O is central in %merican but is fronted in $ritish. 8'9 he vowels in the %merican ObathO and ObadO and in the $ritish ObadO are all pronounced the same, but the vowel in the $ritish ObathO is pronounced like Oah,O since it is before one of the fricatives s, f, or th 8as in OthinO9. 8+9 ,hen a high back vowel is preceded by t, d, or n in $ritish, a glide 8consonantal y9 is inserted between them 8e%g%, Otulip,O OnewsO9N in %merican the glide is omitted. he !' consonantal sounds comprise six stops 8plosives9: p, b, t, d, k, gN the fricatives f, #, th 8as in OthinO9, th 8as in OthenO9, s, D, sh 8as in OshipO9, Dh 8as in Oa>ureO9, and hN two affricatives, ch 8as in OchurchO9 and 0 8as in OjamO9N the nasals m, n, and ng 8as in OyoungO9N the lateral lN the vibrant or retroflex rN and the semivowels y and w. %merican and $ritish consonants have the same pronunciation with two exceptions: 819 ,hen r occurs after a vowel, it is dropped in $ritish but pronounced in %merican. 8!9 % t between two vowels is pronounced like t in OtopO in $ritish, but in %merican the sound is close to that of a d. 6nglish is a strongly stressed language, with four degrees of stress: primary, secondary, tertiary, and weak. % change in stress can change the meaning of a sentence or a phrase. %lthough in comparison with other languages 6nglish stress is less predictable, there is a tendency toward antepenultimate 8third syllable from the last9 primary stress. his is apparent in such five&syllable words as e"uan]mity, longit^dinal, and notor]ety. <rench stress is often sustained in borrowed words, e%g%, bi>_rre, crit]"ue, and hotIl. Ditch, or musical tone, may be falling, rising, or falling&rising. ,ord tone, which is also called pitch, can influence the meaning of a word. 3entence tone is called intonation and is especially important at the end of a sentence. here are three important end&of&sentence intonations: falling, rising, and falling&rising. he falling intonation is used in completed statements, commands, and some "uestions calling for OyesO or OnoO answers. .ising intonation is used in statements made with some reservation, in polite re"uests, and in certain "uestions answerable by OyesO or Ono.O he third type of intonation, first falling and then rising pitch, is used in sentences that imply concessions or contrasts. %merican intonation is less singsong and stays in a narrower range than does $ritish. he words of the 6nglish language can be divided according to their function or form into roughly eight categories, or parts of speech: nouns, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections. ?odern 6nglish nouns, pronouns, and verbs are inflected, but adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections are not. ?ost 6nglish nouns have the plural inflection 8&e9s, though some remain unchanged 8e%g%, deer9. <ive of the seven personal pronouns have separate forms for subject and object. 6nglish verbs are not complex. .egular or weak verbs have only four forms, strong verbs have five, and Oto beO has eight. 3ome verbs ending in t or d have only three forms. $esides employing inflection, 6nglish exhibits two other main morphological 8structural9 processes & affixation and composition & and two subsidiary ones & back&formation and blend. %ffixes, word elements attached to a word, may either precede as prefixes 8pre&, dis&9 or follow as suffixes 8&able, &er9. hey can be native 8over&, &ness9, 7reek 8hyper&9, or =atin 8&ment9. 6nglish makes varied use of affixesN often, many different ones have the same meaning, or the

27

same one has many meanings. 3uffixes are attached more closely to the stem than are prefixes and often remain permanent. Aomposition, or compounding, describes putting two free forms together to form a new word. he new word can differ from the previous forms in phonology, stress, and juncture. <ive types of compounds are defined by describing the relationship of the free forms to each other: 819 a compound in which the first component noun is attributive and modifies the second noun 8 e%g%, cloverleaf, beehive, vineyard9N 8!9 one made up of a noun plus an agent noun, itself consisting of a verb&plus&agent suffix 8e%g%, icebreaker, landowner, timekeeper9N 8#9 a verb plus an object 8e%g%, pastime, scarecrow, daredevil9N 8'9 an attributive adjective plus a noun 8 e%g%, bluebell, grandson, shorthand9N and 8+9 a noun and a present participle 8e%g%, fact&finding, heartrending, life&giving9. $ack&formation, the reverse of affixation, is the analogical formation of a new word falsely assumed to be its derivation. he verbs Oto editO and Oto actO have been formed from the nouns OeditorO and Oactor,O respectively. $lends fall into two groups: 819 coalescences, such as ObashO from ObangO and Osmash,O and 8!9 telescoped forms, called portmanteau words, such as OmotorcadeO from Omotor cavalcade.O In 6nglish syntax, the main device for indicating the relationship between words is word order. In the sentence O he girl loves the boy,O the subject is in initial position, and the object follows the verbN transposing the order of OboyO and OgirlO would change the meaning. In contrast to this system, most other languages use inflections to indicate grammatical relationships. In puerum puella amat, which is the =atin e"uivalent of O he girl loves the boy,O the words can be given in any order 8for example, amat puella puerum9 because the um ending on the form for OboyO 8puerum9 indicates the object of the verb regardless of its position in the sentence. 6nglish sentences generally start with the subject first, followed by the verb and then by the object. %djectives or other single words that modify nouns are placed before the noun, while whole phrases acting as modifiers are usually placed after the noun. %dverbs are normally more mobile than adjectives, and they can occur either before or after the verb they modify. %s their etymology implies, prepositions usually precede nouns, but there are a few exceptions, e%g%, Othe whole world over.O $ecause of the laxity of syntactic principles, 6nglish is a very easy language to speak poorly. 6nglish has the largest vocabulary of any language in the world, chiefly because of its propensity for borrowing and because the ;orman Aon"uest of 6ngland in the 11th century introduced vast numbers of <rench words into the language. he vocabulary of ?odern 6nglish is thus approximately half 7ermanic 81ld 6nglish and 3candinavian9 and half .omance or Italic 8<rench and =atin9, with copious importations from 7reek in science and borrowings from many other languages. %lmost all basic concepts and things come from 1ld 6nglish, or %nglo&3axon, as do most personal pronouns, all auxiliary verbs, most simple prepositions, all conjunctions, and almost all numbers. ?any common nouns, adjectives, and verbs are of 3candinavian origin, a fact due to the 3candinavian invasions of $ritain. he 6nglish language owes a great debt to <rench, which gave it many terms relating to dress and fashion, cuisine, politics, law, society, literature, and art. Aomparison between <rench and 6nglish synonyms reveals the former to be more intellectual and abstract, and the latter more human and concrete. ?any of the 7reek compounds and derivatives in 6nglish have =atin e"uivalents with either similar or considerably different meanings. he 6nglish adopted the !#&letter =atin alphabet, to which they added the letters ', +, and V% <or the most part, 6nglish spelling is based on that of the 1+th century. Dronunciation, however, has changed greatly since then. (uring the 10th and 12th centuries, fixed spellings were adopted, although there have been a few changes since that time. ;umerous attempts have been made to reform 6nglish spelling, most of them unsuccessful. he history of the 6nglish language begins with the migration of the *utes, %ngles, and 3axons from 7ermany and (enmark to $ritain in the +th and -th centuries. heir %nglo&3axon language is known as 1ld 6nglish. he formation of separate kingdoms in $ritain to some extent coincided with the development of the 1ld 6nglish dialects of ;orthumbrian, ?ercian, ,est 3axon, and /entish. ;orthumbrian was in a position of cultural superiority until the destructive Biking raids of the 4th century caused cultural leadership to pass to the ,est 3axon kingdom of ,essex.

28

he ;orman Aon"uest of 15-- set in motion the transition to ?iddle 6nglish. <or the first century after the Aon"uest, a vast number of loanwords entered the 6nglish language from the dialects of northern <rance. he Aon"uest also served to place all four 1ld 6nglish dialects on the same cultural level and to allow them to develop independently. 3o ,est 3axon lost its supremacy, and the centre of culture gradually shifted to =ondon. (uring this ?iddle 6nglish period the ;orthumbrian dialect split into 3cottish and ;orthern, and ?ercian became 6ast and ,est ?idland. %nother outcome of the ;orman Aon"uest was the adoption of the Aarolingian script, then in use on the 6uropean continent, and changes in spelling. he transition from ?iddle to ?odern 6nglish started at the beginning of the 1+th century. his century witnessed three important developments: the rise of =ondon 6nglish, the invention of printing, and the spread of new learning. he .enaissance in 6ngland produced many more scholars who were knowledgeable in foreign languages, especially 7reek and Alassical =atin. heir liberal attitude toward language made possible the introduction of a great number of words into 6nglish. 3cholars generally date the beginning of the ?odern 6nglish period at 1+55. he language was subse"uently standardi>ed through the work of grammarians and the publication of dictionaries, and its vocabulary underwent another vast expansion in the 14th and !5th centuries to accommodate developments in the sciences and technology.

Origins an

Basi+ *hara+teristi+s

6nglish is a ,est 7ermanic language of the Indo&6uropean language family that is closely related to <risian, 7erman, and ;etherlandic languages. 6nglish originated in 6ngland and is now widely spoken on six continents. It is the primary language of the :nited 3tates, the :nited /ingdom, Aanada, %ustralia, Ireland, ;ew \ealand, and various small island nations in the Aaribbean 3ea and the Dacific 1cean. It is also an official language of India, the Dhilippines, and many countries in sub&3aharan %frica, including 3outh %frica. 6nglish belongs to the Indo&6uropean family of languages and is therefore related to most other languages spoken in 6urope and western %sia from Iceland to India. he parent tongue, called Droto&Indo&6uropean, was spoken about +,555 years ago by nomads believed to have roamed the southeast 6uropean plains. 7ermanic, one of the language groups descended from this ancestral speech, is usually divided by scholars into three regional groups: 6ast 8$urgundian, Bandal, and 7othic, all extinct9, ;orth 8Icelandic, <aeroese, ;orwegian, 3wedish, (anish9, and ,est 87erman, ;etherlandic F(utch and <lemishG, <risian, 6nglish9. hough closely related to 6nglish, 7erman remains far more conservative than 6nglish in its retention of a fairly elaborate system of inflections. <risian, spoken by the inhabitants of the (utch province of <riesland and the islands off the west coast of 3chleswig, is the language most nearly related to ?odern 6nglish. Icelandic, which has changed little over the last thousand years, is the living language most nearly resembling 1ld 6nglish in grammatical structure. ?odern 6nglish is analytic 8i%e%, relatively uninflected9, whereas Droto&Indo&6uropean, the ancestral tongue of most of the modern 6uropean languages 8 e%g%, 7erman, <rench, .ussian, 7reek9, was synthetic, or inflected. (uring the course of thousands of years, 6nglish words have been slowly simplified from the inflected variable forms found in 3anskrit, 7reek, =atin, .ussian, and 7erman, toward invariable forms, as in Ahinese and Bietnamese. he 7erman and Ahinese words for OmanO are exemplary. 7erman has five forms: Mann, Mannes, Manne, MHnner, MHnnern. Ahinese has one form: 0en. 6nglish stands in between, with four forms: man, man)s, men, men)s. In 6nglish only nouns, pronouns, and verbs are inflected. %djectives have no inflections aside from the determiners Othis, theseO and Othat, those.O 8 he endings er, est, denoting degrees of comparison, are better regarded as noninflectional suffixes.9 6nglish is the only 6uropean language to employ uninflected adjectivesN e%g%, Othe tall man,O Othe tall woman,O compared to 3panish el hombre alto and la mu0er alta. %s for verbs, if the ?odern 6nglish word ride is compared with the corresponding words in 1ld 6nglish and ?odern 7erman, it will be found that 6nglish now has only five forms 8ride, rides, rode, riding, ridden9, whereas 1ld 6nglish ridan had 1#, and ?odern 7erman reiten has 1- forms. In addition to this simplicity of inflections, 6nglish has two other basic characteristics: flexibility of function and openness of vocabulary. <lexibility of function has grown over the last five centuries as a conse"uence of the loss of inflections. ,ords formerly distinguished as nouns or verbs by differences in their forms are now often used as both nouns and verbs. 1ne can speak, for example, of Oplanning a tableO or

29

Otabling a plan,O Obooking a placeO or Oplacing a book,O Olifting a thumbO or Othumbing a lift.O In the other Indo&6uropean languages, apart from rare exceptions in 3candinavian, nouns and verbs are never identical because of the necessity of separate noun and verb endings. In 6nglish, forms for traditional pronouns, adjectives, and adverbs can also function as nounsN adjectives and adverbs as verbsN and nouns, pronouns, and adverbs as adjectives. 1ne speaks in 6nglish of the <rankfurt $ook <air, but in 7erman one must add the suffix er to the place& name and put attributive and noun together as a compound, <rankfurter $uchmesse. In <rench one has no choice but to construct a phrase involving the use of two prepositions: <oire du =ivre de <rancfort. In 6nglish it is now possible to employ a plural noun as adjunct 8modifier9, as in Owages boardO and Osports editorON or even a conjunctional group, as in Oprices and incomes policyO and Oparks and gardens committee.O 1penness of vocabulary implies both free admission of words from other languages and the ready creation of compounds and derivatives. 6nglish adopts 8without change9 or adapts 8with slight change9 any word really needed to name some new object or to denote some new process. =ike <rench, 3panish, and .ussian, 6nglish fre"uently forms scientific terms from Alassical 7reek word elements. 6nglish possesses a system of orthography that does not always accurately reflect the pronunciation of wordsN this is discussed below in the section 1rthography .

*hara+teristi+s o/ Mo ern English

%honology
$ritish .eceived Dronunciation 8.D9, by definition, the usual speech of educated people living in =ondon and southeastern 6ngland, is one of the many forms of standard speech. 1ther pronunciations, although not standard, are entirely acceptable in their own right on conversational levels. he chief differences between $ritish .eceived Dronunciation, as defined above, and a variety of %merican 6nglish, such as Inland ;orthern 8the speech form of western ;ew 6ngland and its derivatives, often popularly referred to as 7eneral %merican9, are in the pronunciation of certain individual vowels and diphthongs. Inland ;orthern %merican vowels sometimes have semiconsonantal final glides 8i%e%, sounds resembling initial w, for example, or initial y9. %side from the final glides, this %merican dialect shows four divergences from $ritish 6nglish: 819 the words cod, box, dock, hot, and not are pronounced with a short 8or half&long9 low front sound as in $ritish ObardO shortened 8the terms front, back, low, and high refer to the position of the tongue9N 8!9 words such as bud, but, cut, and rung are pronounced with a central vowel as in the unstressed final syllable of OsofaON 8#9 before the fricative sounds s, f, and 8the last of these is the th sound in OthinO9 the long low back vowel a, as in $ritish Obath,O is pronounced as a short front vowel a, as in $ritish ObadON 8'9 high back vowels following the alveolar sounds t and d and the nasal sound n in words such as tulips, dew, and news are pronounced without a glide as in $ritish 6nglishN indeed, the words sound like the $ritish Otwo lips,O Odo,O and Onoo>eO in Osnoo>e.O 8In several %merican dialects, however, these glides do occur9. he !' consonant sounds comprise six stops 8plosives9: p, b, t, d, k, gN the fricatives f, #, 8as in OthinO9, 4eth6 8as in OthenO9, s, D, 8as in OshipO9, 8as in OpleasureO9, and hN two affricatives: t 8as in OchurchO9 and d 8as the 0 in OjamO9N the nasals m, n, 8the sound that occurs at the end of words such as OyoungO9N the lateral lN the vibrant or retroflex rN and the semivowels 0 8often spelled y9 and w. hese remain fairly stable, but Inland ;orthern %merican differs from $ritish 6nglish in two respects: 819 r following vowels is preserved in words such as Odoor,O Oflower,O and Oharmony,O whereas it is lost in $ritishN 8!9 t between vowels is voiced, so that OmetalO and OmatterO sound very much like $ritish OmedalO and Omadder,O although the pronunciation of this t is softer and less aspirated, or breathy, than the d of $ritish 6nglish. =ike .ussian, 6nglish is a strongly stressed language. <our degrees of stress may be differentiated: primary, secondary, tertiary, and weak, which may be indicated, respectively, by acute 8 9, circumflex 89, and grave 89 accent marks and by the breve 8 9. hus, O `ll ma the tr^thO 8the whole truth, and nothing but the truth9 may be contrasted with O `ll mI the trbthO 8whatever you may tell other people9N Obl_ck bcrdO 8any bird black in colour9 may be contrasted with Obl_ckbdrdO 8that particular bird Turdus merula9. he verbs Operm]tO and OrecerdO 8henceforth only primary stresses are marked9 may be contrasted with their corresponding nouns OpIrmitO and OrIcord.O % feeling for

30

antepenultimate 8third syllable from the end9 primary stress, revealed in such five&syllable words as e"uan]mity, longit^dinal, notor]ety, opport^nity, parsimenious, pertin_city, and veget_rian, causes stress to shift when extra syllables are added, as in Ohisterical,O a derivative of Oh]storyO and Otheatric_lity,O a derivative of Othe_trical.O Bowel "ualities are also changed here and in such word groups as pIriod, periedical, period]cityN phetograph, photegraphy, photogr_phical. <rench stress may be sustained in many borrowed wordsN e%g%, bi>_rre, crit]"ue, durIss, hotIl, prest]ge, and techn]"ue. Ditch, or musical tone, determined by the rate of vibration of the vocal cords, may be level, falling, rising, or falling&rising. In counting Oone,O Otwo,O Othree,O Ofour,O one naturally gives level pitch to each of these cardinal numerals. $ut if a person says OI want two, not one,O he naturally gives OtwoO falling pitch and OoneO falling&rising. In the "uestion O1neEO rising pitch is used. ,ord tone is called pitch, and sentence tone is referred to as intonation. he end&of&sentence cadence is important for meaning, and it therefore varies least. hree main end&of&sentence intonations can be distinguished: falling, rising, and falling&rising. <alling intonation is used in completed statements, direct commands, and sometimes in general "uestions unanswerable by OyesO or OnoON e%g%, OI have nothing to add.O O/eep to the right.O O,ho told you thatEO .ising intonation is fre"uently used in open&ended statements made with some reservation, in polite re"uests, and in particular "uestions answerable by OyesO or OnoO: OI have nothing more to say at the moment.O O=et me know how you get on.O O%re you sureEO he third type of end&of& sentence intonation, first falling and then rising pitch, is used in sentences that imply concessions or contrasts: O3ome people do like themO 8but others do not9. O(on)t say I didn)t warn youO 8because that is just what I)m now doing9. Intonation is on the whole less singsong in %merican than in $ritish 6nglish, and there is a narrower range of pitch. %merican speech may seem more monotonous but at the same time may sometimes be clearer and more readily intelligible. 6verywhere 6nglish is spoken, regional dialects display distinctive patterns of intonation.

0istori+al Ba+kgro(n
%mong highlights in the history of the 6nglish language, the following stand out most clearly: the settlement in $ritain of *utes, 3axons, and %ngles in the +th and -th centuriesN the arrival of 3t. %ugustine in +40 and the subse"uent conversion of 6ngland to =atin AhristianityN the Biking invasions of the 4th centuryN the ;orman Aon"uest of 15--N the 3tatute of Dleading in 1#-! 8this re"uired that court proceedings be conducted in 6nglish9N the setting up of Aaxton)s printing press at ,estminster in 1'0-N the full flowering of the .enaissance in the 1-th centuryN the publishing of the /ing *ames $ible in 1-11N the completion of *ohnson)s .ictionary of 10++N and the expansion to ;orth %merica and 3outh %frica in the 10th century and to India, %ustralia, and ;ew \ealand in the 12th.

:o+a6(lary
he vocabulary of ?odern 6nglish is approximately half 7ermanic 81ld 6nglish and 3candinavian9 and half Italic or .omance 8<rench and =atin9, with copious and increasing importations from 7reek in science and technology and with considerable borrowings from (utch, =ow 7erman, Italian, 3panish, 7erman, %rabic, and many other languages. ;ames of basic concepts and things come from 1ld 6nglish or %nglo&3axon: heaven and earth, love and hate, life and death, beginning and end, day and night, month and year, heat and cold, way and path, meadow and stream. Aardinal numerals come from 1ld 6nglish, as do all the ordinal numerals except OsecondO 81ld 6nglish other, which still retains its older meaning in Oevery other dayO9. O3econdO comes from =atin secundus Ofollowing,O through <rench second, related to =atin seGui Oto follow,O as in 6nglish Ose"uence.O <rom 1ld 6nglish come all the personal pronouns 8except Othey,O Otheir,O and Othem,O which are from 3candinavian9, the auxiliary verbs 8except the marginal Oused,O which is from <rench9, most simple prepositions, and all conjunctions. ;umerous nouns would be identical whether they came from 1ld 6nglish or 3candinavian: father, mother, brother 8but not sister9N man, wifeN ground, land, tree, grassN summer, winterN cliff, dale. ?any verbs would also be identical, especially monosyllabic verbs&&bring, come, get, hear, meet, see, set, sit, spin, stand, think. he same is true of the adjectives full and wiseN the colour names gray, green, and whiteN the disjunctive possessives mine and thine 8but not ours

31

and yours9N the terms north and west 8but not south and east9N and the prepositions over and under. *ust a few 6nglish and 3candinavian doublets coexist in current speech: no and nay, yea and ay, from and fro, rear 8 i%e%, to bring up9 and raise, shirt and skirt 8both related to the adjective short9, less and loose. <rom 3candinavian, OlawO was borrowed early, whence Obylaw,O meaning Ovillage law,O and Ooutlaw,O meaning Oman outside the law.O OHusbandO 8 hus bondi9 meant Ohouseholder,O whether single or married, whereas OfellowO 8 fe lagi9 meant one who Olays feeO or shares property with another, and so Opartner, shareholder.O <rom 3candinavian come the common nouns axle 8tree9, band, birth, bloom, crook, dirt, egg, gait, gap, girth, knife, loan, race, rift, root, score, seat, skill, sky, snare, thrift, and windowN the adjectives awkward, flat, happy, ill, loose, rotten, rugged, sly, tight, ugly, weak, and wrongN and many verbs, including call, cast, clasp, clip, crave, die, droop, drown, flit, gape, gasp, glitter, life, rake, rid, scare, scowl, skulk, snub, sprint, thrive, thrust, and want. he debt of the 6nglish language to <rench is large. he terms president, representative, legislature, congress, constitution, and parliament are all <rench. 3o, too, are duke, mar"uis, viscount, and baronN but king, "ueen, lord, lady, earl, and knight are 6nglish. Aity, village, court, palace, manor, mansion, residence, and domicile are <renchN but town, borough, hall, house, bower, room, and home are 6nglish. Aomparison between 6nglish and <rench synonyms shows that the former are more human and concrete, the latter more intellectual and abstractN e%g%, the terms freedom and liberty, friendship and amity, hatred and enmity, love and affection, likelihood and probability, truth and veracity, lying and mendacity. he superiority of <rench cooking is duly recogni>ed by the adoption of such culinary terms as boil, broil, fry, grill, roast, souse, and toast. O$reakfastO is 6nglish, but OdinnerO and OsupperO are <rench. OHuntO is 6nglish, but Ochase,O O"uarry,O Oscent,O and OtrackO are <rench. Araftsmen bear names of 6nglish origin: baker, builder, fisher 8man9, hedger, miller, shepherd, shoemaker, wainwright, and weaver, or webber. ;ames of skilled artisans, however, are <rench: carpenter, draper, haberdasher, joiner, mason, painter, plumber, and tailor. ?any terms relating to dress and fashion, cuisine and viniculture, politics and diplomacy, drama and literature, art and ballet come from <rench. In the spheres of science and technology many terms come from Alassical 7reek through <rench or directly from 7reek. Dioneers in research and development now regard 7reek as a kind of inexhaustible "uarry from which they can draw linguistic material at will. $y prefixing the 7reek adverb tele Ofar away, distantO to the existing compound photography, Olight writing,O they create the precise term OtelephotographyO to denote the photographing of distant objects by means of a special lens. $y inserting the prefix micro OsmallO into this same compound, they make the new term Ophotomicrography,O denoting the electronic photographing of bacteria and viruses. 3uch neo&Hellenic derivatives would probably have been unintelligible to Dlato and %ristotle. ?any 7reek compounds and derivatives have =atin e"uivalents with slight or considerable differentiations in meaning. %t first sight it might appear that some of these e"uivalents, such as OmetamorphosisO and Otransformation,O are sufficiently synonymous to make one or the other redundant. In fact, however, OmetamorphosisO is more technical and therefore more restricted than Otransformation.O In mythology it signifies a magical shape changingN in nature it denotes a postembryonic development such as that of a tadpole into a frog, a cocoon into a silkworm, or a chrysalis into a butterfly. ransformation, on the other hand, means any kind of change from one state to another. 6ver since the 1!th century, when merchants from the ;etherlands made homes in 6ast %nglia, (utch words have infiltrated into ?idland speech. <or centuries a form of =ow 7erman was used by seafaring men in ;orth 3ea ports. 1ld nautical terms still in use include buoy, deck, dock, freebooter, hoist, leak, pump, skipper, and yacht. he (utch in ;ew %msterdam 8later ;ew York9 and adjacent settlements gave the words boss, cookie, dope, snoop, and waffle to %merican speech. he (utch in Aape Drovince gave the terms apartheid, commandeer, commando, spoor, and trek to 3outh %frican speech. he contribution of High 7erman has been on a different level. In the 12th and 14th centuries it lay in technicalities of geology and mineralogy and in abstractions relating to literature, philosophy, and psychology. In the !5th century this contribution has sometimes been indirect. O:nclearO and OmeaningfulO echoed 7erman unklar and bedeutungs#oll, or sinn#oll. O.ing roadO 8a $ritish term applied to roads encircling cities or parts of cities9 translated 9ingstrasseN Oround trip,O 9undfahrtN and Othe turn of the century,O die +ahrhundertwende. he terms Oclassless

32

society,O Oinferiority complex,O and Owishful thinkingO echoed die klassenlIse :esellschaft, der Minderwertigkeitskomple/, and das 'unschdenken. %long with the rest of the ,estern world, 6nglish has accepted Italian as the language of music. he names of voices, parts, performers, instruments, forms of composition, and technical directions are all Italian. ?any of the latter&&allegro, andante, cantabile, crescendo, diminuendo, legato, maestoso, obbligato, pi>>icato, staccato, and vibrato&&are also used metaphorically. In architecture, the terms belvedere, corridor, cupola, grotto, pedestal, pergola, pia>>a, pilaster, and rotunda are acceptedN in literature, burles"ue, canto, extravagan>a, stan>a, and many more are used. <rom 3panish, 6nglish has ac"uired the words armada, cannibal, cigar, galleon, guerrilla, matador, mos"uito, "uadroon, tornado, and vanilla, some of these loanwords going back to the 1-th century, when sea dogs encountered hidalgos on the high seas. ?any names of animals and plants have entered 6nglish from indigenous languages through 3panish: OpotatoO through 3panish patata from aino batata, and OtomatoO through 3panish tomate from ;ahuatl tomatl. 1ther words have entered from =atin %merica by way of exas, ;ew ?exico, %ri>ona, and AaliforniaN e%g%, such words as canyon, cigar, estancia, lasso, mustang, pueblo, and rodeo. 3ome have gathered new connotations: bonan>a, originally denoting Ogoodness,O came through miners) slang to mean Ospectacular windfall, prosperityON mafana, Otomorrow,O ac"uired an undertone of mysterious unpredictability. <rom %rabic through 6uropean 3panish, through <rench from 3panish, through =atin, or occasionally through 7reek, 6nglish has obtained the terms alchemy, alcohol, alembic, algebra, alkali, almanac, arsenal, assassin, attar, a>imuth, cipher, elixir, mos"ue, nadir, naphtha, sugar, syrup, >enith, and >ero. <rom 6gyptian %rabic, 6nglish has recently borrowed the term loofah 8also spelled luffa9. <rom Hebrew, directly or by way of Bulgate =atin, come the terms amen, cherub, hallelujah, manna, messiah, pharisee, rabbi, sabbath, and seraphN jubilee, leviathan, and shibbolethN and, more recently, kosher, and kibbut>. 6nglish has freely adopted and adapted words from many other languages, ac"uiring them sometimes directly and sometimes by devious routes. 6ach word has its own history. he following lists indicate the origins of a number of 6nglish words: ,elsh&&flannel, coracle, cromlech, penguin, eisteddfodN Aornish&&gull, brill, dolmenN 7aelic and Irish&&shamrock, brogue, leprechaun, ogham, ory, galore, blarney, hooligan, clan, claymore, bog, plaid, slogan, sporran, cairn, whisky, pibrochN $reton&&menhirN ;orwegian&&ski, ombudsmanN <innish&&saunaN .ussian&& kvass, ruble, tsar, verst, mammoth, ukase, astrakhan, vodka, samovar, tundra 8from 3ami9, troika, pogrom, duma, soviet, bolshevik, intelligentsia 8from =atin through Dolish9, borscht, balalaika, sputnik, soyu>, salyut, lunokhodN Dolish&&ma>urkaN A>ech&&robotN Hungarian&&goulash, paprikaN Dortuguese&&marmalade, flamingo, molasses, veranda, port 8wine9, dodoN $as"ue&& bi>arreN urkish&&janissary, turban, coffee, kiosk, caviar, pasha, odalis"ue, fe>, boshN Hindi&& nabob, guru, sahib, maharajah, mahatma, pundit, punch 8drink9, juggernaut, cushy, jungle, thug, cheetah, shampoo, chit, dungaree, pucka, gymkhana, mantra, loot, pajamas, dinghy, poloN Dersian&&paradise, divan, purdah, lilac, ba>aar, shah, caravan, chess, salamander, taffeta, shawl, khakiN amil&&pariah, curry, catamaran, mulligatawnyN Ahinese&&tea 8%moy9, sampanN *apanese&& shogun, kimono, mikado, tycoon, hara&kiri, gobang, judo, jujitsu, bushido, samurai, ban>ai, tsunami, satsuma, ;o 8the dance drama9, karate, /abukiN ?alay&&ketchup, sago, bamboo, junk, amuck, orangutan, compound 8fenced area9, raffiaN Dolynesian&&taboo, tattooN Hawaiian&& ukuleleN %frican languages&&chimpan>ee, goober, mumbo jumbo, voodooN Inuit&&kayak, igloo, anorakN Yupik&&muklukN %lgon"uian&&totemN ;ahuatl&&mescalN languages of the Aaribbean&& hammock, hurricane, tobacco, mai>e, iguanaN %boriginal %ustralian&&kangaroo, corroboree, wallaby, wombat, boomerang, paramatta, budgerigar.

Ol

English

he *utes, %ngles, and 3axons lived in *utland, 3chleswig, and Holstein, respectively, before settling in $ritain. %ccording to the Benerable $ede, the first historian of the 6nglish people, the first *utes, Hengist and Horsa, landed at 6bbsfleet in the Isle of hanet in ''4N and the *utes later settled in /ent, southern Hampshire, and the Isle of ,ight. he 3axons occupied the rest of 6ngland south of the hames, as well as modern ?iddlesex and 6ssex. he %ngles eventually took the remainder of 6ngland as far north as the <irth of <orth, including the future 6dinburgh and the 3cottish =owlands. In both =atin and Aommon 7ermanic the %ngles) name was %ngli,

33

later mutated in 1ld 6nglish to 6ngle 8nominative9 and 6ngla 8genitive9. O6ngla landO designated the home of all three tribes collectively, and both /ing %lfred 8known as %lfred the 7reat9 and %bbot %elfric, author and grammarian, subse"uently referred to their speech as 6nglisc. ;evertheless, all the evidence indicates that *utes, %ngles, and 3axons retained their distinctive dialects. he .iver Humber was an important boundary, and the %nglian&speaking region developed two speech groups: to the north of the river, ;orthumbrian, and, to the south, 3outhumbrian, or ?ercian. here were thus four dialects: ;orthumbrian, ?ercian, ,est 3axon, and /entish 8see <igure 1#9. In the 2th century, ;orthumbrian led in literature and culture, but that leadership was destroyed by the Biking invaders, who sacked =indisfarne, an island near the ;orthumbrian mainland, in 04#. hey landed in strength in 2-+. he first raiders were (anes, but they were later joined by ;orwegians from Ireland and the ,estern Isles who settled in modern Aumberland, ,estmorland, northwest Yorkshire, =ancashire, north Aheshire, and the Isle of ?an. In the 4th century, as a result of the ;orwegian invasions, cultural leadership passed from ;orthumbria to ,essex. (uring /ing %lfred)s reign, in the last three decades of the 4th century, ,inchester became the chief centre of learning. here the Darker Ahronicle 8a manuscript of the %nglo&3axon Ahronicle9 was writtenN there the =atin works of the priest and historian Daulus 1rosius, 3t. %ugustine, 3t. 7regory, and the Benerable $ede were translatedN and there the native poetry of ;orthumbria and ?ercia was transcribed into the ,est 3axon dialect. his resulted in ,est 3axon)s becoming Ostandard 1ld 6nglishON and later, when %elfric 8 c% 4++&c% 15159 wrote his lucid and mature prose at ,inchester, Aerne %bbas, and 6ynsham, the hegemony of ,essex was strengthened. In standard 1ld 6nglish, adjectives were inflected as well as nouns, pronouns, and verbs. ;ouns were inflected for four cases 8nominative, genitive, dative, and accusative9 in singular and plural. <ive nouns of first kinship&&faeder, modor, brothor, sweostor, and dohtor 8Ofather,O Omother,O Obrother,O Osister,O and Odaughter,O respectively9&&had their own set of inflections. here were !+ nouns such as mon, men 8Oman,O OmenO9 with mutated, or umlauted, stems. %djectives had strong and weak declensions, the strong showing a mixture of noun and pronoun endings and the weak following the pattern of weak nouns. Dersonal, possessive, demonstrative, interrogative, indefinite, and relative pronouns had full inflections. he pronouns of the 1st and !nd persons still had distinctive dual forms: here were two demonstratives: se, seo, thaet, meaning Othat,O and thes, theos, this, meaning Othis,O but no articles, the definite article being expressed by use of the demonstrative for OthatO or not expressed at all. hus, Othe good manO was se goda mon or plain god mon. he function of the indefinite article was performed by the numeral an OoneO in an mon Oa man,O by the adjective&pronoun sum in sum mon Oa 8certain9 man,O or not expressed, as in thu eart god mon Oyou are a good man.O Berbs had two tenses only 8present&future and past9, three moods 8indicative, subjunctive, and imperative9, two numbers 8singular and plural9, and three persons 81st, !nd, and #rd9. here were two classes of verb stems. 8% verb stem is that part of a verb to which inflectional changes&&changes indicating tense, mood, number, etc.&&are added.9 1ne type of verb stem, called vocalic because an internal vowel shows variations, is exemplified by the verb for OsingO: singan, singth, sang, sungon, gesungen. he word for OdeemO is an example of the other, called consonantal: deman, demth, demde, demdon, gedemed. 3uch verbs are called strong and weak, respectively. %ll new verbs, whether derived from existing verbs or from nouns, belonged to the consonantal type. 3ome verbs of great fre"uency 8antecedents of the modern words Obe,O Oshall,O Owill,O Odo,O Ogo,O Ocan,O Omay,O and so on9 had their own peculiar patterns of inflections. 7rammatical gender persisted throughout the 1ld 6nglish period. *ust as 7ermans now say der 3uss, die ;and, and das Auge 8masculine, feminine, and neuter terms for Othe foot,O Othe hand,O and Othe eyeO9, so, for these same structures, %elfric said se fot, seo hond, and thaet eage, also masculine, feminine, and neuter. he three words for Owoman,O wifmon, cwene, and wif, were masculine, feminine, and neuter, respectively. ;ors Ohorse,O sceap Osheep,O and maegden OmaidenO were all neuter. <orthe OearthO was feminine, but lond OlandO was neuter. &unne OsunO was feminine, but mona OmoonO was masculine. his simplification of grammatical gender resulted from the fact that the gender of 1ld 6nglish substantives was not always indicated by

34

the ending but rather by the terminations of the adjectives and demonstrative pronouns used with the substantives. ,hen these endings were lost, all outward marks of gender disappeared with them. hus, the weakening of inflections and loss of gender occurred together. In the ;orth, where inflections weakened earlier, the marks of gender likewise disappeared first. hey survived in the 3outh as late as the 1'th century. $ecause of the greater use of inflections in 1ld 6nglish, word order was freer than today. he se"uence of subject, verb, and complement was normal, but when there were outer and inner complements the second was put in the dative case after to= &e biscop halgode <adred to cyninge O he bishop consecreated 6dred king.O %fter an introductory adverb or adverbial phrase the verb generally took second place as in modern 7erman: !u bydde ic an thing O;ow I ask Fliterally, Oask IOG one thingON Th ilcan geare gesette Aelfred cyning $undenburg OIn that same year %lfred the king occupied =ondon.O Impersonal verbs had no subject expressed. Infinitives constructed with auxiliary verbs were placed at the ends of clauses or sentences: ;ie ne dorston forth bi thJre ea siglan O hey dared not sail beyond that riverO 8siglan is the infinitive9N ,c wolde thas lytlan boc awendan OI wanted to translate this little bookO 8 awendan is the infinitive9. he verb usually came last in a dependent clause&& e%g%, awritan wile in gif hwa thas boc awritan wile 8gerihte he hie be thJre bysene9 OIf anyone wants to copy this book 8let him correct his copy by the original9.O Drepositions 8or postpositions9 fre"uently followed their objects. ;egation was often repeated for emphasis.

Mi

le English

1ne result of the ;orman Aon"uest of 15-- was to place all four 1ld 6nglish dialects more or less on a level. ,est 3axon lost its supremacy and the centre of culture and learning gradually shifted from ,inchester to =ondon. he old ;orthumbrian dialect became divided into 3cottish and ;orthern, although little is known of either of these divisions before the end of the 1#th century 8<igure 1'9. he old ?ercian dialect was split into 6ast and ,est ?idland. ,est 3axon became slightly diminished in area and was more appropriately named the 3outh ,estern dialect. he /entish dialect was considerably extended and was called 3outh 6astern accordingly. %ll five ?iddle 6nglish dialects 8;orthern, ,est ?idland, 6ast ?idland, 3outh ,estern, and 3outh 6astern9 went their own ways and developed their own characteristics. he so&called /atherine 7roup of writings 81125&1!159, associated with Hereford, a town not far from the ,elsh border, adhered most closely to native traditions, and there is something to be said for regarding this ,est ?idland dialect, least disturbed by <rench and 3candinavian intrusions, as a kind of 3tandard 6nglish in the High ?iddle %ges. %nother outcome of the ;orman Aon"uest was to change the writing of 6nglish from the clear and easily readable insular hand of Irish origin to the delicate Aarolingian script then in use on the Aontinent. ,ith the change in appearance came a change in spelling. ;orman scribes wrote 1ld 6nglish y as u, as ui, u as ou 8ow when final9. hus, mycel 8OmuchO9 appeared as muchel, fr 8OfireO9 as fuir, hus 8OhouseO9 as hous, and hu 8OhowO9 as how. <or the sake of clarity 8 i%e%, legibility9 u was often written o before and after m, n, u, #, and wN and i was sometimes written y before and after m and n. 3o sunu 8OsonO9 appeared as sone and him 8OhimO9 as hym. 1ld 6nglish cw was changed to GuE hw to wh, Gu, or GuhE c to ch or tchE sc to shE cg to gg N and ht to ght. 3o 1ld 6nglish cwen appeared as GueenE hwaet as what, Guat, or GuhatE dic as ditchE scip as shipE secge as seggeN and miht as might. <or the first century after the Aon"uest, most loanwords came from ;ormandy and Dicardy, but with the extension south to the Dyrenees of the %ngevin empire of Henry II 8reigned 11+'&249, other dialects, especially Aentral <rench, or <rancien, contributed to the speech of the aristocracy. %s a result, ?odern 6nglish ac"uired the forms canal, catch, leal, real, reward, wage, warden, and warrant from ;orman <rench side by side with the corresponding forms channel, chase, loyal, royal, regard, gage, guardian, and guarantee, from <rancien. /ing *ohn lost ;ormandy in 1!5'. ,ith the increasing power of the Aapetian kings of Daris, <rancien gradually predominated. ?eanwhile, =atin stood intact as the language of learning. <or three centuries, therefore, the literature of 6ngland was trilingual. Ancrene 9iwle, for instance, a guide or rule 8riwle9 of rare "uality for recluses or anchorites 8ancren9, was disseminated in all three languages. he sounds of the native speech changed slowly. 6ven in late 1ld 6nglish short vowels had been lengthened before ld, rd, mb, and nd, and long vowels had been shortened before all other

35

consonant groups and before double consonants. In early ?iddle 6nglish short vowels of whatever origin were lengthened in the open stressed syllables of disyllabic words. %n open syllable is one ending in a vowel. $oth syllables in 1ld 6nglish nama Oname,O mete Omeat, food,O nosu Onose,O wicu Oweek,O and duru OdoorO were short, and the first syllables, being stressed, were lengthened to name, mete, nose, weke, and dore in the 1#th and 1'th centuries. % similar change occurred in 'th&century =atin, in 1#th&century 7erman, and at different times in other languages. he popular notion has arisen that final mute &e in 6nglish makes a preceding vowel longN in fact, it is the lengthening of the vowel that has caused e to be lost in pronunciation. 1n the other hand, 1ld 6nglish long vowels were shortened in the first syllables of trisyllabic words, even when those syllables were openN e%g%, haligdaeg Oholy day,O Jrende Omessage, errand,O cristendom OAhristianity,O and sutherne Osouthern,O became holiday 8;orthern haliday9, errende, christendom, and sutherne. his principle still operates in current 6nglish. Aompare, for example, trisyllabic derivatives such as the words chastity, criminal, fabulous, gradual, gravity, linear, national, ominous, sanity, and tabulate with the simple nouns and adjectives chaste, crime, fable, grade, grave, line, nation, omen, sane, and table. here were significant variations in verb inflections in the ;orthern, ?idland, and 3outhern dialects. he ;orthern infinitive was already one syllable 8 sing rather than the 1ld 6nglish singan9, whereas the past participle en inflection of 1ld 6nglish was strictly kept. hese apparently contradictory features can be attributed entirely to 3candinavian, in which the final &n of the infinitive was lost early in singa, and the final &n of the past participle was doubled in sunginn. he ;orthern unmutated present participle in & and was also of 3candinavian origin. 1ld 6nglish mutated &ende 87erman &end9 in the present participle had already become inde in late ,est 3axon, and it was this 3outhern & inde that blended with the & ing suffix 87erman &ung9 of nouns of action that had already become near&gerunds in such compound nouns as athswering Ooath swearingO and writingfether Owriting feather, pen.O his blending of present participle and gerund was further helped by the fact that %nglo&;orman and <rench & ant was itself a coalescence of =atin present participles in & antem, entem, and =atin gerunds in andum, endum. he ;orthern second person singular singis was inherited unchanged from Aommon 7ermanic. he final t sound in ?idland est and 3outhern st was excrescent, comparable with the final t in modern OamidstO and OamongstO from older amiddes and amonges. he ;orthern third person singular singis had a "uite different origin. =ike the singis of the plural, it resulted almost casually from an inadvertent retraction of the tongue in enunciation from an interdental th sound to postdental s. oday the form OsingethO survives as a poetic archaism. 3hakespeare used both &eth and &s endings 8OIt FmercyG blesseth him that gives and him that takes,O The Merchant of Venice9. he ?idland present plural inflection & en was taken from the subjunctive. he past participle prefix y developed from the 1ld 6nglish perfective prefix ge . Ahaucer, who was born and died in =ondon, spoke a dialect that was basically 6ast ?idland. Aompared with his contemporaries, he was remarkably modern in his use of language. He was in his early !5s when the 3tatute of Dleading 81#-!9 was passed, by the terms of which all court proceedings were henceforth to be conducted in 6nglish, though Oenrolled in =atin.O Ahaucer himself used four languagesN he read =atin 8Alassical and ?edieval9 and spoke <rench and Italian on his travels. <or his own literary work he deliberately chose 6nglish.

The history o/ Englan /ro. the Nor.an in,asion en+a"s(lates all the .a8or tren s o/ the ti.es7
Dolitically, the ;orman kings and their heirs are the primary locus in 6uropean history where feudalism is converted into a working model of a centrali>ed monarchy. he history of 6ngland all throughout the ?iddle %ges is one, long, almost uninterrupted set of conflicts engendered by the attempt to convert feudalism into monarchy. 1n the one hand are attempts to consolidate the power of the monarch over the power of feudatoriesN on the other hand is the resistance to monarchical aggrandi>ement and the subse"uent assertion of privileges by feudatories over the monarch. he high point of monarchical power was attained during the reign of 6dward I 81!0!& 1#509N the low points of monarchical power were scattered all throughout medieval 6nglish history: the reigns of *ohn, 6dward II, and .ichard II being the bleakest.

36

<rom a cultural standpoint, the history of 6ngland involved a gradual absorption into a larger, 6uropean culture. ,hile %nglo&3axons had been fairly insular and uni"ue culturally and politically, medieval 6ngland came increasingly dominated by continental culture. $y the time of Ahaucer and .ichard II in the late fourteenth century, when 6ngland emerges as a major cultural force in 6urope, very few indigenous %nglo&3axon cultural practices remained in the OhighO culture of 6ngland. he 7erman language of 6ngland, %nglo&3axon, still remained in some of its most essential aspects, but for the most part, the language of 6ngland, ?iddle 6nglish, had more in common with continental languages, particularly <rench. his cultural transformation occurred from the top down, so to speak. he ;ormans brought with them ;orman culture, institutions, and social practices, but did not largely impose these on the native %nglo&3axon populations. $eginning in the 1#th century, however, almost all educated people in 6ngland had learned ;orman, <rench, and =atin cultural modelsTonly a few eccentrics still attached themselves to %nglo&3axon cultural practices.

The Nor.an @ings


,illiam and the ;orman kings who followed him had as their principle objective the breaking of the power of the %nglo&3axon earls and the importation of ;orman feudalism. hey had, however, to make one important modification to feudalismTthe overlord would be the king rather than a duke. hey followed the same model that had been developed in ;ormandyTthe king owned the land under him either directly or indirectly. =and was en/eo//e , that is, granted as a Ofief,O to individual tenants who collected the revenues from this land. In exchange, the tenants&in&chief 8called ObaronsO9 entered into certain obligations with the overlordTthese included revenues and a certain amount of military forces. his system had a complicated set of OprivilegesO: on the one hand, the tenants&in&chief enjoyed a certain autonomy in the administration of lands and its revenueTthis included rights of inheritance, that is, a feudatory was granted to a family rather than to an individual. 1n the other hand, the monarch directly or indirectly owned the land so had a certain claim to the revenues, the land, its inheritability, and to the services and obligations of its tenants. he challenge to the ;orman kings was to convert this system into a working monarchy. In order to maintain centrali>ed authority over the more or less independent tenants, ,illiam retained as monarch the right to collect taxes, coin money, and to oversee the administration of justice. $ut ,illiam did not have a wealth of professional administratorsTsince %nglo&3axon 6ngland largely consisted of a series of independent earldoms, there were very few people capable of carrying out the centrali>ed functions he needed. Dower, then, slowly devolved to the barons he had created. It fell to Henry I 81155&11#+9, ,illiam)s successor, to create a professional class of administrators for the crown. he only real administrators that ,illiam had relied on were the individuals filling the %nglo&3axon office of sheri// who served as the local representative of the king. Henry I, however, turned his court into an administrative bureaucracy by creating special offices. hese court offices would each serve a limited and speciali>ed set of functions so that the office&holders would themselve become efficient administrators in that one area. ?ost significantly, one of these speciali>ed offices was the E-+he'(er, which oversaw the ac"uisition and dispersal of revenues for the crown.

0enry II
In the development of the 6nglish monarchy, the most dramatic events occurred during the reign of Henry II 811+'&11249, the grandson of Henry I. he monarchy had fallen on troubled times, enduring a civil war and contrary claims to the throne. ,hen Henry II came to the throne, he instituted a series of measures designed to consolidate power around the king. he most significant of these measures was the narrowing of privileges granted to the church and to the clergy. ,hile ,illiam and Henry I had managed to gain privileges from the nobility, the church still remained relatively autonomous. Henry)s problem with the .oman church was that it existed outside of the legal system that the 6nglish monarchs were trying to impose across 6ngland. ,hen a member of the clergy committed a crime, that criminal fell under the jurisdiction of the church rather than the king. he criminal would be tried in an ecclesiastical 8OchurchO9 court using canon law of the .oman

37

church, rather than tried in a manorial or state court using the king)s laws. he ecclesiastical judicial system of the .oman church was by and large highly corrupt 8as its remnants in the present day still are9Teven the most heinous crimes, such as murder, resulted in minor penalties imposed by the church court. his not only rankled the king, it threatened the social order and the peace that the king was trying to establish by centrali>ing the judicial system. Henry)s biggest fight, then, was with the church. Henry tried to limit the church courts in 11-' by allowing the church courts to try a clerical criminal but demanding that the criminal be sentenced in a royal court. he %rchbishop of Aanterbury, homas $ecket, refused to yieldThe would later be assassinated by four of Henry)s knights. (espite his failure to bring the church under a centrali>ed judiciary, Henry was one of the most successful kings in 6uropean medieval history to consolidate monarchical power and develop the institution of monarchical government. He greatly expanded the role of the judiciary in the life of the 6nglish. In particular, he charged the sheriff of each region to call before itinerant judges any local person that he pleased in order to "uestion them before the judge. he sheriff would ask these people if they knew of any crimes that had occurred since the last visit of the judge. his practice would eventually evolve into the judicial practice we know as the gran 8(ry. He also introduced the original form of jury trials. In Henry)s time, jury trials were only applied to civil cases involving property. ,hen someone made a complaint of dispossession, the sheriff was empowered to bring before the judge twelve men who were familiar with the case. hese men would then tell the judge what they knew of the case and would give their opinion as to the truth of the complaint or the defense. his twelve man testimonial would eventually develop into the civil and criminal jury trial. hese were significant innovations in many ways. <irst, they e"uali>ed the law in a profound way. Deople with little power could make complaints against more powerful people and prevailT this made the judicial something that people supported and sought after. In addition, the use of the twelve men expanded participation in the judiciary and in government to more than just the monarch, his ministers, and the powerful barons. 7overnment was now partly in the hands of common peopleTthus would begin a growing interest among more and more classes in the conduct of government. <inally, Henry)s innovations created a more or less independent bureaucracy that, in the hands of a well&trained administrative staff, could run the central government no matter who was king. %nd that)s what happened when Henry II died. He was succeeded by his son, .ichard I 81124& 11449, who, because of his interest in the Arusades, spent all of six months in 6ngland during his ten year reign. 6ven in his absence, the government ran efficiently. In fact, it got even more efficient as the administrative beauracracy was able to develop without the interference of the king.

Magna *arta
It was during the reign of .ichard)s successor, *ohn 81144&1!1'9, that the steady development of monarchical authority was partly checked. %s with his predecessors, *ohn ruled not only 6ngland as a monarch, but he also ruled much of <rance as a vassal of the <rench king. his rankled the <rench kings all during the reigns of the early ;orman kings. $y 1!5', the <rench king, Dhilip %ugustus, retook for <rance the lands that *ohn ruled in ;ormandy. In Dhilip %ugustus, *ohn faced one of the most capable military and administrative kings in <rench historyThe was dealt defeat after defeat in his attempt to first defend and then regain his lands. <ed up with his war in <rance, *ohn)s nobles resented the power of the king to raise money for what they felt was a losing war. In the famous Magna *arta of 1!1+, they forced the king to sign a charter that renounced much of his power. he ?agna Aarta was not really a document about rights, it was a document about limiting monarchical government and the power of the king. <irst and foremost, it revoked the right of the king to raise revenues independentlyTin order to raise revenues, the king first had to obtain permission from his vassals. he document also limited the power of the king)s judges arbitrarily to try and sentence free menN all free men could only be tried and sentenced by their e"uals. <inally, it created a council of vassals that could approve or disapprove of the king)s revenue raisingN this council would eventually develop

38

into the Darliament. he great experiment with monarchy in 6urope was entering a new phaseT the first involved the creation of monarchical power and the institutions to run itN the second phased involved the creation of institutions to check and limit the growing power of the monarch. 6verything was in place now for the subse"uent history of government in 6urope.

E 1ar

he most powerful king in medieval 6nglish history was 6dward I 81!0!&1#509, an aggressive, warrior king that not only consolidated power in 6ngland but through wars of con"uest became the first king of all of $ritain, albeit briefly. 1f all the medieval monarchs in 6urope, 6dward was perhaps the most brilliant at consolidating power. he institution he invented to achieve this end was %arlia.ent, or O alking.O he purpose of Darliament was to gather all the major vassals of the king in one place, explain to them the reasons for collecting taxes, get their approval, and then discuss methods of collection. ,hile this may seem to be an expansion of the role of the barons in government, it was actually the opposite. he entire purpose of the development of Darliament was efficiency , the rapid generation of consensus among the nobility, none of whom really were in a position to challenge the king. 6ventually, however, after the reign of 6dward, the Darliament would develop as a powerful check on the monarch)s powerTthis was not 6dward)s intention or practice. 6dward)s Darliament included more than nobilityThe had the genius to include knights and other commoners to represent local counties at the Darliament. hese commoners probably had no role at all in the Darliament, but the practice was enormously effective as propaganda. =ocal commoners were not only presented with an awe&inspiring theater of power at the court, but they also were being given propaganda and reasons for taxation on themselves and the people they represented. Aommoners would eventually become an integral part of Darliament and develop their own independence from the nobility in DarliamentTsuffice it to say here, though, that the inclusion of commoners was part of the trend of increasing participation in the monarchical and local government by more people begun by the earliest ;orman kings. 6dward made the most determined assault on baronial power among all the 6nglish kings. He instituted a series of proceedings called '(o 1arranto proceedings 8Oby what warrantO9Tthese proceedings would systematically "uestion by what warrant nobles had certain privileges and rights from the king. If there was no warrant for these privileges, they were revoked and granted to the monarch. he result was a massive consolidation of power in the king)s hands. %mong other innovations was 6dward)s practice of issuing stat(tes, which were pieces of public legislation arbitrarily imposed on the entire kingdom by the will of the king. 6dward needed an efficient system for raising revenues for his constant warfare. 1n the continent he fought against the <rench king for 7ascony, a territory under his control that had been sei>ed by the <rench king. It was a useless war fought from 1!4'&1#5# that simply resulted in 7ascony being returned to 6dward as a vassal. His most significant wars, however, were against ,ales and 3cotland. $oth of these Aeltic countries were independent of 6nglandT ,ales was a principality ruled by the Drince of ,ales and 3cotland was a monarchy. However, in both ,ales and 3cotland a substantial number of the nobility were %nglo&;orman rather than ,elsh or 3cottish. ,hile they were nominally under the Drince of ,ales or the 3cottish king, most of them had closer cultural ties with 6ngland and the ;ormans. It was with their help that he con"uered ,ales and brought it under his control. It was a different set&up than the 6nglish feudal systemT,ales was a system of more or less independent lordships that were vassals of the king. 3cotland, however, was a much more difficult matter. ,hen the 3cottish king, %lexander III, died in 1!45 without an heir, two nobles stepped forward to claim the throne: *ohn $alliol and .obert $ruce, both %nglo&;orman lords in 3cotland. he 3cots turned to 6dward to resolve the dispute, which he agreed to do if the disputer were settled using 6nglish and if he was made regent of 3cotland until a decision was made. 3o, without shedding any blood, 6dward became the overlord of 3cotland. ,hen the 6nglish finally declared *ohn $alliol king, many of the 3cottish nobles preferred being under 6dward. ,hen $alliol, however, allied with the <rench, 6dward invaded and con"uered 3cotland in 1!4-. $ut 3cotland was to hard to holdTtwo major

39

rebellions, one led by ,illiam ,allace and the second by .obert $ruce, the grandson of the $ruce that claimed the throne, temporarily expelled 6dward from 3cotland.

The A!BB4s
he history of the monarchy after 6dward I involved the steady dissolution of monarchical power at the hands of restive nobility. 6ngland suffered many major shocks throughout this century: the $lack (eath, wars with <rance, and Deasant revolts. $y 1'55, 6ngland had developed its own uni"ue system of government through checks on the monarch)s power and the further development of judiciary practices. 6dward I was succeeded by his son, 6dward II 81#50&1##59, who on account of his arbitrary government and his favoring of often corrupt councilors, inspired a major revolt by the nobility. he reign of 6dward III 81##5&1#009 was largely occupied with fighting in <rance to regain possessions sei>ed by the <rench kingTthese series of skirmishes, which lasted until 1'+# were known as the 0(n re Years 5ar. he end result of would be the permanent expulsion of 6nglish power from the continent. =ife changed dramatically after the advent of the $lack (eath in 1#'4, to say the least. <or 6ngland and the rest of 6urope, the (eath meant a startling decrease in labor and a subse"uent rise in the value of labor. In the early years, a substantial amount of wealth was redistributed from the nobility downwardsTmost importantly, the value of labor inspired people to uproot themselves and relocate. he social conse"uences would be tremendous and begin to produce a OcommonerO culture of remarkable resiliency and diffusion all throughout 6ngland. his commoner culture would produce a body of literature and music as well as a sensibility that would eventually diffuse into court and higher culture. he first major 6nglish literary figure, 7eoffrey Ahaucer, would in part draw on models and sensibilities of this lower culture. ?ost importantly, the $lack (eath changed the economy of 6ngland. hroughout the entire period of ;orman rule the economy centered, entirely, on agriculture with some export of raw materials, such as wool. %griculture was dominated by the landed nobility who collected rents from tenants lower on the hierarchy. he entire structure was built on the shoulders of the ,illein who received the smallest share of arable land. he villein was tied to the land that he farmed, which was often barely enough to provide for his family)s survival. He paid a certain amount of his crop as rent but he also paid in labor. He was forced to work a certain amount of time on the lands of the nobility who collected all the revenues from these lands. his was a phenomenally lucrative system for the landholders but was a desperate and torturous existence for villein. ,ith the (eath, however, landholders found themselves desperately short of villeins to work their lands. In addition, the shortage of labor induced many villeins to run away and look for more gainful employment on other lands as wage laborers or to seek work in the cities. 6ven though it was a serious crime to run away 8the villeins were in effect slaves9, the prospect of a more secure life was inducement enough. ,ith the loss of villeins, the landholders had to resort to wage labor, which was considerably more expensive, particularly in the light of falling food prices because of lowered demandK he landholders solved the problem in two ways: the first was by converting their lands to rented lands. $y 1+55, almost no landholders were using their own lands but had rented them all out. he second and most innovative approach was to stop growing crops but instead use the land to gra>e sheep for woolTthis practice was called OenclosureO since the land would be enclosed to keep the sheep in. 6nclosure turned out to be an even more lucrative use of the land and all throughout the later fourteenth and fifteenth centuries massive amounts of land were converted from agriculture to sheep&raising. he phenomenal increase in wool production made 6ngland one of the centers of 6uropean commerce. $ut the 6nglish soon turned from exporting raw wool to exporting finished cloth. ,hy, after all, collect money from exporting wool only to have to pay it out again for the finished clothE $y the end of the fifteenth century, 6ngland had become the major manufacturing commercial power of 6urope primarily because of the growth of the cloth industry. he conversion of the 6nglish economy to a commercial and manufacturing economy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries contributed to the growth of a new commoner class, what we would call the middle class. hese commoners sometimes attained incredible wealth not only through trade and manufacturing, but often as renters on agricultural land.

40

he reign of .ichard II 81#00&1#449, who came to the throne as a boy, was marked by arbitrary use of power and extreme efforts of the nobility to check the power of the king. 3o troubled was the reign, that .ichard was the first king to be deposed by a rebellion, that of Henry $olingbroke, who usurped the throne to become Henry IB. It was during the later years of 6dward III and the reign of .ichard II that 6ngland emerged as potent cultural force in 6urope. 3ome %nglo&3axon practices still hung on, such as the writing of alliterative poetry, that is, poetry whose meter is marked by alliteration or the use of identical consonants to begin words. 1n the whole, however, 6ngland developed a distinct culture using <rench and classical models as well as a new, growing commoner culture. Aombined with both of these was a new and innovative anti&clericalism that gaine dramatic cultural force in the latter part of the fourteenth century. he .oman church had never truly brought about ecclesiastical unity in 6urope. In the early period, several different practices and theologies vied with one another, the most significant being the conflict between the Aeltic and the continental churches. ?oreover, the eastern 6uropean areas never fell under .oman controlTa separate church, the church of $y>antium, exercised spiritual and political authority over these Ahristians. he .oman church in the ,est was a powerful medium through which a common 6uropean culture was forged and was instrumental in bringing first %nglo&3axon and then %nglo&;orman culture into the 6uropean mainstream. $ut the .oman church was also hopelessly corrupt. It was largely run according to the social models of 6uropeTthe hierarchy of the church mirrored the hierarchy of society. In fact, the top of the church hierarchy was drawn almost entirely from 6uropean nobles. he church concentrated its energies on the top of the hierarchy and on the various monasteries, which for all practical purposes were the e"uivalent of noble estates and practiced the same kind of slave laborTthe use of villeins to farm monastic landsTthat the 6nglish manors used. %lmost no resources were devoted to the village, the town, and the commoner. Alergy at this level were desperately poor and lived a hand&to&mouth existence selling prayers and other sacraments. It was inevitable that the hierarchy and wealth of the church, its manifest meddling in commerce and politics, its cruel disdain for the lowest levels of society, and the added insult of the relative immunity of clergy from criminal prosecution, would all eventually produce strong reactions against the church and the clergyTthis anti&clerical feeling during the ?iddle %ges reached its height in 6ngland. he reaction to the church ranged from aggressive denunciations of the entire institution to stinging criti"ues of church clergy that still upheld the legitimacy of the church itself. he most famous and important of the anti&clerical agitators was Cohn 5y+li// who originally began his career as a doctor of divinity at 1xford in the 1#-5)s and speculated on such abstruse "uestions as the nature of universals. He soon, however, developed strong criti"ues of the church and eventually assumed in the late 1#05)s a revolutionary stance towards the church. He rejected all church hierarchy and declared that the Ahristian consisted of the people who had faith but did not consist of the church hierarchy 8this would eventually become the Opriesthood of all believersO in ?artin =uther9. He rejected transubstantiation as a legitimate doctrine 8the idea that the bread and wine of the 6ucharist actually change into the body and blood of Ahrist9, arguing that there is no 3criptural authority for this. He also argued that the $ible should be translated into vernacular languages, that it does no good to read from the $ible in a language that most Ahristians can)t understand. o this end, he produced the first 6nglish $ible. hese and other heretical doctrines landed him in a world of trouble, but he was protected by powerful nobles who used them for their own political ends. His most revolutionary idea, however, lost him the protection of even the nobility. He argued that all human authority comes from 7od)s grace alone. his doctrine of Oauthority through graceO allowed him to argue that no corrupt official or authority should be obeyed. If a priest, bishop, or pope were corrupt, parishioners were justified in opposing any authority exercised by that church officialTthe judgement of such corruption lay with the conscience of the believer. his was not only a radical challenge to the church, it also "uickly became a radical challenge to secular authority as well. ,ycliff)s radical ideas led to a distinct anti&clerical movement in 6ngland: Lollar ry. =ollard ideas in part impelled the Deasant)s .ebellion of 1#21 and would surface in the remainder of the

41

century. ,hile =ollardry was effectively stamped out in the early 1'55)s, it re&emerged with a vengeance when Drotestantism was introduced into 6ngland in the 1+15)s. =ollard ideas, however, did diffuse across the continent and many of the theological and social ideas of the Drotestant .eformation are traceable back to the hapless =ollards. he most important thing about =ollardry and the general anti&clericalism of the fourteenth century is that it founded a new culture deliberately resistant to the dominant, homogeni>ing culture of the church. his new anti&clerical culture led a number of theologians, writers, and poets in 6ngland to begin to speculate about the nature of society, government, economics and human institutions and to forge radically new ideas on all these fronts. %ny speculation about the legitimacy of political power would have landed the writer in serious troubleN church government, however, was relatively open to criticism and it was here that the critical tradition in 6uropean political theory developed, and in no place in 6urope did it develop as strongly as it did in medieval 6ngland. he anti&clerical culture was not so much a theological or even a doctrinal cultureTit was a moral and political culture in part forged out of the increasing role that all individuals were playing in 6nglish government. %nti&clerical culture manifested itself in religious works, such as )iers )lowman written by a desperately poor cleric named ,illiam =angland, in mystical literature such as The ?ook of Margery *empe , and in an entire corpus of secular literature and practices. ;o individual better represents this new cultural fusion of 6uropean, commoner, and anti& clerical culture than )eo//rey *ha(+er 81#'#&1'559. His earliest writings imported Italian and <rench models into 6nglish literature, but his greatest work was The "anterbury Tales, which fused a number of cultural forms and anti&clerical criticism in a series of stories narrated by a cross&section of 6nglish culture. he emergence of Ahaucer as a major literary figure points to another vital change in 6nglish culture in the fourteenth century: the emergence of English as an official and a literary language. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the language of government was primarily <rench in spoken language and =atin in written language. he literary language of early ;orman 6ngland was ;orman <renchTa number of the earliest masterpieces of 6nglish literature are in actuality <rench. In the fourteenth century, however, 6nglish became the spoken language of government and in part replaced =atin as the official written language. =iterature in 6nglish began to thrive from the middle of the fourteenth century onwards and culminated in the career of Ahaucer and ,ycliff)s translation of the $ible. $y 1'55, 6nglish had become the language of 6ngland. his 6nglish, however, was substantially different from the 6nglish spoken before the ;orman invasion. he 6nglish of the %nglo&3axon period, called O1ld 6nglish,O was completely a 7ermanic language that had more in common with the 7ermanic languages spoken on the continent than it had with modern 6nglish. he ;orman invasion, however, introduced a long period in which ;orman <rench and %nglo&3axon existed side&by&side. he result was a curious mix of the two languages, in fact, almost a lingua franca, that produced the 6nglish of the fourteenth century. his was an 6nglish that used many 7ermanic forms but was dominated by <rench words and a <rench world view.

The Lan+asters
,hen Henry $olingbroke deposed .ichard II, he declared himself king of 6ngland as Henry IB on a very tenuous claim to the throne. his was a radical departure in 6nglish history that would determine historical practices for the next hundred years and beyond. $ecause Henry had provided the precedent for deposing a king, it soon became evident that the monarchy could be claimed through any vague connection if the claimant had sufficient arms to enforce the claim. he history of the fifteenth century is one long, dismal history of the problems created by Henry)s usurpation. he problems began immediately. Henry spent most of his reign putting down a rebellion first by a ,elsh nobleman, 1wen 7lyndwr, and then later by powerful 6nglish magnates. His son, however, who reigned as Henry B 81'1#&1'!!9, was determined to regain 6nglish rights of the <rench areas of ;ormandy and 7ascon. o this end, he launched an invasion of <rance

42

which soon gained him all the territory the 6nglish had lost in these areas. He was helped by two major accidents. he first was an all&out schism in <rench government between the (uke of $urgundy and son of the /ing, Aharles BI. $oth claimed the throne and Henry took advantage of this division. he second accident was the use of longbow archers against the <rench forces that were primarily cavalry and infantry. $ecause the longbow archers could fire from a distance and rearm themselves "uickly after releasing a volley, the <rench forces fell "uickly. %t the end of his con"uests, Henry extorted two things from Aharles BI: he was married to Aharles) daughter Aatherine and the <rench king ceded the throne upon his death to the child of Henry and Aatherine. ,hen Henry B died of an illness in 1#!! at the age of #+, their nine&month old child, Henry BI, became the first and only king of both 6ngland and <rance. he invasions of Henry and the steady loss of <rench territories under Henry BI comprise what historians call the 0(n re Years 5ar. he 6nglish held on to their possessions until 1'!4 when, under the inspired leadership of a teenage girl, *oan of %rc, the <rench rallied against the 6nglish and their $urgundian allies. ,hen the (uke of $urgund reallied himself with the <rench, the tide of battle turned distinctively against the 6nglish. Henry B had the benefit of a politically divided <ranceN the 6nglish now faced a rival, <rench claimant to the throneTthe Da("hin, the son of Aharles BITbacked by a unified <rance. $y 1'+#, the 6nglish were permanently kicked out of <rance except for the town of Aalais. Henry BI was the youngest man to become king of 6ngland and reigned an immensely long time. His reign, however, was generally marked by his non&presence as a king since he despised warfare and had no interest in government. he government instead fell to his magnates and to his wife, ?argaret of %njou. his began a period of severe rivalries between magnates that would eventually erupt into the ,ars of the .oses.

The 5ars o/ the Roses


he O,ars of the .osesO is somewhat of a misnomer. he name refers to the symbols used to represent the two major factionsTthe Yorks represented themselves with the symbol of the white rose and the udors represented themselves with a red rose. It wasn)t until the end of the struggle, however, that the udors adopted the red rose to distinguish themselves from the Yorks. ;or were these really wars, but rather a series of small, albeit decisive, skirmishes between various magnates. he issue, of course, owed its origins to Henry $olingbroke)s usurpation of the crown. here were several nobles and families who had better claims to the throne and Henry had introduced the dangerous precedent that the crown belonged to whoever could sei>e it. he non&presence of Henry BI as a king was even more decisive. 3ince the government fell to a cli"ue of nobles surrounding ?argaret of %njou, those nobles who felt left out were bitter and rebellious. he one having the greatest cause for bitterness was .ichard, (uke of York. It was not just simply that .ichard had a better claim to the throneN it was that Henry BI had proven himself useless as a king. ,hen Henry BI went mad in 1'+#, .ichard managed to get himself declared the Drotector of the .ealmTin executive functions, he was the e"uivalent of the king. He then surrounded the monarch)s government with fellow Yorkists and allies and he arrested the major figures in Henry)s court. %fter the king regained his sanity, the first major battle occurred between .ichard and these rival court governors. his first battle, fought at 3aint %lbans, is traditionally reckoned as the start of the ,ars of the .oses. $y 1'-5, however, .ichard controlled the government and, in an incredibly audacious move, declared himself to be king of 6ngland since Henry was both unfit and was the descendant of a usurper. he nobility, however, backed off of this proposal and promised .ichard the crown after the death of Henry. $ut Henry didn)t die soon enoughTwhen .ichard died, the succession fell to his son, 6dward IB. 6dward IB 81'-1&1'2#9 did what .ichard couldn)t do: he deposed Henry throne of 6ngland. He could never really consolidate his rule, however, and aggressive restiveness from his brother, 7eorge, the (uke of Alarence resistance from his other brother, .ichard, the (uke of 7loucester. In 1'01, and assumed the faced intense and and slightly less ?argaret of %njou

43

and Henry BI landed with an invasion force and temporarily retook the crown for a couple months. his was soon overcome by 6dward and Henry died in prison, old, mad, and broken. 1n the death of 6dward in 1'2#, the succession fell to his son, 6dward B. $ut 6dward B was only twelve years old, so the Drotectorate fell to his uncle, .ichard, (uke of 7loucester. .ichard, following the traditions set down by Henry IB, .ichard, (uke of York, his father, and his brother 6dward, sei>ed the throne rapidly and efficiently. He imprisoned the two sons of 6dward and may even have had them executed 8it is more likely that Henry udor executed them9. he throne was usurped yet again in less than a hundred years. $y all accounts, .ichard III was an extremely effective administrator, militarily brilliant, and of immense physical courage. His assumption of the crown, however, was challenged immediately from several sides. His two year reign consisted entirely of fighting rebellions, including an early, indirect rebellion to put Henry udor on the throne. ,hen this rebellion failed, Henry udor took matters into his own hands and directly confronted .ichard. Henry had only the most tenuous claim to the throne and the udor monarchs would spend the next hundred years propagandi>ing that tenuous claim. he last fight of this rebellion, at $osworth in 1'2+, resulted in the death of .ichard. % new usurper, Henry udor took the throne as Henry BII just as 6urope was entering the modern period.
"opyright K 1LLM 2555 <ncyclopJdia ?ritannica, ,nc% Medie#al <ngland by 9ichard ;ooker

44

LITERARY %ERIODS OF BRITIS0 AND AMERI*AN LITERATURE - SUMMARY


Deriods in literature are named for rulers, historical events, intellectual or political or religious movements, or artistic styles. ?ost literary periods therefore have multiple names. ,hat)s worse, some of these names are debated. Is the later 10 th Aentury the $aro"ue eraE he term baroGue is an intractable term derived from art criticism, though it may usefully be applicable to some writers as well. Is the early 10th Aentury the 3hakespearean eraE Is it the ?annerist eraE How widely do we wish to apply the term 6li>abethan periodE 1ther "uestions arise. (oes .omanticism begin with ,ordsworthE ,ith $lakeE In addition, .omanticism has various dates according to the national literature we refer to. In the separate art forms && music, painting, and even some literary genres && the dates may vary yet more. .ecent histories of literature and the latest !orton Anthology of <nglish $iterature offer the latest examples of terms applied to literary periods.

%erio s o/ British Literat(re


DBB-AEBB Ol AEBB-AFBB Mi English <Anglo-Sa-on= le English ?eowulf 7eoffrey Ahaucer

AFBB-ADDB The English Renaissan+e AFBB-AFF# AFF#-ADB! T( or %erio Eli2a6ethan %erio Humanist 6ra High .enaissance homas ?ore, *ohn 3kelton 6dmund 3penser, 3ir Dhilip 3idney, ,illiam 3hakespeare ADB!-ADEF Ca+o6ean %erio ?annerist 3tyle 81+45& 1-'59 other styles: ?etaphysical DoetsN (evotional Doets 3hakespeare, *ohn (onne, 7eorge Herbert, 6milia =anyer *ohn <ord, *ohn ?ilton $aro"ue 3tyle, and later, .ococo 3tyle ?ilton, %ndrew ?arvell, homas Hobbes

ADEF-ADG$ ADG$-ADDB

*aroline %erio The *o..on1ealth H The %rote+torate The Restoration The Eighteenth *ent(ry he 6nlightenmentN ;eoclassical DeriodN he %ugustan %ge

ADDB-AIBB AIBB-A#BB

*ohn (ryden %lexander Dope, *onathan 3wift, 3amuel *ohnson

AI#F-A#!B

Ro.anti+is.

he %ge of .evolution

,illiam ,ordsworth, 3. . Aoleridge, *ane %usten, the $rontgs Aharles (ickens, 7eorge 6liot, .obert $rowning, %lfred, =ord ennyson 7.?. Hopkins, H.7. ,ells, *ames *oyce, (.H. =awrence, .3. 6liot ed Hughes, (oris =essing, *ohn <owles, (on (e=illo, %.3. $yatt

A#!B-A$BA

:i+torian %erio

6arly, ?iddle and =ate Bictorian


he 6dwardian 6ra 81451& 14159N he 7eorgian 6ra 81415&141'9

A$BA-A$DB

Mo ern %erio

14-5&

%ost.o ern an *onte."orary %erio

45

he Ol English %erio or the Anglo-Sa-on %erio refers to the literature produced from the invasion of Aeltic 6ngland by 7ermanic tribes in the first half of the fifth century to the con"uest of 6ngland in 15-- by ,illiam the Aon"ueror. (uring the Ol English %erio , written literature began to develop from oral tradition, and in the eighth century poetry written in the vernacular %nglo 3axon or 1ld 6nglish appeared. 1ne of the most well&known eighth century 1ld 6nglish pieces of literature is $eowulf, a great 7ermanic epic poem. wo poets of 1ld 6nglish Deriod who wrote on biblical and religious themes were Aaedmon and Aynewulf. he Mi le English %erio consists of the literature produced in the four and a half centuries between the ;orman Aon"uest of 15-- and about 1+55, when the standard literary language, derived from the dialect of the =ondon area, became recogni>able as Omodern 6nglish.O Drior to the second half of the fourteenth century, vernacular literature consisted primarily of religious writings. he second half of the fourteenth century produced the first great age of secular literature. he most widely known of these writings are 7eoffrey Ahaucer)s he Aanterbury ales, the anonymous 3ir 7awain and the 7reen /night, and homas ?alory) s Morte d@Arthur. ,hile the 6nglish .enaissance began with the ascent of the House of udor to the 6nglish throne in 1'2+, the English Literary Renaissan+e began with 6nglish humanists such as 3ir homas more and 3ir homas ,yatt. In addition, the English Literary Renaissan+e consists of four subsets: he Eli2a6ethan Age, the Ca+o6ean Age, the *aroline Age, and the *o..on1ealth %erio 8which is also known as the %(ritan Interregn(.9. he Eli2a6ethan Age of 6nglish =iterature coincides with the reign of 6li>abeth I, 1++2 & 1-5#. (uring this time, medieval tradition was blended with .enaissance optimism. =yric poetry, prose, and drama were the major styles of literature that flowered during the 6li>abethan %ge. 3ome important writers of the 6li>abethan %ge include ,illiam 3hakespeare, Ahristopher ?arlowe, 6dmund 3penser, 3ir ,alter .aleigh, and $en *onson. he Ca+o6ean Age of 6nglish =iterature coincides with the reign of *ames I, 1-5# & 1-!+. (uring this time the literature became sophisticated, sombre, and conscious of social abuse and rivalry. he *acobean %ge produced rich prose and drama as well as he king *ames translation of the $ible. 3hakespeare and *onson wrote during the *acobean %ge, as well as *ohn (onne, <rancis bacon, and homas ?iddleton. he *aroline Age of 6nglish =iterature coincides with the reign of Aharles I, 1-!+ & 1-'4. he writers of this age wrote with refinement and elegance. his era produced a circle of poets known as the LAavalier DoetsM and the dramatists of this age were the last to write in the 6li>abethan tradition. he *o..on1ealth %erio , also known as the %(ritan Interregn(., of 6nglish =iterature includes the literature produced during the time of Duritan leader 1liver Aromwell. his period produced the political writings of *ohn ?ilton, homas HobbesJ political treatise =eviathan, and the prose of %ndrew ?arvell. In 3eptember of 1-'!, the Duritans closed theatres on moral and religious grounds. <or the next eighteen years the theatres remained closed, accounting for the lack of drama produced during this time period. he Neo+lassi+al %erio of 6nglish literature 81--5 & 102+9 was much influenced by contemporary <rench literature, which was in the midst of its greatest age. he literature of this time is known for its use of philosophy, reason, skepticism, wit, and refinement. he Neo+lassi+al %erio also marks the first great age of 6nglish literary criticism. ?uch like the 6nglish =iterary .enaissance, the Neo+lassi+al %erio can be divided into three subsets: the Restoration, the A(g(stan Age, and the Age o/ Sensi6ility.

46

he Restoration, 1--5 & 1055, is marked by the restoration of the monarchy and the triumph of reason and tolerance over religious and political passion. he Restoration produced an abundance of prose and poetry and the distinctive comedy of manners known as 9estoration comedy. It was during the Restoration that *ohn ?ilton published )aradise $ost and )aradise 9egained. 1ther major writers of the era include *ohn (ryden, *ohn ,ilmot ! nd 6arl of .ochester, and *ohn =ocke. he 6nglish A(g(stan Age derives its name from the brilliant literary period of Birgil and 1vid under the .oman emperor %ugustus 8!0 $.A. & %.(. 1'9. In 6nglish literature, the A(g(stan Age, 1055 & 10'+, refers to literature with the predominant characteristics of refinement, clarity, elegance, and balance of judgment. ,ell&known writers of the A(g(stan Age include *onathan 3wift, %lexander Dope, and (aniel (efoe. % significant contribution of this time period included the release of the first 6nglish novels by (efoe, and the Onovel of character,O )amela, by 3amuel .ichardson, in 10'5. (uring the Age o/ Sensi6ility, literature reflected the worldview of <nlightenment and began to emphasi>e instinct and feeling, rather than judgment and restraint. % growing sympathy for the ?iddle %ges during the Age o/ Sensi6ility sparked an interest in medieval ballads and folk literature. %nother name for this period is the Age o/ Cohnson because the dominant authors of this period were 3amuel *ohnson and his literary and intellectual circle. his period also produced some of the greatest early novels of the 6nglish language, including .ichardson)s "larissa 810'29 and Henry <ielding)s Tom +ones 810'49. he Ro.anti+ %erio of 6nglish literature began in the late 12th century and lasted until approximately 12#!. In general, .omantic literature can be characteri>ed by its personal nature, its strong use of feeling, its abundant use of symbolism, and its exploration of nature and the supernatural. In addition, the writings of the .omantics were considered innovative based on their belief that literature should be spontaneous, imaginative, personal, and free. he Ro.anti+ %erio produced a wealth of authors including 3amuel aylor Aoleridge, ,illiam ,ordsworth, *ane %usten, and =ord $yron. It was during the Ro.anti+ %erio that 7othic literature was born. raits of :othic literature are dark and gloomy settings and characters and situations that are fantastic, grotes"ue, wild, savage, mysterious, and often melodramatic. wo of the most famous 7othic novelists are %nne .adcliffe and ?ary 3helley. he :i+torian %erio of 6nglish literature began with the accession of hueen Bictoria to the throne in 12#0, and lasted until her death in 1451. $ecause the :i+torian %erio of 6nglish literature spans over six decades, the year 1205 is often used to divide the era into Oearly BictorianO and Olate Bictorian.O In general, Bictorian literature deals with the issues and problems of the day. 3ome contemporary issues that the Bictorians dealt with include the social, economic, religious, and intellectual issues and problems surrounding the Industrial .evolution, growing class tensions, the early feminist movement, pressures toward political and social reform, and the impact of Aharles (arwin)s theory of evolution on philosophy and religion. 3ome of the most recogni>ed authors of the Bictorian era include %lfred =ord ennyson, 6li>abeth $arrett $rowning, her husband .obert, ?atthew %rnold, Aharles (ickens, Aharlotte $rontg, 7eorge 6liot, and homas Hardy. ,ithin the :i+torian %erio , two other literary movements, that of The %re-Ra"haelites 812'2& 12-59 and the movement of Aestheti+is. an De+a en+e 81225&14559, gained prominence. In 12'2, a group of 6nglish artists, including (ante 7abriel .ossetti, formed the ODre&.aphaelite $rotherhood.O It was the aim of this group to return painting to a style of truthfulness, simplicity, and religious devotion that had reigned prior to .aphael and the high Italian .enaissance. .ossetti and his literary circle, which included his sister Ahristina, incorporated these ideals into their literature, and the result was that of the literary %re-Ra"haelites. he Aestheti+is. an De+a en+e movement of 6nglish literature grew out of the <rench movement of the same name. he authors of this movement encouraged experimentation and held the view that art is totally opposed OnaturalO norms of morality. his style of literature

47

opposed the dominance of scientific thinking and defied the hostility of society to any art that was not useful or did not teach moral values. It was from the movement of Aestheti+is. an De+a en+e that the phrase art for art's sake emerged. % well&known author of the 6nglish Aestheti+is. an De+a en+e movement is 1scar ,ilde. he E 1ar ian %erio is named for /ing 6dward BII and spans the time from hueen Bictoria)s death 814519 to the beginning of ,orld ,ar I 8141'9. (uring this time, he $ritish 6mpire was at its height and the wealthy lived lives of materialistic luxury. However, four fifths of the 6nglish population lived in s"ualor. he writings of the E 1ar ian %erio reflect and comment on these social conditions. <or example, writers such as 7eorge $ernard 3haw and H.7. ,ells attacked social injustice and the selfishness of the upper classes. 1ther writers of the time include ,illiam $utler Yeats, *oseph Aonrad, .udyard /ipling, Henry *ames, and 6.m. <orster. he )eorgian %erio refers to the period of $ritish =iterature that is named for the reign of 7eorge B 81415&#-9. ?any writers of the E 1ar ian %erio continued to write during the )eorgian %erio . his era also produced a group of poets known as the :eorgian poets. hese writers, now regarded as minor poets, were published in four anthologies entitled :eorgian )oetry, published by 6dward ?arsh between 141! and 14!!. 7eorgian poetry tends to focus on rural subject matter and is traditional in techni"ue and form. he Mo ern %erio applies to $ritish literature written since the beginning of ,orld ,ar I in 141'. he authors of the Mo ern %erio have experimented with subject matter, form, and style and have produced achievements in all literary genres. Doets of the period include Yeats, .3. 6liot, (ylan homas, and 3eamus Heaney. ;ovelists include *ames *oyce, (.H. =awrence, and Birginia ,oolf. (ramatists include ;oel Aoward and 3amuel $eckett.. <ollowing ,orld ,ar II 814#4&14'+9, the %ost.o ern %erio of $ritish =iterature developed. )ostmodernism blends literary genres and styles and attempts to break free of modernist forms. ,hile the $ritish literary scene at the turn of the new millennium is crowded and varied, the authors still fall into the categories of modernism and postmodernism. However, with the passage of time the ?odern era may be reorgani>ed and expanded

Literary %erio s o/ A.eri+an Literat(re


ADBI-AIID J *olonial %erio 10-+&1045: he .evolutionary %ge 100+&12!2: he 6arly ;ational Deriod 12!2&12-+: he .omantic Deriod 8%lso known as: he %merican .enaissance or he %ge of ranscendentalism9 12-+&1455: he .ealistic Deriod 1455&141': he ;aturalistic Deriod 141'&14#4: %merican ?odernist Deriod 14!5s: *a>> %ge, Harlem .enaissance 14!5s, 14#5s: he O=ost 7enerationO 14#4&present: he Aontemporary Deriod 14+5s: $eat ,riters 1 14-5s, 1405s: Aounterculture

Ethni+ Literat(res> in+l( ing> 6(t not li.ite

toJ

%frican&%merican ,riters C;ative %merican ,riters C %sian&%merican ,riters he *olonial %erio of %merican =iterature spans the time between the founding of the first settlement at *amestown to the outbreak of the .evolution. he writings of this time centered on

48

religious, practical, or historical themes. he most influential writers of the *olonial %erio include *ohn ,inthrop, Aotton ?ather, $enjamin <ranklin, and %nne $radstreet. (uring the Re,ol(tionary Age, 10-+&1045, some of the greatest documents of %merican history were authored. In 100-, homas Daine authored Aommon 3ense and homas *efferson wrote he (eclaration of Independence. In 1021, he %rticle of Aonfederation were ratified. $etween 1020 and 1022, %lexander Hamilton, *ames ?adison, and *ohn *ay wrote he <ederalist Dapers. <inally, in 1020, he Aonstitution of the :nited 3tate was drafted and in 1024 it was ratified. he Early National %erio of %merican =iterature saw the beginnings of literature that could be truly identified as O%mericanO. he writers of this new %merican literature wrote in the 6nglish style, but the settings, themes, and characters were authentically %merican. In addition, poets of this time wrote poetry that was relatively independent of 6nglish precursors. hree of the most recogni>ed writers of this time are ,ashington Irving, *ames <ennimore Aooper, and 6dgar %llan Doe. he period 12!2&12-+ in %merican =iterature is commonly identified as the Ro.anti+ %erio in A.eri+a, but may also be referred to as the A.eri+an Renaissan+e or the Age o/ Trans+en entalis.. he writers of this period produced works of originality and excellence that helped shape the ideas, ideals, and literary aims of many %merican writers. ,riters of the A.eri+an Ro.anti+ %erio include .alph ,aldo 6merson, Henry (avid horeau, 6dgar %llan Doe, Herman ?elville, ;athaniel Hawthorne, Harriet $eecher 3towe, Henry ,adsworth =ongfellow, 6mily (ickinson, and ,alt ,hitman. <ollowing the Aivil ,ar, %merican =iterature entered into the Realisti+ %erio . he major form of literature produced in this era was realistic fiction. :nlike romantic fiction, realistic fiction aims to represent life as it really is and make the reader believe that the characters actually might exist and the situations might actually happen. In order to have this effect on the reader, realistic fiction focuses on the ordinary and commonplace. he major writers of the Realisti+ %erio include ?ark wain, Henry *ames, $ret Harte, and /ate Ahopin. he years 1455&141' mark %merican =iterature)s Nat(ralisti+ %erio . ;aturalism claims to give an even more accurate depiction of life than realism. In accordance with a post&(arwinian thesis, naturalistic writers hold that the characters of their works are merely higher&order animals whose character and behavior is entirely based upon heredity and environment. ;aturalistic writings try to present subjects with scientific objectivity. hese writings are often frank, crude, and tragic. 3tephen Arane,*ack =ondon, and heodore (reiser are the most studied %merican ;aturalists. $etween 141' and 14#4, %merican =iterature entered into a phase which is still referred to as KThe Beginnings o/ Mo ern Literat(reK . =ike their $ritish counterparts, the %merican ?odernists experimented with subject matter, form, and style and produced achievements in all literary genres. 3ome well&known %merican ?odernist Doets include .obert <rost, ,illiam Aarlos ,illiams, 6dna 3t. Bincent ?illay, and e.e. Aumming. Included among %merican ?odernist Drose ,riters are 6dith ,harton, 3inclair =ewis, and ,illa Aather. he A.eri+an Mo ernist %erio also produced many other writers that are considered to be writers of Mo ernist %erio S(6+lasses. <or example, <. 3cott <it>gerald is considered a writer of The Ca22 Age, =angston Hughes,and ,.6.$. (u$ois writers of The 0ale. Renaissan+e, and 7ertrud 3tein, .3. 6liot, 6r>a Dound, and 6rnest Hemingway writers of The Lost )eneration7 he 7reat (epression marked the end of the A.eri+an Mo ernist %erio , and writers such as ,illiam <aulkner, *ohn 3teinbeck, and 6ugene 1J;eill dealt with the social and political issues of the time in their literary works. 14#4 marked the beginning of the *onte."orary %erio of %merican =iterature. his period includes an abundance of important %merican literary figures spanning from ,orld ,ar II into the ;ew ?illennium. hese writers include, but are not limited to, 6udora ,elty, *ohn :pdike, /urt Bonnegut, 3ylvia Dlath, %rthur ?iller, ennessee ,illiams, ralph 6llison, 7wendolyn $rooks, \ora ;eal Hurston, %lice ,alker, oni ?orrison, and ?aya %ngelou. (uring the 14+5s, a vigorous anti&establishment and anti&traditional literary movement emerged. he main writers of this movement,%llen 7insberg and *ack /erouac, are called Beat 5riters.

49

?uch writing of the 14-5s and 1405s, referred to as *o(nter+(lt(re 5riting, continued the literary ideals of the Beat Mo,e.ent, but in a more extreme and fevered manner. Aurrently, the contemporary %merican literary scene is crowded and varied. ,ith the passage of time the Aontemporary Deriod may be reorgani>ed andCor expanded. In the future will writers such as %nne .ice, *ohn 7risham,or %my an be included in the canon of %merican =iteratureE ,e will just have to wait and see.
A :lossary of $iterary Terms, -th ed., by ?.H. %brams and $ongman "ompanion to <nglish $iterature by Ahristopher 7illie

50

INTRODU*TION TO BRITIS0 LITERATURE


English literature, literature written in 6nglish since c.1'+5 by the inhabitants of the $ritish IslesN it was during the 1+th century that the 6nglish language ac"uired much of its modern form. <or the literature of previous linguistic periods, %nglo 3axon&literature, the literary writings in 1ld 6nglish, and ?iddle 6nglish =iterature, literature of the medieval period, c.1155 to c.1+55.

Anglo Sa-onliterat(re

%oetry
here are two types of 1ld 6nglish poetry: the heroic, the sources of which are pre&Ahristian 7ermanic myth, history, and customN and the Ahristian. %lthough nearly all 1ld 6nglish poetry is preserved in only four manuscriptsTindicating that what has survived is not necessarily the best or most representativeTmuch of it is of high literary "uality. ?oreover, 1ld 6nglish heroic poetry is the earliest extant in all of 7ermanic literature. It is thus the nearest we can come to the oral pagan literature of 7ermanic culture, and is also of inestimable value as a source of knowledge about many aspects of 7ermanic society. he 0th&century work known as ,idsith, 0th&century %nglo&3axon poem found in the 6xeter $ook 8manuscript volume of 1ld 6nglish religious and secular poetry, of various dates of composition, compiled c.40+ and given to 6xeter Aathedral by $ishop =eofric 8d. 150!9.9. It is an account of the wanderings of a 7ermanic minstrel and of the legends he relates. he poem gives an excellent description of minstrel life in the 7ermanic heroic age. It is one of the earliest 1ld 6nglish poems, and thus is of particular historic and linguistic interest.

51

Beo1(l/ A> a complete epic, is the oldest surviving 7ermanic epic as well as the longest and most important poem in 1ld 6nglish. It originated as a pagan saga transmitted orally from one generation to the nextN court poets known as scops were the bearers of tribal history and tradition. he version of ?eowulf that is extant was composed by a Ahristian poet, probably early in the 2th cent. However, intermittent Ahristian themes found in the epic, although affecting in themselves, are not integrated into the essentially pagan tale. he epic celebrates the hero)s fearless and bloody struggles against monsters and extols courage, honor, and loyalty as the chief virtues in a world of brutal force. he elegiac theme, a strong undercurrent in ?eowulf, is central to .eor,The 'anderer, The &eafarer, and other poems. In these works, a happy past is contrasted with a precarious and desolate present. he 3innsburgh fragment, The ?attle of Maldon, and The ?attle of ?runanburh, which are all based on historical episodes, mainly celebrate great heroism in the face of overwhelming odds. In this heroic poetry, all of which is anonymous, greatness is measured less by victory than by perfect loyalty and courage in extremity. ?uch of the 1ld 6nglish Ahristian poetry is marked by the simple belief of a relatively unsophisticated AhristianityN the names of two authors are known. Aidmon Twhose story is charmingly told by the Benerable $ede, who also records a few lines of his poetryTis the earliest known 6nglish poet. %lthough the body of his work has been lost, the school of Aidmon is responsible for poetic narrative versions of biblical stories, the most dramatic of which is probably :enesis ?% Aynewulf, a later poet, signed the poems <lene, +uliana, and The 3ates of the ApostlesN no more is known of him. he finest poem of the school of Aynewulf is The .ream of the 9ood, the first known example of the dream vision, a genre later popular in ?iddle 6nglish =iterature. 1ther 1ld 6nglish poems include various riddles, charms 8magic cures, pagan in origin9, saints) lives, gnomic poetry, and other Ahristian and heroic verse. he verse form for 1ld 6nglish poetry is an alliterative line of four stressed syllables and an unfixed number of unstressed syllables broken by a caesura and arranged in one of several patterns. =ines are conventionally end&stopped and unrhymed. he form lends itself to narrativeN there is no lyric poetry in 1ld 6nglish. % stylistic feature in this heroic poetry is the kenning, a figurative phrase, often a metaphorical compound, used as a synonym for a simple noun, e.g., the repeated use of the phrases whale road for sea and twilight spoiler for dragon%

%rose
1ld 6nglish literary prose dates from the latter part of the %nglo&3axon period. Drose was written in =atin before the reign of /ing %lfred 8reigned 201W449, who worked to revitali>e 6nglish culture after the devastating (anish invasions ended. %s hardly anyone could read =atin, %lfred translated or had translated the most important =atin texts. He also encouraged writing in the vernacular. (idactic, devotional, and informative prose was written, and the Anglo &a/on "hronicle, probably begun in %lfred)s time as an historical record, continued for over three centuries. wo preeminent 1ld 6nglish prose writers were Ll/ri+E,%bbot of 6ynsham, and his contemporary 5(l/stan> d.
1 Beowulf (b'uwoolf), oldest English epic, probably composed in the early 8th cent. by an Anglian bard in the icinity of !orthumbria. "t sur i es in only one

manuscript, written c.A.#. 1$$$ by two scribes and preser ed in the %ritish &useum in the collection of 'ir (obert )otton. *he materials for the poem are deri ed mainly from 'candina ian history, fol+ tale, and mythology. "ts narrati e consists of two parts, *he first relates %eowulf's successful fights with the water monster -rendel and with -rendel's mother. the second narrates the hero's ictory in his old age o er a dragon and his subse/uent death and funeral at the end of a long life of honor. *hese e ents ta+e place entirely in #enmar+ and 'weden. *he poem contains a remar+able fusion of pagan and )hristian elements and pro ides a i id picture of old -ermanic life. "t is written in a strongly accentual, alliterati e the "rish poet 'eamus 2eany (3$$$). erse. *here ha e been some 01 translations of the wor+ into modern English. one of the most accomplished is by

'ee The Beowulf Poet: A Collection of Critical Essays , ed. by #. 4. 5ry (1608). studies by 4. 'isam (1601), 7. ). 8ope (re . ed. 1600), E. %. "r ing (1608), (. -ir an and

2 9lfric c.611:1$3$, English writer and %enedictine mon+. 2e was the greatest English scholar during the re i al of learning fostered by the %enedictine monasteries in
the second half of the 1$th cent. 2is aim was to educate the laity as well as the clergy. 2e wrote in English a series of saints' li es and homilies;designed for use as sermons by the preachers who were generally unable to read <atin. 9lfric was also the author of a grammar, a glossary, and a collo/uy, which were for many years the standard te=ts for <atin study in English monasteries. Among his other writings are the 2eptateuch, a free English ersion of the first se en boo+s of the %ible. 9lfric is considered the chief prose stylist of the period. 2is later writings were strongly influenced by the balance, alliteration, and rhythm of <atin prose.

52

15!#, 6nglish churchman, archbishop of York 8155#W15!#9 and bishop of ,orcester, whose =atin name was =upus. He is buried at 6ly. Homilies are attributed to him, but most of them are doubtfulN from them as from those of jlfric written for ,ulfstan, many details of 6nglish law were derived. % homily on the millennium in 6nglish alliterative prose, styled $upi sermo ad Anglos is usually ascribed to him. heir sermons 8written in the late 15th or early 11th cent.9 set a standard for homiletics. % great deal of =atin prose and poetry was written during the %nglo&3axon period. 1f historic as well as literary interest, it provides an excellent record of the founding and early development of the church in 6ngland and reflects the introduction and early influence there of =atin&6uropean culture.

Beo1(l/
H1:7H I I3 1< 6; BI6,6( both as the archetypal %nglo&3axon literary work and as a cornerstone of modern literature, ?eowulf has a peculiar history that complicates both its historical and its canonical position in 6nglish literature. $y the time the story was composed by an unknown %nglo& 3axon poet around 055 %.(., much of its material had been in circulation in oral narrative for many years. he %nglo&3axon and 3candinavian peoples had invaded the island of $ritain and settled there several hundred years earlier, bringing with them several closely related 7ermanic languages that would evolve into 1ld 6nglish. 6lements of the ?eowulf storyTincluding its setting and charactersTdate back to the period before the migration. he action of the poem takes place around +55 %.(. ?any of the characters in the poemTthe 3wedish and (anish royal family members, for exampleTcorrespond to actual historical figures. 1riginally pagan warriors, the %nglo&3axon and 3candinavian invaders experienced a large&scale conversion to Ahristianity at the end of the sixth century. hough still an old pagan story, ?eowulf thus came to be told by a Ahristian poet. he ?eowulf poet is often at pains to attribute Ahristian thoughts and motives to his characters, who fre"uently behave in distinctly un&Ahristian ways. he ?eowulf that we read today is therefore probably "uite unlike the ?eowulf with which the first %nglo&3axon audiences were familiar. he element of religious tension is "uite common in Ahristian %nglo&3axon writings 8The .ream of the 9ood, for example9, but the combination of a pagan story with a Ahristian narrator is fairly unusual. he plot of the poem concerns 3candinavian culture, but much of the poemJs narrative intervention reveals that the poetJs culture was somewhat different from that of his ancestors and that of his characters as well.

he world ?eowulf depicts and the heroic code of honor, which defines much of the story, is a relic of pre&%nglo&3axon culture. he story is set in 3candinavia, before the migration. hough it is a traditional storyTpart of a 7ermanic oral traditionTthe poem as we have it is thought to be the work of a single poet. It was composed in 6ngland 8not in 3candinavia9 and is historical in its perspective, recording the values and culture of a bygone era. ?any of those values, including the heroic code, were still operative to some degree in when the poem was written. hese values had evolved to some extent in the intervening centuries and were continuing to change. In the 3candinavian world of the story, tiny tribes of people rally around strong kings, who protect their people from dangerTespecially from confrontations with other tribes. he warrior culture that results from this early feudal arrangement is extremely important, both to the story and to our understanding of 3axon civili>ation. 3trong kings demand bravery and loyalty from their warriors, whom they repay with treasures won in war. ?ead&halls such as Heorot in ?eowulf were places where warriors would gather in the presence of their lord to drink, boast, tell stories, and receive gifts. %lthough these mead&halls offered sanctuary, the early ?iddle %ges were a dangerous time, and the paranoid sense of foreboding and doom that runs throughout ?eowulf evidences the constant fear of invasion that plagued 3candinavian society. 1nly a single manuscript of ?eowulf survived the %nglo&3axon era. <or many centuries, the manuscript was all but forgotten, and, in the 1055s, it was nearly destroyed in a fire. It was not until the nineteenth century that widespread interest in the document emerged among scholars and translators of 1ld 6nglish. <or the first hundred years of ?eowulfJs prominence, interest in the poem was primarily historicalTthe text was viewed as a source of information about the %nglo& 3axon era. It was not until 14#-, when the 1xford scholar *..... olkien 8who later wrote The ;obbit and The $ord of the 9ings, works heavily influenced by ?eowulf9 published a groundbreaking paper entitled L?eowulf: he ?onsters and the AriticsM that the manuscript gained recognition as a serious work of art.

53

?eowulf is now widely taught and is often presented as the first important work of 6nglish literature, creating the impression that ?eowulf is in some way the source of the 6nglish canon. $ut because it was not widely read until the 1255s and not widely regarded as an important artwork until the 1455s, ?eowulf has had little direct impact on the development of 6nglish poetry. In fact, Ahaucer, 3hakespeare, ?arlowe, Dope, 3helley, /eats, and most other important 6nglish writers before the 14#5s had little or no knowledge of the epic. It was not until the mid&to&late twentieth century that $eowulf began to influence writers, and, since then, it has had a marked impact on the work of many important novelists and poets, including ,.H. %uden, 7eoffrey Hill, ed Hughes, and 3eamus Heaney, the 144+ recipient of the ;obel Dri>e in literature, who translated the epic

Ol

English %oetry

?eowulf is often referred to as the first important work of literature in 6nglish, even though it was written in 1ld 6nglish, an ancient form of the language that slowly evolved into the 6nglish now spoken. Aompared to modern 6nglish, 1ld 6nglish is heavily 7ermanic, with little influence from =atin or <rench. %s 6nglish history developed, after the <rench ;ormans con"uered the %nglo& 3axons in 15--, 1ld 6nglish was gradually broadened by offerings from those languages. hus modern 6nglish is derived from a number of sources. %s a result, its vocabulary is rich with synonyms. he word Lkingly,M for instance, descends from the %nglo&3axon word cyning, meaning Lking,M while the synonym LroyalM comes from a <rench word and the synonym LregalM from a =atin word. <ortunately, most students encountering ?eowulf read it in a form translated into modern 6nglish. 3till, a familiarity with the rudiments of %nglo&3axon poetry enables a deeper understanding of the ?eowulf text. 1ld 6nglish poetry is highly formal, but its form is "uite unlike anything in modern 6nglish. 6ach line of 1ld 6nglish poetry is divided into two halves, separated by a caesura, or pause, and is often represented by a gap on the page, as the following example demonstrates: &etton him to heafdon hilde randas% % % % $ecause %nglo&3axon poetry existed in oral tradition long before it was written down, the verse form contains complicated rules for alliteration designed to help scops, or poets, remember the many thousands of lines they were re"uired to know by heart. 6ach of the two halves of an %nglo& 3axon line contains two stressed syllables, and an alliterative pattern must be carried over across the caesura. %ny of the stressed syllables may alliterate e/cept the last syllableN so the first and second syllables may alliterate with the third together, or the first and third may alliterate alone, or the second and third may alliterate alone. <or instance: $ade ne letton% $eoht eastan com% $ade, letton, leoht, and eastan are the four stressed words. In addition to these rules, 1ld 6nglish poetry often features a distinctive set of rhetorical devices. he most common of these is the kenning, used throughout ?eowulf. % kenning is a short metaphorical description of a thing used in place of the thingJs nameN thus a ship might be called a Lsea&rider,M or a king a Lring&giver.M 3ome translations employ kennings almost as fre"uently as they appear in the original. 1thers moderate the use of kennings in deference to a modern sensibility. $ut the 1ld 6nglish version of the epic is full of them, and they are perhaps the most important rhetorical device present in 1ld 6nglish poetry.

%lot O,er,ie1
/I;7 H.1 H7%. 1< (6;?%./, a descendant of the great king 3hield 3heafson, enjoys a prosperous and successful reign. He builds a great mead&hall, called Heorot, where his warriors can gather to drink, receive gifts from their lord, and listen to stories sung by the scops, or bards. $ut the jubilant noise from Heorot angers 7rendel, a horrible demon who lives in the swamplands of HrothgarJs kingdom. 7rendel terrori>es the (anes every night, killing them and defeating their efforts to fight back. he (anes suffer many years of fear, danger, and death at the hands of 7rendel. 6ventually, however, a young 7eatish warrior named $eowulf hears of HrothgarJs plight.

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Inspired by the challenge $eowulf sails to (enmark with a small company of men determined to defeat 7rendel. Hrothgar, who had once done a great favor for $eowulfJs father 6cgtheow, accepts $eowulfJs offer to fight 7rendel and holds a feast in the heroJs honor. (uring the feast, an envious (ane named :nferth taunts $eowulf and accuses him of being unworthy of his reputation. $eowulf responds with a boastful description of some of his past accomplishments. His confidence cheers the (anish warriors, and the feast lasts merrily into the night. %t last, however, 7rendel arrives. $eowulf fights him unarmed, proving himself stronger than the demon, who is terrified. %s 7rendel struggles to escape, $eowulf tears the monsterJs arm off. ?ortally wounded, 7rendel slinks back into the swamp to die. he severed arm is hung high in the mead&hall as a trophy of victory. 1verjoyed, Hrothgar showers $eowulf with gifts and treasure at a feast in his honour. 3ongs are sung in praise of $eowulf, and the celebration lasts late into the night. $ut another threat is approaching. 7rendelJs mother, a swamp&hag who lives in a desolate lake, comes to Heorot seeking revenge for her sonJs death. 3he murders %eschere, one of HrothgarJs most trusted advisers, before slinking away. o avenge %eschereJs death, the company travels to the murky swamp, where $eowulf dives into the water and fights 7rendelJs mother in her underwater lair. He kills her with a sword forged for a giant, then, finding 7rendelJs corpse, decapitates it and brings the head as a pri>e to Hrothgar. he (anish countryside is now purged of its treacherous monsters. he (anes are again overjoyed, and $eowulfJs fame spreads across the kingdom. $eowulf departs after a sorrowful goodbye to Hrothgar, who has treated him like a son. He returns to 7eatland, where he and his men are reunited with their king and "ueen, Hygelac and Hygd, to whom $eowulf recounts his adventures in (enmark. $eowulf then hands over most of his treasure to Hygelac, who, in turn, rewards him. In time, Hygelac is killed in a war against the 3hylfings, and, after HygelacJs son dies, $eowulf ascends to the throne of the 7eats. He rules wisely for fifty years, bringing prosperity to 7eatland. ,hen $eowulf is an old man, however, a thief disturbs a barrow, or mound, where a great dragon lies guarding a horde of treasure. 6nraged, the dragon emerges from the barrow and begins unleashing fiery destruction upon the 7eats. 3ensing his own death approaching, $eowulf goes to fight the dragon. ,ith the aid of ,iglaf, he succeeds in killing the beast, but at a heavy cost. he dragon bites $eowulf in the neck and its fiery venom kills him moments after their encounter. he 7eats fear that their enemies will attack them now that $eowulf is dead. %ccording to $eowulfJs wishes, they burn their departed kingJs body on a huge funeral pyre and then bury him with a massive treasure in a barrow overlooking the sea.

*hara+ters
#he )e"ts
The )eats were $eowulf)s clan & a seafaring tribe residing in the south of 3weden. %s the poem suggests, the 7eats appear to have been con"uered and disappeared into history. he seafaring 7eats appear to be the invading k(anes) of whom 7regory of ours writes concerning an attack by Ahlochilaicus 8Hygelac9 against the <ranks in +!5. =ater they were connected to the 7autar people who were eventually subjugated by the 3wedes in territory inland of 3weden. 7iven this history, <... /laeber speculates that *eo+ulf himself was born in about the year '4+. He defeats 7rendel and his mother to save Hrolgar)s kingdom in +1+. <ollowing Hygelac)s raid in +!5, he eventually becomes king of the 7eats when Heardred was killed in +##. <ifty years after that, the poem says that *eo+ulf is killed by the dragon, but few scholars are willing to commit to any specific date. he 7eats are referred to as the 7eatas, 7ul&7eatas 8,ar&9, the 3i&7eatas 83ea&9, and the ,eder& 7eatas 8,eather&9.

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#he &"nes
The Danes were residents of (enmark. Hrolgar)s Heorot is likely to have been located on the island of 3jaelland near the present day city of .oskilde. he 3cylding line is known through 3candinavian and %nglo&3axon sourcesN the %nglo&3axon king Anut 8151-&15'!, a period coincident with the composition of the *eo+ulf manuscript9 is known to have descended from this line. he poem ,idsil, with its catalogue of 7ermanic kings, list Hrolgar and Hrolulf as co&rulers of the (anes at Heorot, and of the marriage arrangement with Ingeld of the Healo&$ards. he (anes are referred to as the (ena, $eorht&(ena 8$right&9, 7ar&(ena 83pear&9, Hring&(ena 8.ing&, Aorselet&9, 6ast&(ena, ;orl&(ena 8;orth&9, 3ul&(ena 83outh&9, ,est&(ena, 3cyldings 83ons of 3cyld9, %r&3cyldingas 8Honour&9, Here&3cyldingas 8%rmy&9, 3ige&3cyldingas 8Bictory&9, meod& 3cyldingas 8Deople&9, and Ingwines 8Ing)s <riends9.

#he (+edes
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The S1e es lived in 3weden north of the Baner and Bolter lakes, north of the 7eats. %rchaeology in 3weden reveals the grave mounds of 1ngenneow who was buried in +15&+1+, and his grandson 6adgils, buried in +0+. hese dates correspond with the events described in *eo+ulf. /nown as the 3weon 83wedes9, the 3cylfingas 83ons of 3cylf9, 7ul&3cylfingas 8,ar&9, and Healo& 3cylfingas 8,ar&

The Fight at Finns6(rh he fragment of the <innsburh poem and the <innsburh reference in *eo+ulf somewhat overlap. he song sung during the celebration at Heorot follows the events described in the poem. his overlap in narratives is one reason why these two works are studied together. he original manuscript of the ,ight "t ,inns-urh is now lost, but it is known to have existed on a single leaf in the =ambeth Dalace =ibrary, page '24. he text was published in a transcription made by 7eorge Hikes in 105+. #he ,ight "t ,inns-urh is an example of a typical 7ermanic kheroic lay) describing warriors) deeds in battle and the speeches of significant warriors during the battle. he poem resembles others of the same genre such as The ?attle of Maldon, and is "uite different from the epic form of *eo+ulf. *eo+ulf is the only poem that associates the parties involved as (anes and <risians.

)ren el was a monster, one of a giant race which survived the great flood, slain by *eo+ulf. It is told that his origins stretch back to Aain, who killed %bel. He is of particular cause of trouble to Hrothgar because of his disregard for law and custom: he refuses to negotiate a peace settlement or to accept tributes of gold. here is reference to >:rendel's Mere>, >:rendel's )it> and >:rendel's )eck> in the %nglo&3axon Ahronicle. he references seem to collaborate the underground or water lair of the *eo+ulf epic, but it is unclear what the true origins of these names were. )ren el's .other is supposedly a smaller creature than her son. 3he is a vengeful creature who illustrates the constant cycle of war in the poem, even when the enemy appears to be defeated. %s part of a mythical giant race, both 7rendel and his mother appear impervious to normal swords, hence the difficulty the (anes must have had in trying to deal with them. *eo+ulf eventually finds a sword forged by the giants themselves in order to defeat them, but their blood runs hot enough to melt even that blade.

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5ho 1rote Beo1(l/;


he author did not sign and date the manuscript, and no records were kept of when the poem was written. 7iven the lack of information pointing to the origins of the poem, scholars must deduce the text)s history by the artifact that exists. $ut why study the authorship of the poemE Aolin Ahase summarises the reasons for this "uest in the prologue of the collection The .ating of ?eowulf: he date of *eo+ulf, debated for almost a century, is a small "uestion with large conse"uences. (oes the poem provide us with an accurate if ideali>ed view of early 7ermanic AultureE 1r is it rather a creature of nostalgia and imagination, born of the desire of a later age to create for itself a glorious pastE If we cannot decide when, between the fifth and the eleventh centuries, the poem was composed, we cannot distinguish what elements in *eo+ulf belong properly to the history of material culture, to the history of myth and legend, to political history, or to the development of the 6nglish literary imagination. he "uickest and easiest assumption about the origins of the poem is that it was an oral poem that was eventually transcribed and has since been passed down in the form of the manuscript. 3cholars have presumed to study the poem as if it were Alassical, and find much difficulty in the non&continuous narrative and the unfamilliar form. %llen <rant>en, in N'riting the Onreadable ?eowulf', is uncomfortable with the way a tradition may be imposed by kcanonical) editions such as the !orton AnthologyN he is also critical of the "uest to find a single author of the kpure) poem. Instead, he is looking for the gaps in the text that indicate to him that it had been constantly rewritten to suit the culture of that time. In effect, there may have been so many authors spanned the six centuries that the authorship remains in "uestionN the rewriting of *eo+ulf continues in the postmodern period. 3eamus Heaney)s poetic translation is the latest. %a(ll F7 Ba(. finds a Oliterary vacuum without historical perspectiveO when the authorship and purpose of the poem remains in "uestion. In The ?eowulf )oet he suggests that a single author had combined two folk stories with some historical events as a backdrop and some Ahristian doctrine to create a new form of heroic epic, or as olkien suggests, an Oheroic&elegaicO poem. $aum even goes so far as to hypothesi>e an eighth&century female author of the poem as explanation for their pronounced roles, and for the lack of gory fighting 8compared with the <innsburh <ragment9. he brief historical digressions and Ahristian colouring suggest an audience familiar with those ideas and events in the late eighth century. ,ith the difficult language and sometimes obscure references, his conclusion is that the poem may have been a collection of folk lore and history, but intended for a small audience. It seems clear that the origin of *eo+ulf stems from a mix of 3candinavian, 7ermanic, and %nglian influences. ,hat is consistently unclear is which of these audiences the poem was intended for. %s a story of (anes, 7eats, and 3wedes, one might suppose that the poem was of 3candinavian origin, finally written down in 6ngland, but there is no reference to the characters in 3candinavian lore. Derhaps looking closely at the artifact that is *eo+ulf itself, the manuscript, can shed light on the authorship of the poem. /evin 3. /iernan suggests an eleventh century origin, and that the single extant manuscript is, in fact, the first composition of the poem in his book ?eowulf and the ?eowulf Manuscript and summari>ed in his essay The <le#enth "entury 1rigin of ?eowulf and the ?eowulf Manuscript. ;oting the efforts taken by the second scribe of the ?3 in proofreading and correcting the text of *eo+ulf and not the rest of the ;owell Aodex, /iernan begins to figure that the composition of the text is not a mere copy of some earlier manuscript, but the original. %n abrupt shift from one scribe to the next on folio 10'v suggests that two distinct poems may have been combined at the last minute. ,hat is most striking about the manuscript is the digression from the !5&line grid of the rest of the codex starting from folio 1-# until the end of the poem. /iernan speculates that the second scribe had completed his last two gatherings of pages before the first scribe, thus re"uiring him to fit more per folio than he had started with. /iernan concludes that this is a result of two scribes trying to integrate two previously unrelated texts together. =eonard $oyle)s article ?eowulf and the !owell "ode/, argues that both scribes were working in concert while the *eo+ulf section of the ;owell Aodex was some #- lines of text unsynchroni>ed with the manuscript they were copyingN thus the discrepancies attempt to fix the foliation in terms of the whole codex.

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$oyle also notes the alteration of fitt numbers could either be a mistake on the first scribe)s part, or that a fitt had been deliberately omitted while copying. ,ith fitt UUIIII missing on the manuscript, a later scribe had chosen to correct this by altering fitts UUIIII through UUBIIII. $oyle also suggests that the fitts may have recieved their numbering for the first time on this manuscript. /iernan takes this suggestion as further proof of the authorship being contemporary with the manuscript.

The S(tton 0oo Shi" B(rial


The shi" at S(tton 0oo (n er e-+a,ationJ

In 14#4, a seventh&century ship burial was excavated at 3utton Hoo near ,oodbridge in 3uffolk. Its significance to the study of *eo+ulf is the interesting mix of Ahristian and pagan practices involved in the burial that mirrors a similar mix in beliefs in the poem. 6ffectively, some of the artifacts breathe life into the events of *eo+ulf while the poem helps explain the contents of 3utton Hoo. ogether, archaeology and literature paint a detailed picture of %nglo&3axon culture.

%oliti+s an

5ar/are

5ar/are, or the threat of warfare, is a regular part of %nglo&3axon life. <rom the number of feuds and stories of clan fealty throughout *eo+ulf, this is clear. 1ther %nglo&3axon texts, such as The ?attle of Maldon, "ynewulf and "yneheard, and The ?attle at 3innsburh are essentially of the 7ermanic kheroic lay) tradition commemorating the heroic efforts of individual warriors, their strategies and fates. mit wis god cyningK ,hat makes *eo+ulf significantly different from these other works is not the portrayal of warfare, but the exaltation of peace and peace&keeping through the rule of powerful kings. *eo+ulf opens by demonstrating the power of those kings. 3cyld 3cefing, who was so strong to have taken many mead benches and was offered much tributary gold kept the peace because no other tribe dared face him. 3heer military might is a major peacekeeper in such troubled times. 1f the most prevalent virtues of kingship is the responsible distribution of weapons and treasure. he treasures bestowed upon $eowulf by Hrolgar following the defeat of 7rendel an example of the proper distribution of treasure to a warrior who has proven himself worthy to a king 8YUB, YUUBI9. Hrolgar)s exemplary story of Heremod, the (anish king who failed to reward his retainers with gold and soon lost their loyalty, serves as an example to $eowulf on how not to become a bad king. he loyalty of followers and the connexions between that loyalty, success in battle and in gold are intimate. ,hile *eo+ulf expounds this relationship, it gives reason for the veritable treasure horde found at 3utton Hoo.

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&inc eaPe mJg, gold on grunde gumcynnes gehwone oferhigan, hyde se Pe wylle%

*ames Aampbell observes these cylces of power in *eo+ulf. He sees how treasure must feed the tribe)s capacity for war, and how war re"uires the supply and flow of treasure & victory breeds thirst for revenge, and feud brings upon feud. =ooking at the intricate beauty of the treasures involved, he has few doubts that those ancient warriors would live and die for such treasures. he source of the technology involved in creating the treasures of the %nglo&3axons & clearly evidenced in the famous belt buckle at 3utton Hoo & is still unclear. ,orn openly, they serve as a symbol of one warrior)s worthiness to his tribe.

<oforlic scionon ofer hleorbergan gehroden golde, fah ond fyrheard ferhwearde heold guQmod grimmon%

he boar was a symbol of protection && ferocity in battle && for the anglo& 3axons. *eo+ulf wears a shining helmet that is in the audiences) imagination not unlike the one found at $enty 7range, (erbys. ,ith textual descriptions matching arms, armour, and other artifacts so well, scholars who argue that the poem)s composition is in the seventh century, about the time of the 3utton Hoo burial, have a strong case, considering this evidence. 1ft seldan hwJr Jfter leodhryre lytle hwile bongar bugeP% 3words 8particularly their hilts9 are as intricately decorated by the %nglo&3axons as their jewellery. %s tools of war, they are the gifts that most symboli>e the worthiness of a warrior to a clan. he swords themselves have their own stories to tell. 3ome are given names such as kHrunting), :nferl)s sword, or k;igling), *eo+ulf)s sword. hey are often heirlooms passed down from father to son, from king to retainer, or captured in battle. he runes or decorations on the hilts may represent a story, such as the sword of 6otens that *eo+ulf retrieves from 7rendel)s lair and appears to tell the story of his origins 8YUUIIII9. ,hile swords may be a symbol of worthiness and power, they can also incite fury for revenge. $eowulf)s prediction of disaster for the marriage between <reawaru and Ingeld is based on the importance of swords to the honour of individual warriors and their clan 8YUUUBIII&UUUU9. N;eald Qu nu, hruse, nu hJleP ne moston, eorla JhteB' he poem begins with the gilded Heorot && a palace only possible through many years of peace of tribesman collecting treasures && and ends with $eowulf)s death in front of the dragon)s barrow where a long dead tribe had buried their treasure. he poem describes a culture so deeply connected to its material goods that they bury it along with their dead. here is an understanding

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that with the gold goes a balance of power, and when a powerful 8read rich9 leader dies, to redistribute his gold irresponsibly would be an imbalance of power. he 7eats) reburial of the gold in $eowulf)s funeral mound indicates a kind of despair: the gold can do them no good without a king to distribute it.

*hristian *olo(ring in Beo1(l/


F7A7 Bla+k6(rn summarises the possible sources for the Ahristian elements of the poem in his essay The "ristian "olouring in the ?eowulf: 1. he poem was composed by a Ahristian, who had heard the stories and used them as the material of the work. !. he poem was composed by a Ahristian, who used old lays as his material. #. he poem was composed by a heathen, either from old stories or from old lays. %t a later date it was revised by a Ahristian, to whom we owe the Ahristian allusions found in it. :nfortunately, without records of those old stories or lays upon ?eowulf may have been based, we cannot be sure which one of these is true. $lackburn also classifies these Ahristian elements: 1. Dassages containing biblical history or allusions to some scriptural narrative. hese include references to Aain, %bel, and the flood. !. Dassages containing expressions in disapproval of heathen ideas or heathen worship. here is one of these in the introduction to the (anes near the beginning of the poem. #. Dassages containing references to doctrines distinctively Ahristian: references to heaven, hell, and the day of judgement. He finds ten cases. '. Incidental allusions to the Ahristian 7od. He finds some +# cases. =ooking closely at these elements, $lackburn speculates on how easily one can refigure them to be pagan by the replacement of a word or omission of a phrase, thus seeing how scribes may have done so in the past. .eversing the Ahristiani>ing process, he concludes that at some point, ?eowulf may have been an entirely pagan text. 1thers choose to examine how well the Ahristian elements fit together and form such an integral part of the poem. :nlike other poems, such as The 'anderer or The &eafarer, in which it appears to many editors that the Ahristian exhortations appear Fto early criticsG to have been appended to the otherwise pagan poems, ?eowulf has Ahristian elements throughout the narrative. ?arie Dadgett Hamilton, in her essay The 9eligious )rinciple, argues that the poem is consistent with %ugustine)s model of 7od)s grace: that a society of the .ighteous live together with one of the .eprobate on earth. his principle and the ways in which they are presented in the poem, Hamilton argues, would have been familliar to the 6nglish at that time. $eowulf)s concern over his honour and wyrd && his fate && are concerns about Drovidence or (ivine will. In wyrd, we can see the beginnings of a change in what was a pagan concept and its acceptance of a new Ahristiani>ed meaning. 1n the other side, 7rendel is e"uated to the race of Aain, and the dragon to be an incarnation of the devil. %gain, these characteri>ations of the monstrous and evil were well known to the 6nglish. ,hat is clear about the religious colouring of ?eowulf is that while it is clearly Ahristian, there is little Ahristian doctrine. .eferences are only to the 1ld estament narratives and concepts easily refigured from their pagan e"uivalents. It seems that ?eowulf tells of a period in the midst of religious change being neither entirely pagan, nor fully Ahristian For to be an attempt to integrate 7ermanic history into an 1ld estament time frameG. ,e can let the decision to you, after reading and analy>ing this 6pic.

Mi

le English Literat(re
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)icture taken from the site $uminarium

he ?iddle %ges is like no other period in The !orton Anthology of <nglish $iterature in terms of the time span it covers. Aaedmon)s ;ymn, the earliest 6nglish poem to survive as a text 8 !A<$ 2, 1.!+&!09, belongs to the latter part of the seventh century. he morality play, <#eryman, is dated Oafter 1'2+O and probably belongs to the early&sixteenth century. In addition, for the ?iddle %ges, there is no one central movement or event such as the 6nglish .eformation, the Aivil ,ar, or the .estoration around which to organi>e a historical approach to the period. ,hen did O6nglish =iteratureO beginE %ny answer to that "uestion must be problematic, for the very concept of 6nglish literature is a construction of literary history, a concept that changed over time. here are no O6nglishO characters in ?eowulf, and 6nglish scholars and authors had no knowledge of the poem before it was discovered and edited in the nineteenth century. %lthough written in the language called O%nglo&3axon,O the poem was claimed by (anish and 7erman scholars as their earliest national epic before it came to be thought of as an O1ld 6nglishO poem. 1ne of the results of the ;orman Aon"uest was that the structure and vocabulary of the 6nglish language changed to such an extent that Ahaucer, even if he had come across a manuscript of 1ld 6nglish poetry, would have experienced far more difficulty construing the language than with medieval =atin, <rench, or Italian. If a /ing %rthur had actually lived, he would have spoken a Aeltic language possibly still intelligible to native speakers of ?iddle ,elsh but not to ?iddle 6nglish speakers. he literary culture of the ?iddle %ges was far more international than national and was divided more by lines of class and audience than by language. =atin was the language of the Ahurch and of learning. %fter the eleventh century, <rench became the dominant language of secular 6uropean literary culture. 6dward, the Drince of ,ales, who took the king of <rance prisoner at the battle of Doitiers in 1#+-, had culturally more in common with his royal captive than with the common people of 6ngland. %nd the legendary /ing %rthur was an international figure. 3tories about him and his knights originated in Aeltic poems and tales and were adapted and greatly expanded in =atin chronicles and <rench romances even before %rthur became an 6nglish hero. Ahaucer was certainly familiar with poetry that had its roots in the 1ld 6nglish period. He read popular romances in ?iddle 6nglish, most of which derive from more sophisticated <rench and Italian sources. $ut when he began writing in the 1#-5s and 1#05s, he turned directly to <rench and Italian models as well as to classical poets 8especially 1vid9. 6nglish poets in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries looked upon Ahaucer and his contemporary *ohn 7ower as founders of <nglish literature, as those who made 6nglish a language fit for cultivated readers. In the .enaissance, Ahaucer was referred to as the O6nglish Homer.O 3penser called him the Owell of 6nglish undefiled.O ;evertheless, Ahaucer and his contemporaries 7ower, ,illiam =angland, and the :awain poet T all writing in the latter third of the fourteenth century T are heirs to classical and medieval cultures that had been evolving for many centuries. "ultures is put in the plural deliberately, for there is a tendency, even on the part of medievalists, to think of the ?iddle %ges as a single culture epitomi>ed by the 7reat 7othic cathedrals in which architecture, art, music, and liturgy seem to join in magnificent expressions of a unified faith T an approach one recent scholar has

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referred to as Ocathedralism.O 3uch a view overlooks the diversity of medieval cultures and the social, political, religious, economic, and technological changes that took place over this vastly long period. he texts included here from O he ?iddle %gesO attempt to convey that diversity. hey date from the sixth to the late& fifteenth century. 6ight were originally in 1ld <rench, six in =atin, five in 6nglish, two in 1ld 3axon, two in 1ld Icelandic, and one each in Aatalan, Hebrew, 7reek, and %rabic. O he =inguistic and =iterary Aontexts of ?eowulfO demonstrates the kinship of the %nglo&3axon poem with the versification and literature of other early branches of the 7ermanic language group. %n %nglo&3axon poet who was writing an epic based on the book of 7enesis was able to insert into his work the episodes of the fall of the angels and the fall of man that he adapted with relatively minor changes from an 1ld 3axon poem thought to have been lost until a fragment from it was found late in the nineteenth century in the Batican =ibrary. 7ermanic mythology and legend preserved in 1ld Icelandic literature centuries later than ?eowulf provide us with better insights into stories known to the poet than anything in ancient 7reek and .oman epic poetry. O6states and 1rdersO samples ideas about medieval society and some of its members and institutions. Darticular attention is given to religious orders and to the ascetic ideals that were supposed to rule the lives of men and women living in religious communities 8such as Ahaucer)s Drioress, ?onk, and <riar, who honor those rules more in the breach than in the observance9 and anchorites 8such as *ulian of ;orwich9 living apart. The 9ule of &aint ?enedict , written for a sixth& century religious community, can serve the modern reader as a guidebook to the ideals and daily practices of monastic life. he mutual influence of those ideals and new aristocratic ideals of chivalry is evident in the selection from the Ancrene 9iwle 8.ule for %nchoresses, !A<$ 2, F1.1+0W 1+4G9 and The ?ook of the 1rder of "hi#alry . hough medieval social theory has little to say about women, women were sometimes treated satirically as if they constituted their own estate and profession in rebellion against the divinely ordained rule of men. %n outstanding instance is the O1ld ,omanO from the 9omance of the 9ose, whom Ahaucer reinvented as the ,ife of $ath. he tenth&century 6nglish $enedictine monk %elfric gives one of the earliest formulations of the theory of three estates T clergy, nobles, and commoners T working harmoniously together. $ut the deep& seated resentment between the upper and lower estates flared up dramatically in the :prising of 1#21 and is revealed by the slogans of the rebels, which are cited here in selections from the chronicles of Henry /nighton and homas ,alsingham, and by the attack of the poet *ohn 7ower on the rebels in his Vo/ "lamantis. In the late&medieval genre of estates satire, all three estates are portrayed as selfishly corrupting and disrupting a mythical social order believed to have prevailed in a past happier age. he selections under O%rthur and 7awainO trace how <rench writers in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries transformed the =egendary Histories of $ritain 8!A<$ R , 1.110W1!29 into the narrative genre that we now call Oromance.O he works of AhrItien de royes focus on the adventures of individual knights of the .ound able and how those adventures impinge upon the cult of chivalry. 3uch adventures often take the form of a "uest to achieve honor or what 3ir homas ?alory often refers to as Oworship.O $ut in romance the adventurous "uest is often entangled, for better or for worse, with personal fulfillment of love for a lady T achieving her love, protecting her honor, and, in rare cases such as &ir :awain and the :reen *night , resisting a lady)s advances. In the thirteenth century, clerics turned the sagas of %rthur and his knights T especially 3ir =ancelot T into immensely long prose romances that disparaged worldly chivalry and the love of women and advocated spiritual chivalry and sexual purity. hese were the O<rench booksO that ?alory, as his editor and printer ,illiam Aaxton tells us, Oabridged into 6nglish,O and gave them the definitive form from which %rthurian literature has survived in poetry, prose, art, and film into modern times. O he <irst Arusade,O launched in 154-, was the first in a series of holy wars that profoundly affected the ideology and culture of Ahristian 6urope. Dreached by Dope :rban II, the aim of the crusade was to unite warring Ahristian factions in the common goal of liberating the Holy =and from its ?oslem rulers. he chronicle of .obert the ?onk is one of several versions of :rban)s address. he Hebrew chronicle of 6lie>er bar ;athan gives a moving account of attacks made by some of the crusaders on *ewish communities in the .hineland T the beginnings of the persecution of 6uropean *ews in the later ?iddle %ges. In the biography of her father, the $y>antine emperor %lexius I, the princess %nna Aomnena provides us with still another perspective of the leaders of the <irst Arusade whom she met on their passage through Aonstantinople en

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route to the Holy =and. he taking of *erusalem by the crusaders came to be celebrated by 6uropean writers of history and epic poetry as one of the greatest heroic achievements of all times. he accounts by the %rab historian Ibn %l&%thir and by ,illiam of yre tell us what happened after the crusaders breached the walls of *erusalem from complementary but very different points of view. ;ear the beginning of Ahaucer)s 7eneral Drologue to The "anterbury Tales, the narrator tells his audience that he will describe the OcondiciounO of the pilgrims, their OdegreeO 8social rank9, >whiche they were,> and also Owhat array that they were inneON at the end he says that he has now told their OestaatO and OarrayO and apologi>es if he has not arranged them in the O degree % % % as that they sholde stonde ,O i.e., their correct social order 8 !A<$ R, 1.!14, lines #2W'1N !#+, line 012N !#-, lines 0'+W'09. his professed concern for putting people in their proper place is obviously of great interest to the poet and his audience. It should also be a matter of interest and amusement to modern readers, especially if they reali>e that the poet)s ostensible concern for propriety is a mask he puts on. ,hat is interesting about Ahaucer)s Drologue is not that it portrays an archaic and closed social order but that it reveals that order in the process of breaking down. ?ost of Ahaucer)s pilgrims are by no means content to stay in their proper places but are engaged in the pursuit of wealth, status, and respectability. he conflict between the old and the new, between tradition and ambition is evident not only in the 7eneral Drologue but throughout The "anterbury Tales in the individual pilgrims) prologues and tales. 6very society devises terminology meant to express social stratifications but also often used to disguise them. "lass, the principal term in both popular and academic discourse about our society, is not very useful or accurate in analy>ing medieval society or the ways in which that society thought about itself. %lthough there may be some justification in applying notions of class, especially middle class, to Ahaucer)s world, that of the late fourteenth century, one needs to keep in mind that the ?iddle %ges cover the period of a millennium during which social structures and social theory were constantly changing. he main purpose of the following selections is to define more precisely such terms as condition, degree, estate, and order, a word that can signify both the 8theoretically9 harmonious arrangement of the cosmos and society and individual units of the general order, such as a religious order or an order of chivalry. 1ne of the main differences between the order of medieval and the order of modern society is the preeminent role played in the former by the Ahurch and its many institutions. 1ne&third of the Aanterbury pilgrims either belong to the Ahurch T the Drioress, the 3econd ;un 8her chaplain9, the ;un)s Driest 8one of three priests who are said to accompany her9, the ?onk, the <riar, the Alerk, and the Darson T or are laymen who make a corrupt living out of it T the 3ummoner and the Dardoner. he Ahurch was in itself a complex social structure and inevitably constituted one of the divisions made in medieval social theory, which was written in =atin by churchmen. %n obvious division is the bipartite one between the clergy and the laity T those belonging to the Ahurch and those outside it. %nother T one of several tripartite divisions T which stems from the .oman Ahurch)s doctrine of celibacy of the clergy, is based on sexual activity: virgins, widowers and widows, and married people. his is a classification that the ,ife of $ath in her Drologue professes to accept while defending her right to remarry as often as she pleases 8!A<$ 2, 1.!+-W-59. .eligious orders were so called because they were OorderedO or OregulatedO by a regula, i.e., a OruleO 8the latter noun comes into 6nglish from 1ld <rench reule via =atin regula9, and a division was recogni>ed between regular clergy, those subject to the rule of a monastic order, who lived in a religious community, and secular clergy, those subject to the bishop of a diocese, who lived in the world. $oth regulars and seculars were ultimately subject to the pope. he oldest religious rule in this sense is the 9ule of &aint ?enedict devised in the sixth century by the founder of the $enedictine order, who has been called the O<ather of ,estern ?onasticism.O

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1ver the course of the ?iddle %ges, a schema of three mutually dependent estates developed, one of the earliest articulations of which is that of the 6nglish $enedictine monk Aelfric. %ccording to this theory, Ahristian society was comprised of those who pray 8the clergy9, those who fight 8the nobility9, and those who work 8the labourers9. he clergy see to it that the souls of all may be savedN the labourers see to it that the bodies of all may be fed and clothedN the nobility see to it that the other two estates may carry out their functions in peace and with justice. In practice, such a schema does not begin to account for the varieties of religious, social, or professional experience during the ?iddle %ges. he 9ule of &aint ?enedict sets forth the basic principles and practices of monks and nuns and helps one to grasp the violations of the rule by the likes of Ahaucer)s fourteenth&century ?onk. $ut the religious and social world kept changing. he $enedictine order itself changed as it grew more powerful and politically influential. In the twelfth century new orders appeared T the Aistercians and the orders of friars founded by 3t. (ominic and 3t. <rancis. %lso, in emulation of the early Ahristian desert fathers, both men and women often chose to live as hermits or recluses instead of joining religious communities. he Ancrene 9iwle 8.ule for %nchoresses9 8!A<$ 2, 1.1+0W+49, written for three 6nglish sisters, contains elements of passionate devotional experience absent from the $enedictine rule. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the nobility developed a taste for romances of chivalry T many of them about *ing Arthur and the knights of the .ound able. he .ound able itself came to be thought of as an Oorder,O in some respects like a religious order. .amen =ull)s The ?ook of the 1rder of "hi#alry, one of the most popular works of the ?iddle %ges, lays out that concept in the form of a book of instruction presented like a rule by an older knight to a young s"uire who is about to be dubbed into the order of knighthood. ;uns belonged to religious orders following a rule. $ut 3t. $enedict)s 9ule, %elfric, .amen =ull, and most discussions of estates and orders, except those, like Ancrene 9iwle, addressed to women, are silent about woman)s estate. ,omen worked beside their husbands in the fields, in the textile industry, and in shopsN but there was a body of antifeminist literature that dealt with women as though they belonged to a separate order whose sole enterprise was sex, love, and marriage. In the 9omance of the 9ose, *ean de ?eun, the second of its two authors, created a satiric character named $a #ieille, the 1ld ,oman, who holds a long discourse on how to take advantage of men and succeed in that enterprise 8in which, she confesses, she has failed9. Her discourse is an important source for Ahaucer)s ,ife of $ath)s Drologue. %lthough the three estates were supposed to work together for the common good, their actual history is one of constant friction and conflict. he murder of homas _ $ecket by four of Henry II)s knights, for which the king was forced to do penance, is an example of an ongoing dispute between church and state about jurisdiction over the clergy. ?utual hatred of the lower and higher estates is seen in the bloody 6nglish Oprising of 13R1, which is represented here by a series of rebel manifestos preserved in chronicles and an allegorical diatribe against the rebels in the Vo/ "lamantis of the poet +ohn :ower. hat work, as well as 7ower)s Mirour de l'1mme, illustrates the late&medieval genre of estates satire to which the 7eneral Drologue to the "anterbury Tales is, in some respects, related. In estates satires the idealism projected by 3t. $enedict, the author of Ancrene 9iwle, and .amen =ull has given way to a profound pessimism and even despair about the social order. he different estates now include T in addition to bishops, monks, barons, knights, and peasants T merchants, doctors, lawyers, and other more speciali>ed professions whose activities provide an unrelieved, if occasionally colorful, catalogue of greed, fraud, and hypocrisy.

)eo//rey *ha(+er

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Ahaucer 8the name is <rench and seems to have meant originally )shoemaker)9 came into the world probably in 1##2, the first important author who was born and lived in =ondon, which with him becomes the center of 6nglish literature. %bout his life, as about those of many of our earlier writers, there remains only very fragmentary information, which in his case is largely pieced together from scattering entries of various kinds in such documents as court account books and public records of state matters and of lawsuits. His father, a wine merchant, may have helped supply the cellars of the king 86dward III9 and so have been able to bring his son to royal noticeN at any rate, while still in his teens 7eoffrey became a page in the service of one of the king)s daughters&in&law. In this position his duty would be partly to perform various humble work in the household, partly also to help amuse the leisure of the inmates, and it is easy to suppose that he soon won favor as a fluent story&teller. He early became ac"uainted with the seamy as well as the brilliant side of courtly lifeN for in 1#+4 he was in the campaign in <rance and was taken prisoner. hat he was already valued appears from the king)s subscription of the e"uivalent of a thousand dollars of present&day money toward his ransomN and after his release he was transferred to the king)s own service, where about 1#-2 he was promoted to the rank of es"uire. He was probably already married to one of the "ueen)s ladies&in&waiting. Ahaucer was now thirty years of age, and his practical sagacity and knowledge of men had been recogni>edN for from this time on he held important public positions. He was often sent to the Aontinent&&to <rance, <landers, and Italy&&on diplomatic missionsN and for eleven years he was in charge of the =ondon customs, where the uncongenial drudgery occupied almost all his time until through the intercession of the "ueen he was allowed to perform it by deputy. In 1#2- he was a member of Darliament, knight of the shire for /entN but in that year his fortune turned&&he lost all his offices at the overthrow of the faction of his patron, (uke *ohn of 7aunt 8uncle of the young king, .ichard II, who had succeeded his grandfather, 6dward III, some years before9. Ahaucer)s party and himself were soon restored to power, but although during the remaining do>en years of his life he received from the Aourt various temporary appointments and rewards, he appears often to have been poor and in need. ,hen (uke Henry of $olingbroke, son of *ohn of 7aunt, deposed the king and himself assumed the throne as Henry IB, Ahaucer)s prosperity seemed assured, but he lived after this for less than a year, dying suddenly in 1'55. He was buried in ,estminster %bbey, the first of the men of letters to be laid in the nook which has since become the Doets) Aorner. Ahaucer)s poetry falls into three rather clearly marked periods. <irst is that of <rench influence, when, though writing in 6nglish, he drew inspiration from the rich <rench poetry of the period, which was produced partly in <rance, partly in 6ngland. Ahaucer experimented with the numerous lyric forms which the <rench poets had brought to perfectionN he also translated, in whole or in part, the most important of medieval <rench narrative poems, the thirteenth century ).omance of the .ose) of 7uillaume de =orris and *ean de ?eung, a very clever satirical allegory, in many thousand lines, of medieval love and medieval religion. his poem, with its 7allic brilliancy and audacity, long exercised over Ahaucer)s mind the same dominant influence which it possessed over most secular poets of the age. Ahaucer)s second period, that of Italian influence, dates from his first visit to Italy in 1#0!&#, where at Dadua he may perhaps have met the fluent Italian poet Detrarch, and where at any rate the revelation of Italian life and literature must have aroused his

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intense enthusiasm. <rom this time, and especially after his other visit to Italy, five years later, he made much direct use of the works of Detrarch and $occaccio and to a less degree of those of their greater predecessor, (ante, whose severe spirit was too unlike Ahaucer)s for his thorough appreciation. he longest and finest of Ahaucer)s poems of this period, ) roilus and Ariseyde) is based on a work of $occaccioN here Ahaucer details with compelling power the sentiment and tragedy of love, and the psychology of the heroine who had become for the ?iddle %ges a central figure in the tale of roy. Ahaucer)s third period, covering his last fifteen years, is called his 6nglish period, because now at last his genius, mature and self&sufficient, worked in essential independence. <irst in time among his poems of these years stands ) he =egend of 7ood ,omen,) a series of romantic biographies of famous ladies of classical legend and history, whom it pleases Ahaucer to designate as martyrs of loveN but more important than the stories themselves is the Drolog, where he chats with delightful frankness about his own ideas and tastes. he great work of the period, however, and the crowning achievement of Ahaucer)s life, is ) he Aanterbury ales.) 6very one is familiar with the plan of the story 8which may well have had some basis in fact9: how Ahaucer finds himself one %pril evening with thirty other men and women, all gathered at the abard Inn in 3outhwark 8a suburb of =ondon and just across the hames from the city proper9, ready to start next morning, as thousands of 6nglishmen did every year, on a pilgrimage to the shrine of 3t. homas a $ecket at Aanterbury. he travelers readily accept the proposal of Harry $ailey, their jovial and domineering host, that he go with them as leader and that they enliven the journey with a story&telling contest 8two stories from each pilgrim during each half of the journey9 for the pri>e of a dinner at his inn on their return. ;ext morning, therefore, the /night begins the series of tales and the others follow in order. his literary form&&a collection of disconnected stories bound together in a fictitious framework&&goes back almost to the beginning of literature itselfN but Ahaucer may well have been directly influenced by $occaccio)s famous book of prose tales, ) he (ecameron) 8 en (ays of 3tory& elling9. $etween the two works, however, there is a striking contrast, which has often been pointed out. ,hile the Italian author represents his gentlemen and ladies as selfishly fleeing from the misery of a frightful plague in <lorence to a charming villa and a holiday of unreflecting pleasure, the gaiety of Ahaucer)s pilgrims rests on a basis of serious purpose, however conventional it may be. Derhaps the easiest way to make clear the sources of Ahaucer)s power will be by means of a rather formal summary.

1. ;is )ersonality. Ahaucer)s personality stands out in his writings plainly and most
delightfully. It must be borne in mind that, like some others of the greatest poets, he was not a poet merely, but also a man of practical affairs, in the eyes of his associates first and mainly a courtier, diplomat, and government official. His wide experience of men and things is manifest in the life&likeness and mature power of his poetry, and it accounts in part for the broad truth of all but his earliest work, which makes it essentially poetry not of an age but for all time. 3omething of conventional medievalism still clings to Ahaucer in externals, as we shall see, but in alertness, independence of thought, and a certain directness of utterance, he speaks for universal humanity. His practical experience helps to explain as well why, unlike most great poets, he does not belong primarily with the idealists. <ine feeling he did not lackN he loved external beauty&&some of his most pleasing passages voice his enthusiasm for ;atureN and down to the end of his life he never lost the >est for fanciful romance. His mind and eye were keen, besides, for moral "ualitiesN he penetrated directly through all the pretenses of falsehood and hypocrisyN while how thoroughly he understood and respected honest worth appears in the picture of the Door Darson in the Drolog to ) he Aanterbury ales.) Himself "uiet and self&contained, moreover, Ahaucer was genial and sympathetic toward all mankind. $ut all this does not declare him a positive idealist, and in fact, rather, he was willing to accept the world as he found it&&he had no reformer)s dream of )shattering it to bits and remoulding it nearer to the heart)s desire.) His moral nature, indeed, was easy&goingN he was the appropriate poet of the Aourt circle, with very much of the better courtier)s point of view. %t the day)s tasks he worked long and faithfully, but he also loved comfort, and he had nothing of the martyr)s instinct. o him human life was a vast procession, of boundless interest, to be observed keenly and reproduced for the reader)s enjoyment in works of objective literary art. he countless tragedies of life he noted with kindly pity, but he felt no impulse to dash himself against the existing barriers of the world in the effort to assure a better future for the coming generations. In a word, Ahaucer is an artist of broad artistic vision to whom art is its own excuse for being. %nd when everything is said few readers would have it otherwise with himN for in his art he has accomplished what no one else in his place could have done, and

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he has left besides the picture of himself, very real and human across the gulf of half a thousand years. .eligion, we should add, was for him, as for so many men of the world, a somewhat secondary and formal thing. In his early works there is much conventional piety, no doubt sincere so far as it goesN and he always took a strong intellectual interest in the problems of medieval theologyN but he became steadily and "uietly independent in his philosophic outlook and indeed rather skeptical of all definite dogmas.6ven in his art Ahaucer)s lack of the highest will&power produced one rather conspicuous formal weaknessN of his numerous long poems he really finished scarcely one. <or this, however, it is perhaps sufficient excuse that he could write only in intervals hardly snatched from business and sleep. In ) he Aanterbury ales) indeed, the plan is almost impossibly ambitiousN the more than twenty stories actually finished, with their eighteen thousand lines, are only a fifth part of the intended number. 6ven so, several of them do not really belong to the seriesN composed in stan>a forms, they are selected from his earlier poems and here pressed into service, and on the average they are less excellent than those which he wrote for their present places 8in the rimed pentameter couplet that he adopted from the <rench9.

2. ;is ;umor. In nothing are Ahaucer)s personality and his poetry more pleasing than in the
rich humor which pervades them through and through. 3ometimes, as in his treatment of the popular medieval beast&epic material in the ;un)s Driest)s ale of the <ox and the Aock, the humor takes the form of boisterous farceN but much more often it is of the finer intellectual sort, the sort which a careless reader may not catch, but which touches with perfect sureness and charming lightness on all the incongruities of life, always, too, in kindly spirit. ;o foible is too trifling for Ahaucer)s "uiet observationN while if he does not choose to denounce the hypocrisy of the Dardoner and the worldliness of the ?onk, he has made their weaknesses sources of amusement 8and indeed object&lessons as well9 for all the coming generations. ;e is one of the greatest of all narrati#e poets . Ahaucer is an ex"uisite lyric poet, but only a few of his lyrics have come down to us, and his fame must always rest largely on his narratives. Here, first, he possesses unfailing fluency. It was with rapidity, evidently with ease, and with masterful certainty, that he poured out his long series of vivid and delightful tales. It is true that in his early, imitative, work he shares the medieval faults of wordiness, digression, and abstract symbolismN and, like most medieval writers, he chose rather to reshape material from the great contemporary store than to invent stories of his own. $ut these are really very minor matters. He has great variety, also, of narrative forms: elaborate allegoriesN love stories of many kindsN romances, both religious and secularN tales of chivalrous exploit, like that related by the /nightN humorous extravagan>asN and jocose renderings of coarse popular material&&something, at least, in virtually every medieval type. The thorough knowledge and sure portrayal of men and women which, belong to his mature work e/tend through, many #arious types of character% It is a commonplace to say that the Drolog to ) he Aanterbury ales) presents in its twenty portraits virtually every contemporary 6nglish class except the very lowest, made to live forever in the finest series of character sketches preserved anywhere in literatureN and in his other work the same power appears in only less conspicuous degree. ;is poetry is also essentially and thoroughly dramatic , dealing very vividly with life in genuine and varied action. o be sure, Ahaucer possesses all the medieval love for logical reasoning, and he takes a keen delight in psychological analysisN but when he introduces these things 8except for the tendency to medieval diffuseness9 they are true to the situation and really serve to enhance the suspense. here is much interest in the "uestion often raised whether, if he had lived in an age like the 6li>abethan, when the drama was the dominant literary form, he too would have been a dramatist. As a descripti#e poet Sof things as well as personsT he displays eGual skill% ,hatever his scenes or objects, he sees them with perfect clearness and brings them in full life&likeness before the reader)s eyes, sometimes even with the minuteness of a nineteenth century novelist. %nd no one understands more thoroughly the art of conveying the general impression with perfect sureness, with a foreground where a few characteristic details stand out in pictures"ue and telling clearness. "haucer is an unerring master of poetic form% His stan>a combinations reproduce all the well&proportioned grace of his <rench models, and to the pentameter riming couplet of his later work he gives the perfect ease and metrical variety which match the fluent thought. In all his poetry there is probably not a single faulty line. %nd yet within a hundred years after

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

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his death, such was the irony of circumstances, 6nglish pronunciation had so greatly altered that his meter was held to be rude and barbarous, and not until the nineteenth century were its principles again fully understood. His language, we should add, is modern, according to the technical classification, and is really as much like the form of our own day as like that of a century before his timeN but it is still only early modern 6nglish, and a little definitely directed study is necessary for any present&day reader before its beauty can be ade"uately recogni>ed. he main principles for the pronunciation of Ahaucer)s language, so far as it differs from ours, are these: 6very letter should be sounded, especially the final e 8except when it is to be suppressed before another vowel9. % large proportion of the rimes are therefore feminine. he following vowel sounds should be observed:
3tressed a like modern a in father. 3tressed e and ee like e in fete or ea in breath. 3tressed i as in machine. oo like o in open% u commonly as in push or like oo in spoon% y like i in machine or pin according as it is stressed or not. ai, ay, ei, and ey like ay in day% au commonly like ou in pound% ou like oo in spoon. ye 8final9 is a diphthong. g 8not in ng and not initial9 before e or i is like 0.

=owell has named in a suggestive summary the chief "uality of each of the great 6nglish poets, with Ahaucer standing first in order: )%ctual life is represented by AhaucerN imaginative life by 3penserN ideal life by 3hakespeareN interior life by ?iltonN conventional life by Dope.) ,e might add: the life of spiritual mysticism and simplicity by ,ordsworthN the completely balanced life by ennysonN and the life of moral issues and dramatic moments by .obert $rowning.

*ohn 7ower
he three other chief writers contemporary with Ahaucer contrast strikingly both with him and with each other. =east important is *ohn 7ower 8pronounced either 7o&er or 7ow&er9, a wealthy landowner whose tomb, with his effigy, may still be seen in 3t. 3avior)s, 3outhwark, the church of a priory to whose rebuilding he contributed and where he spent his latter days. 7ower was a confirmed conservative, and time has left him stranded far in the rear of the forces that move and live. :nlike Ahaucer)s, the bulk of his voluminous poems reflect the past and scarcely hint of the future. he earlier and larger part of them are written in <rench and =atin, and in )Box Alamantis) 8 he Boice of 1ne Arying in the ,ilderness9 he exhausts the vocabulary of exaggerated bitterness in denouncing the common people for the insurrection in which they threatened the privileges and authority of his own class. =ater on, perhaps through Ahaucer)s example, he turned to 6nglish, and in )Aonfessio %mantis) 8% =over)s Aonfession9 produced a series of renderings of traditional stories parallel in general nature to ) he Aanterbury ales.) He is generally a smooth and fluent versifier, but his fluency is his undoingN he wraps up his material in too great a mass of verbiage.

he vision concerning piers the plowman.


he active moral impulse which Ahaucer and 7ower lacked, and a conse"uent direct confronting of the evils of the age, appear vigorously in the group of poems written during the last forty years of the century and known from the title in some of the manuscripts as ) he Bision of ,illiam Aoncerning Diers the Dlowman.) <rom the sixteenth century, at least, until very lately this work, the various versions of which differ greatly, has been supposed to be the single poem of a single author, repeatedly enlarged and revised by himN and ingenious inference has constructed for this supposed author a brief but pictures"ue biography under the name of ,illiam =angland. .ecent investigation, however, has made it seem at least probable that the work grew, to its final form through additions by several successive writers who have not left their names and whose points of view were not altogether identical.

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=ike the slightly earlier poet of )3ir 7awain and the 7reen /night,) the authors belonged to the region of the ;orthwest ?idland, near the ?alvern Hills, and like him, they wrote in the %nglo& 3axon verse form, alliterative, unrimed, and in this case without stan>a divisions. heir language, too, the regular dialect of this region, differs very greatly, as we have already implied, from that of Ahaucer, with much less infusion from the <renchN to the modern reader, except in translation, it seems uncouth and unintelligible. $ut the poem, though in its final state prolix and structurally formless, exhibits great power not only of moral conviction and emotion, but also of expression&& vivid, often homely, but not seldom elo"uent. he )first passus) begins with the sleeping author)s vision of )a field full of folk) 8the world9, bounded on one side by a cliff with the tower of ruth, and on the other by a deep vale wherein frowns the dungeon of ,rong. 3ociety in all its various classes and occupations is very dramatically presented in the brief description of the )field of folk,) with incisive passing satire of the sins and vices of each class. )7luttonous wasters) are there, la>y beggars, lying pilgrims, corrupt friars and pardoners, venal lawyers, and, with a lively touch of realistic humour, cooks and their )knaves) crying, )Hot piesK) $ut a sane balance is preserved&&there are also worthy people, faithful laborers, honest merchants, and sincere priests and monks. 3oon the allegory deepens. Holy Ahurch, appearing, instructs the author about ruth and the religion which consists in loving 7od and giving help to the poor. % long portrayal of the evil done by =ady ?eed 8love of money and worldly rewards9 prepares for the appearance of the hero, the sturdy plowman Diers, who later on is even identified in a ha>y way with Ahrist himself. hrough Diers and his search for ruth is developed the great central teaching of the poem, the 7ospel of ,ork&&the doctrine, namely, that society is to be saved by honest labor, or in general by the faithful service of every class in its own sphere. he 3even (eadly 3ins and their fatal fruits are emphasi>ed, and in the later forms of the poem the corruptions of wealth and the Ahurch are indignantly denounced, with earnest pleading for the religion of practical social love to all mankind. In its own age the influence of )Diers the Dlowman) was very great. (espite its intended impartiality, it was inevitably adopted as a partisan document by the poor and oppressed, and together with the revolutionary songs of *ohn $all it became a powerful incentive to the Deasant)s Insurrection. Diers himself became and continued an ideal for men who longed for a less selfish and brutal world, and a century and a half later the poem was still cherished by the Drotestants for its exposure of the vices of the Ahurch. Its medieval form and setting remove it hopelessly beyond the hori>on of general readers of the present time, yet it furnishes the most detailed remaining picture of the actual social and economic conditions of its age, and as a great landmark in the progress of moral and social thought it can never lose its significance.

he ,iclifite $ible
% product of the same general forces which inspired )Diers the Dlowman) is the earliest in the great succession of the modern 6nglish versions of the $ible, the one connected with the name of *ohn ,iclif, himself the first important 6nglish precursor of the .eformation. ,iclif was born about 1#!5, a Yorkshireman of very vigorous intellect as well as will, but in all his nature and instincts a direct representative of the common people. (uring the greater part of his life he was connected with 1xford :niversity, as student, teacher 8and therefore priest9, and college head. 6arly known as one of the ablest 6nglish thinkers and philosophers, he was already opposing certain doctrines and practices of the Ahurch when he was led to become a chief spokesman for /ing 6dward and the nation in their refusal to pay the tribute which /ing *ohn, a century and a half before, had promised to the Dapacy and which was now actually demanded. %s the controversies proceeded, ,iclif was brought at last to formulate the principle, later to be basal in the whole Drotestant movement, that the final source of religious authority is not the Ahurch, but the $ible. 1ne by one he was led to attack also other fundamental doctrines and institutions of the AhurchT transubstantiation, the temporal possessions of the Ahurch, the Dapacy, and at last, for their corruption, the four orders of friars. In the outcome the Ahurch proved too strong for even ,iclif, and 1xford, against its will, was compelled to abandon himN yet he could be driven no farther than to his parish of =utterworth, where he died undisturbed in 1#2'. His connection with literature was an unforeseen but natural outgrowth of his activities. 3ome years before his death, with characteristic energy and >eal, he had begun to spread his doctrines by sending out )poor priests) and laymen who, practicing the self&denying life of the friars of earlier days, founded the =ollard sect. F<ootnote: he name, given by their enemies, perhaps means )tares.)G It was inevitable not only that he and his associates should compose many tracts and

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sermons for the furtherance of their views, but, considering their attitude toward the $ible, that they should wish to put it into the hands of all the people in a form which they would be able to understand, that is in their own vernacular 6nglish. Hence sprang the ,iclifite translation. he usual supposition that from the outset, before the time of ,iclif, the Ahurch had prohibited translations of the $ible from the =atin into the common tongues is a mistakeN that policy was a direct result of ,iclif)s work. In 6ngland from %nglo&3axon times, as must be clear from what has here already been said, partial 6nglish translations, literal or free, in prose or verse, had been in circulation among the few persons who could read and wished to have them. $ut ,iclif proposed to populari>e the entire book, in order to make the conscience of every man the final authority in every "uestion of belief and religious practice, and this the Ahurch would not allow. It is altogether probable that ,iclif personally directed the translation which has ever since borne his nameN but no record of the facts has come down to us, and there is no proof that he himself was the actual author of any part of it&&that work may all have been done by others. he basis of the translation was necessarily the =atin )Bulgate) 8Aommon9 version, made nine hundred years before from the original Hebrew and 7reek by 3t. *erome, which still remains to&day, as in ,iclif)s time, the official version of the .oman church. he first ,iclifite translation was hasty and rather rough, and it was soon revised and bettered by a certain *ohn Durvey, one of the )=ollard) priests. ,iclif and the men associated with him, however, were always reformers first and writers only to that end. heir religious tracts are formless and crude in style, and even their final version of the $ible aims chiefly at fidelity of rendering. In general it is not elegant, the more so because the authors usually follow the =atin idioms and sentence divisions instead of reshaping them into the native 6nglish style. heir text, again, is often interrupted by the insertion of brief phrases explanatory of unusual words. he vocabulary, adapted to the unlearned readers, is more largely 3axon than in our later versions, and the older inflected forms appear oftener than in AhaucerN so that it is only through our knowledge of the later versions that we to&day can read the work without fre"uent stumbling. ;evertheless this version has served as the starting point for almost all those that have come after it in 6nglish, as even a hasty reader of this one must be consciousN and no reader can fail to admire in it the sturdy 3axon vigor which has helped to make our own version one of the great masterpieces of 6nglish literature.

he most direct example of Ahaucer)s <rench studies is his translation of $e 9oman de la rose, a poem written in some '555 lines by 7uillaume =orris about 1!#0 and extended to over !!,555 by *ean Alopinel, better known as *ean de ?eun, forty years later. ,e know from Ahaucer himself that he translated this poem, and the extant 6nglish fragment of 0-42 lines was generally assigned to him from 1+#!, when it was first printed, till its authorship was challenged in the early years of the Ahaucer 3ociety. he ground of this challenge was its wide divergence from Ahaucer)s practice in his undoubtedly genuine works as to certain niceties of rhyme, notable as to not rhyming words ending in &y with others ending &ye. It was subse"uently discovered, however, that the whole fragment was divisible linguistically into three portions, of which the first and second end respectively at lines 105+ and +215, and that in the first of these three sections the variations from Ahaucer)s accepted practice are insignificant. =ines 1&105+ have therefore been provisionally accepted as Ahaucer)s, and the other two fragments as the work of unknown translators 8*ames I of 3cotland has been suggested as one of them9, which somehow came to be pieced together. If, however, the difficulties in the way of this theory are less than those which confront any other, they are still considerable, and the "uestion can hardly be treated as closed. ,hile our knowledge of Ahaucer)s 9omaunt of the 9ose is in this unsatisfactory state, another translation of his from the <rench, the ?ook of the $yon 8alluded to in the O.etractionO found, in some manuscripts, at the end of the "anterbury Tales9, which must certainly have been taken from 7uillaume ?achault)s $e .it du lion, has perished altogether. he strength of <rench influence on Ahaucer)s early work may, however, be amply illustrated from the first of his poems with which we are on sure ground, the ?ook of the .uchesse, or, as it is alternatively called, the .eth of ?launche. Here not only are individual passages closely imitated from ?achault and <roissart, but the dream, the ?ay morning, and the whole machinery of the poem are taken over from contemporary <rench conventions. $ut even at this stage Ahaucer could prove his right to borrow by the skill with which he makes his materials serve his own purpose, and some of the lines in the .eth of ?launche are among the most tender and charming he ever wrote.

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Ahaucer)s A%?%"%, a poem in honour of the $lessed Birgin, of which the stan>as begin with the successive letters of the alphabet, is another early example of <rench influence. It is taken from the )elerinage de la #ie humaine, written by 7uillaume de (eguilleville about 1##5. he occurrence of some magnificent lines in Ahaucer)s version, combined with evidence that he did not yet possess the skill to translate at all literally as soon as rhymes had to be considered, accounts for this poem having been dated sometimes earlier than the ?ook of the .uchesse, and sometimes several years later. ,ith it is usually moved up and down, though it should surely be placed in the )seventies, the "ompleynt to )ity, a fine poem which yet, from its slight obscurity and absence of Ahaucer)s usual ease, may very well some day prove to be a translation from the <rench. ,hile Ahaucer thus sought to reproduce both the matter and the style of <rench poetry in 6ngland, he found other materials in popular =atin books. %mong his lost works are renderings of O1rigenes upon the ?audeleyne,O and of Dope Innocent III on O he ,reced 6ngendring of ?ankindeO 8.e miseria conditionis humanae9. He must have begun his attempts at straightforward narrative with the $yf of &eynt "ecyle 8the weakest of all his works, the second !un's Tale in the Aanterbury series9 from the $egenda Aurea of *acobus de Boragine, and the story of the patience of 7risilde, taken from Detrarch)s =atin version of a tale by $occaccio. In both of these he condenses a little, but ventures on very few changes, though he lets his readers see his impatience with his originals. In his story of Aonstance 8afterwards ascribed to the ?an of =aw9, taken from the %nglo&;orman chronicle of ;icholas rivet, written about 1##', we find him struggling to put some substance into another weak tale, but still without the courage to remedy its radical faults, though here, as with 7risilde, he does as much for his heroine as the conventional exaltation of one virtue at a time permitted. It is possible that other tales which now stand in the Aanterbury series were written originally at this period. ,hat is certain is that at some time in the )seventies three or four Italian poems passed into Ahaucer)s possession, and that he set to work busily to make use of them. 1ne of the most interesting of the poems reclaimed for him by Drofessor 3keat is a fragmentary OAompleynt,O part of which is written in ter>a rima. ,hile he thus experimented with the metre of the .i#ina "ommedia, he made his first attempt to use the material provided by $occaccio)s Teseide in another fragment of great interest, that of 2uene Anelida and 3als Arcyte . ?ore than a third of this is taken up with another, and "uite successful, metrical experiment in %nelida)s Ocompleynt,O but in the introduction of %nelida herself Ahaucer made the first of his three unsuccessful efforts to construct a plot for an important poem out of his own head, and the fragment which begins so well breaks off abruptly at line #+0. <or a time the Teseide seems to have been laid aside, and it was perhaps at this moment, in despondency at his failure, that Ahaucer wrote his most important prose work, the translation of the .e "onsolatione )hilosophiae of $oethius. .eminiscences of this helped to enrich many of his subse"uent poems, and inspired five of his shorter pieces 8 The 3ormer Age, 3ortune, Truth, :entilesse and $ak of &tedfastnesse9, but the translation itself was only a partial success. o borrow his own phrase, his O6nglysh was insufficientO to reproduce such difficult =atin. he translation is often barely intelligible without the original, and it is only here and there that it flows with any ease or rhythm. If Ahaucer felt this himself he must have been speedily consoled by achieving in Troilus and "riseyde his greatest artistic triumph. ,arned by his failure in Anelida and Arcyte, he was content this time to take his plot unaltered from the 3ilostrato, and to follow $occaccio step by step through the poem. $ut he did not follow him as a mere translator. He had done his duty manfully for the saints Oof other holinesseO in Aecyle, 7risilde and Aonstance, whom he was forbidden by the rules of the game to clothe with complete flesh and blood. In this great love&story there were no such restrictions, and the characters which $occaccio)s treatment left thin and conventional became in Ahaucer)s hands convincingly human. ;o other 6nglish poem is so instinct with the glory and tragedy of youth, and in the details of the story Ahaucer)s gifts of vivid colouring, of humour and pity, are all at their highest. %n unfortunate theory that the reference in the $egende of :ood 'omen to Oal the love of Dalamon and %rcyteO is to a hypothetical poem in seven&line stan>as on this theme, which Ahaucer is imagined, when he came to plan the "anterbury Tales, to have suppressed in favour of a new version in heroic couplets, has obscured the close connexion in temper and power between what we know as the O/night)s aleO and the Troilus. he poem may have been more or less extensively revised before, with admirable fitness, it was assigned to the /night, but that its main composition

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can be separated by several years from that of Troilus is aesthetically incredible. Ahaucer)s art here again is at its highest. He takes the plot of $occaccio)s Teseide, but only as much of it as he wants, and what he takes he heightens and humani>es with the same skill which he had shown in transforming the 3ilostrato. 1f the individual characters heseus himself, the arbiter of the plot, is most notably developedN 6milie and her two lovers receive just as much individuality as they will bear without disturbing the atmosphere of romance. he whole story is pulled together and made more rapid and effective. % comparison of almost any scene as told by the two poets suffices to show Ahaucer)s immense superiority. %t some subse"uent period the O3"uire)s aleO of Aambuscan, the fair Aanacee and the Horse of $rass, was gallantly begun in something of the same key, but Ahaucer took for it more materials than he could use, and for lack of the help of a leader like $occaccio he was obliged to leave the story, in ?ilton)s phrase, Ohalf&told,O though the fragment written certainly takes us very much less than half&way. ?eanwhile, in connexion 8as is reasonably believed9 with the betrothal or marriage of %nne of $ohemia to .ichard II 8i.e. about 1#21&1#2!9, Ahaucer had brought to a successful completion the )arlement of 3oules, a charming sketch of -44 lines, in which the other birds, on 3aint Balentine)s day, counsel the O<ormel 6gleO on her choice of a mate. His success here, as in the case of the .eth of ?launche the .uchesse , was due to the absence of any need for a climaxN and though the materials which he borrowed were mainly =atin 8with some help from passages of the Teseide not fully needed for Dalamon and %rcyte9 his method of handling them would have been "uite approved by his friends among the <rench poets. % more ambitious venture, the ;ous of 3ame, in which Ahaucer imagines himself borne aloft by an eagle to <ame)s temple, describes what he sees and hears there, and then breaks off in apparent inability to get home, shows a curious mixture of the poetic ideals of the 9oman de la rose and reminiscences of the .i#ina "ommedia. %s the ;ous of 3ame is most often remembered and "uoted for the personal touches and humour of Ahaucer)s conversation with the eagle, so the most&"uoted passages in the Drologue to the $egende of :ood 'omen are those in which Ahaucer professes his affection for the daisy, and the attack on his loyalty by Aupid and its defence by %lceste. .ecent discoveries have shown, however, that 8besides obligations to ?achault9 some of the touches about the daisy and the controversy between the partisans of the <lower and of the =eaf are snatches from poems by his friends <roissart and (eschamps, which Ahaucer takes up and returns to them with pretty compliments, and that he was indebted to <roissart for some of the framework of his poem. ! $oth of the two versions of the Drologue to the $egende are charming, and some of the tales, notably that of Aleopatra, rank with Ahaucer)s best work. ,hen, however, he had written eight and part of the ninth he tired of his scheme, which was planned to celebrate nineteen of Aupid)s faithful Osaints,O with %lcestis as their "ueen. ,ith his usual hopefulness he had overlooked the risk of monotony, which obviously weighed heavily on him ere he broke off, and the loss of the other ten stories is less to be regretted than that of the celebration of %lceste, and a possible epilogue which might have exceeded in charm the Drologue itself. Ahaucer)s failure to complete the scheme of the $egende of :ood 'omen may have been partly due to the attractions of the "anterbury Tales, which were probably taken up in immediate succession to it. His guardianship of two /entish wards, his justiceship of the peace, his representing the county in the parliament of 1#2-, his commissionership of the river&bank between 7reenwich and ,oolwich, all make it easy to understand his dramatic use of the merry crowds he saw on the Aanterbury road, without supposing him to have had recourse to $occaccio)s .ecamerone, a book which there is no proof of his having seen. he pilgrims whom he imagines to have assembled at the abard Inn in 3outhwark, where Harry $ailey was host, are said to have numbered Owel nyne and twenty in a company,O and the Drologue gives full&length sketches of a /night, a 3"uire 8his son9, and their YeomanN of a Drioress, ?onk, <riar, 1xford Alerk, and Darson, with two disreputable hangers&on of the church, a 3ummoner and DardonerN of a 3erjeant&at&=aw and a (octor of Dhysic, and of a <ranklin, or country gentleman, ?erchant, 3hipman, ?iller, Aook, ?anciple, .eeve, Dloughman 8the Darson)s brother9 and the ever&famous ,ife of $ath. <ive =ondon burgesses are described in a group, and a ;un and Driest# are mentioned as in attendance on the Drioress. 6ach of these, with Ahaucer himself making the twenty&ninth, was pledged to tell two tales, but including one second attempt and a tale told by the Yeoman of a Aanon, who overtakes the pilgrims on the road, we have only twenty finished stories, two unfinished and two interrupted ones. %s in the case of the $egende of :ood 'omen, our loss is not so much that of the additional stories as of the completed framework. he wonderful character sketches of the Drologue are carried yet farther by the alks on the .oad which link the different tales, and two of these alks, in which the ,ife of $ath and the Dardoner respectively edify the company, have the importance of separate ales, but between the ales that have come down to us there are seven links

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missing,' and it was left to a later and weaker hand to narrate, in the O ale of $eryn,O the adventures of the pilgrims at Aanterbury. he reference to the $yf of &eynt "ecyle in the Drologue to the $egende of :ood 'omen gives external proof that Ahaucer included earlier work in the scheme of the "anterbury Tales, and mention has been made of other stories which are indisputably early. In the absence of any such metrical tests as have proved useful in the case of 3hakespeare, the dates at which several of the ales were composed remain doubtful, while in the case of at least two, the Alerk)s tale of 7risilde and the ?onk)s tragedies, there is evidence of early work being revised and supplemented. It is fortunately impossible to separate the prologue to the charmingly told story of Oyonge Hugh of =incolnO from the tale itself, and, with the O"uod scheO in the second line as proof that Ahaucer was here writing specially for his Drioress, we are forbidden to limit the new stories to any one metre or tone. here can be no doubt, however, that what may be called the ales of the Ahurls 8?iller, .eeve, 3ummoner, <riar, @c.9, and the conversational outpourings of the Dardoner and ,ife of $ath, form, with the immortal Drologue, the most important and distinctive additions to the older work. In these, and in the Dardoner)s story of (eath and the hree .evellers, and the ;un)s Driest)s masterly handling of the fable of the Aock and <ox, both of them free from the grossness which marks the others, Ahaucer takes stories which could have been told in a short page of prose and elaborates them with all the skill in narration which he had sedulously cultivated. he conjugal reminiscences of the ,ife of $ath and the 9ee#e's Tale with its abominable climax 8lightened a little by %leyn)s farewell, lines #1-&#149 are among the great things in Ahaucer, as surely as Troilus, and Dalamon and %rcyte and the Drologue. hey help notably to give him the width of range which may certainly be claimed for him. In or soon after 1#41 Ahaucer wrote in prose for an elevenyear&old reader, whom he addresses as O=itel =owis my son,O a treatise on the use of the %strolabe, its short prologue being the prettiest specimen of his prose. he wearisome tale of O?elibee and his wyf Drudence,O which was perhaps as much admired in 6nglish as it had been in =atin and <rench, may have been translated at any time. he sermon on Denitence, used as the )arson's Tale, was probably the work of his old age. O6nvoysO to his friends 3cogan and $ukton, a translation of some balades by 3ir 1tes de 7ranson, and the "ompleynt to his )urs complete the record of his minor poetry. ,e have his own statement that in his youth he had written many $alades, .oundels and Birelayes in honour of =ove, and the two songs embedded respectively in the )arlement of 3oules and the Drologue to the $egende of :ood 'omen are charming and musical. His extant shorter poems, however, whether early or late, offer no excuse for claiming high rank for him as a lyrist. He had very little sheer singing power, and though there are fine lines in his short poems, witness the famous O<lee fro the prees and dwell with soothfastnesse,O they lack the sustained concentration of great work. <rom the drama, again, Ahaucer was cut off, and it is idle to argue from the innumerable dramatic touches in his poems and his gift of characteri>ation as to what he might have done had he lived two centuries later. His own age delighted in stories, and he gave it the stories it demanded, invested with a humanity, a grace and strength which place him among the world)s greatest narrative poets, and which bring the 6ngland of his own day, with all the colour and warmth of life, wonderfully near to all his readers. he part played by Ahaucer in the development of the 6nglish language has often been overrated. He neither corrupted it, as used to be said, by introducing <rench words which it would otherwise have avoided, nor bore any such part in fixing it as was afterwards played by the translators of the $ible. ,hen he was growing up, educated society in 6ngland was still bilingual, and the changes in vocabulary and pronunciation which took place during his life were the natural results of a society, which had been bilingual with a bias towards <rench, giving an exclusive preference to 6nglish. he practical identity of Ahaucer)s language with that of 7ower shows that both merely used the best 6nglish of their day with the care and slightly conservative tendency which befitted poets. Ahaucer)s service to the 6nglish language lies in his decisive success having made it impossible for any later 6nglish poet to attain fame, as 7ower had done, by writing alternatively in =atin and <rench. he claim which should be made for him is that, at least as regards poetry, he proved that 6nglish was Osufficient.O Ahaucer borrowed both his stan>a forms and his OdecasyllabicO couplets 8mostly with an extra syllable at the end of the line9 from 7uillaume ?achault, and his music, like that of his <rench master and his successors, depends very largely on assigning to every syllable its full value, and more especially on the due pronunciation of the final &e. he slower movement of change in 3cotland allowed time for Ahaucer to exercise a potent influence on 3cottish poetry, but in 6ngland this final &e, to which most of the earlier grammatical forms by Ahaucer)s time had been

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reduced, itself fell rapidly into disuse during the 1+th century, and a serious barrier was thus raised to the appreciation of the artistic value of his verse. His disciples, Hoccleve and =ydgate, who at first had caught some echoes of his rhythms, gradually yielded to the change in pronunciation, so that there was no living tradition to hand down his secret, while successive copyists reduced his text to a state in which it was only by accident that lines could be scanned correctly. <or fully three centuries his reputation was sustained solely by his narrative power, his warmest panegyrists betraying no consciousness that they were praising one of the greatest technical masters of poetry. 6ven when thus maimed, however, his works found readers and lovers in every generation, and every improvement in his text has set his fame on a surer basis. $y this time the paraphrasers were already at work, (ryden rewriting the tales of the /night, the ;un)s Driest and the ,ife of $ath, and Dope the ?erchant)s. In 10#0 8reprinted in 10'59 the Drologue and *night's Tale were edited 8anonymously9 by homas ?orell Ofrom the most authentic manuscripts,O and here, though by dint of much violence and with many mistakes, Ahaucer)s lines were for the first time in print given in a form in which they could be scanned. his promise of better things 8?orell still thought it necessary to accompany his text with the paraphrases by $etterton and (ryden9 was fulfilled by a fine edition of the "anterbury Tales 8100+&10029, in which homas yrwittJs scholarly instincts produced a comparatively good text from second&rate manuscripts and accompanied it with valuable illustrative notes. he next edition of any importance was that edite by homas wright for the Dercy 3ociety in 12'2&12+1, based on the erratic but valuable $ritish ?useum manuscript Harley 0##', containing readings which must be either Ahaucer)s second thoughts or the emendations of a brilliantly clever scribe. In 12-- .ichard ?orris re&edited this text in a more scholarly manner for the %ldine edition of the $ritish Doets, and in the following year produced for the Alarendon Dress 3eries a school edition of the Drologue and ales of the /night and ;un)s Driest, edited with the fulness and care previously bestowed only on 7reek and =atin classics. % supplementary volume of the 1xford edition, entitled "haucerian and other )ieces, issued by Drofessor 3keat in 1240, contains the prose and verse which his early publishers and editors, from Dynson and hynne onwards, included among his 'orks by way of illustration, but which had gradually come to be regarded as forming part of his text. he reasons for their rejection are fully stated by Drofessor 3keat in the work named and also in The "haucer "anon 814559. ?any of these pieces have now been traced to other authors, and their exclusion has helped to clear not only Ahaucer)s text but also his biography, which used 8as in the O=ifeO published by ,illiam 7odwin in two "uarto volumes in 125#9 to be encumbered with inferences from works now known not to be Ahaucer)s, notably the Testament of $o#e written by homas :sk. %ll information about Ahaucer)s life available in 1455 will be found summari>ed by ?r .. 6. 7. /irk in $ife 9ecords of "haucer, part iv., published by the Ahaucer 3ociety in that year. 1 he positions of the House of <ame and Dalamon and %rcyte are still matters of controversy. ! he <rench influences on this Drologue, its connexion with the <lower and the =eaf controversy, and the priority of what had previously been reckoned as the second or O$O form of the Drologue over the O%,O were demonstrated in papers by Drof. /ittredge on OAhaucer and some of his <riendsO in ?odern Dhilology, vol. i. 8Ahicago, 145#9, and by ?r *. =. =owes on O he Drologue to the =egend of 7ood ,omenO in Dublications of the ?odern =anguage %ssociation of %merica, vol. xis., (ecember, 145'. # he alks on the .oad show clearly that only one Driest in attendance on the Drioress, and two tales to each narrator, were originally contemplated, but the ODrestes titreO in line 1-' of the Drologue, and the bald couplet 8line 04# s".9 explaining that each pilgrim was to tell two tales each way, were probably both alterations made by Ahaucer in moments of ama>ing hopefulness. he journey was reckoned a #1 days) ride, and eight or nine tales a day would surely have been a sufficient allowance. ' he absence of these links necessitates the division of the "anterbury Tales into nine groups, to which, for purposes of "uotation, the letters % to I have been assigned, the line numeration of the Tales in each group being continuous.
Dollard, %. ,. O7eoffrey Ahaucer.O 6ncyclopedia $ritannica, 11th 6d., vol. BI.

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)eo//rey *ha(+er's *anter6(ry Tales

Ahaucer is presumed to have studied law in the Inner emple 8an Inn of Aourt9 at about this time, although definite proof is lacking. It is recorded that he became a member of the $ritish royal family court of 6dward III as a valet, yeoman, or es"uire on !5 *une 1#-0, a position which could entail any number of jobs. He travelled abroad many times, at least some of them in his role as a valet. In 1#-2, he may have attended the wedding of =ionel of %ntwerp to Biolante, daughter of 7alea>>o II Bisconti, in ?ilan. wo other literary stars of the era who were in attendance were *ean <roissart and Detrarch. %round this time Ahaucer is believed to have written )) he $ook of the (uchess)) in honor of $lanche of =ancaster, the late wife of *ohn of 7aunt who died in 1#-4. Ahaucer travelled to Dicardy the next year as part of the military expedition, and visited 7enoa and <lorence in 1#0#. It is on this Italy trip that it is speculated he came into contact with ?iddle %ges Italian poetry, the forms and stories of which he would use later. 1ne other trip he took in 1#00 seems shrouded in mystery, with records of the time conflicting in details. =ater documents suggest it was a mission, along with *ean <roissart, to arrange a marriage between the future .ichard II of 6ngland and a <rench princess, thereby ending the Hundred Years ,ar. If this was the purpose of their trip, they seem to have been unsuccessful, as no wedding occurred. In 1#02, .ichard II sent Ahaucer as an envoyCsecret dispatch to the Bisconti and to 3ir *ohn Hawkwood, 6nglish ?an&at %rmsC3oldier for Hire, in ?ilan. It is on the person of *ohn Hawkwood that Ahaucer based his /night)s Aharacter. he /night, based on his descriptionCdress and appearance, looks exactly like a soldier for hireCmercenary would have looked in the fourteenth century. % possible indication that his career as a writer was appreciated came when 6dward III of 6ngland granted Ahaucer ))a gallon of wine daily for the rest of his life)) for some unspecified task. his was an unusual grant, but given on a day of celebration, 3t. 7eorge)s (ay, 1#0', when artistic endeavours were traditionally rewarded, it is assumed to have been another early poetic work. It is not known which, if any, of Ahaucer)s extant works prompted the reward but the suggestion of poet to a king places him as a precursor to later poets laureate. Ahaucer continued to collect the li"uid stipend until .ichard II came to power, after which it was converted to a monetary grant on 12 %pril, 1#02. Ahaucer obtained the very substantial job of Aomptroller of the Austoms for the port of =ondon, which Ahaucer began on 2 *une 1#0'. He must have been suited for the role as he continued in it for twelve years, a long time in such a post at that period. His life goes undocumented for much of the next ten years but it is believed that he wrote 8or began9 most of his famous works during this time period. He was mentioned in law papers of ' ?ay 1#25, involved in the ))raptus)) of Aecilia Ahaumpaigne. ,hat ))raptus)) means, rape or possibly kidnapping, is unclear, but the incident seems to have been resolved "uickly and did not leave a stain on Ahaucer)s reputation. It is not known if Ahaucer was in the city of =ondon at the time of the Deasants) .evolt 8the ower of =ondon was stormed in 1#219. ,hile still working as comptroller, Ahaucer appears to have moved to /ent, being appointed as one of the commissioners of peace for /ent, at a time when <rench invasion was a possibility. He is thought to have started work on )) he Aanterbury ales)) in the early 1#25s 8the Dilgrims) ,ay used by his fictional characters on their way to Aanterbury Aathedral passes through /ent9. He also became a ?ember of Darliament for /ent in 1#2-. here is no further reference after this date

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to Dhilippa, Ahaucer)s wife, and she is presumed to have died in 1#20. He survived the political upheavals caused by the =ords %ppellants despite the fact that Ahaucer knew well some of the men executed over the affair. 1n 1! *uly 1#24, Ahaucer was appointed the Alerk of the ,orks, a sort of Aonstruction foreman organi>ing most of the king)s building projects. ;o major works were begun during his tenure, but he did conduct repairs on ,estminster Dalace, 3t. 7eorge)s Ahapel, ,indsor, continue building the wharf at the ower of =ondon, and build the stands for a tournament held in 1#45. It may have been a difficult job but it paid well: two shillings a day, over three times his salary as a comptroller. In 3eptember 1#45, records say that he was robbed, and possibly injured, while conducting the business and it was shortly after, on 10 *une 1#41, that he stopped working in this capacity. %lmost immediately, on !! *une, he began as deputy forester in the royal forest of ;orth Detherton, 3omerset. his was no sinecure, with maintenance an important part of the job, although there were many opportunities to derive profit. It is believed that Ahaucer stopped work on the Aanterbury ales sometime towards the end of this decade. 3oon after the overthrow of his patron .ichard II of 6ngland in 1#44, Ahaucer vanished from the historical record. He is believed to have died of unknown causes on !+ 1ctober, 1'55, but there is no firm evidence for this date, as it comes from the engraving on his tomb, which was built more than one&hundred years after Ahaucer)s death. here is some fanciful speculation & most recently in erry *ones) book )),ho ?urdered AhaucerE % ?edieval ?ystery&that he was murdered by enemies of .ichard II or even on the orders of his successor Henry IB of 6ngland. here is however no solid evidence to support this claim. he new king 8Henry IB9 did renew the grants assigned to Ahaucer by .ichard, but in )) he Aomplaint of Ahaucer to his DurseJJN Ahaucer hints that the grants might not have been paid. he last mention of Ahaucer in the historical record is on + *une 1'55, when some monies owing to him were paid. Ahaucer was buried in ,estminster %bbey in =ondon, as was his right owing to the jobs he had performed and the new house he had leased nearby on !' (ecember 1#44. In 1++- his remains were transferred to a more ornate tomb, making Ahaucer the first writer interred in the area now known as Doets) Aorner.

*ha(+er's *anter6(ry Tales


The "anterbury Tales contrasts with other literature of the period in the naturalism of its narrative, the variety of stories the pilgrims tell and the varied characters who are engaged in the pilgrimage. ?any of the stories narrated by the pilgrims seem to fit their individual characters and social standing, although some of the stories seem ill&fitting to their narrators, perhaps as a result of the incomplete state of the work. Ahaucer drew on real life for his cast of pilgrims: the innkeeper shares the name of a contemporary keeper of an inn in 3outhwark, and real&life identities for the ,ife of $ath, the ?erchant, the ?an of =aw and the 3tudent have been suggested. he many jobs Ahaucer held in medieval societyTpage, soldier, messenger, valet, bureaucrat, foreman and administratorTprobably exposed him to many of the types of people he depicted in the Tales. He was able to shape their speech and satiri>e their manners in what was to become popular literature among people of the same types. Ahaucer)s works are sometimes grouped into, first a <rench period, then an Italian period and finally an 6nglish period, with Ahaucer being influenced by those countries) literatures in turn. Aertainly roilus and Ariseyde is a middle period work with its reliance on the forms of Italian poetry, little known in 6ngland at the time, but to which Ahaucer was probably exposed during his fre"uent trips abroad on court business. In addition, its use of a classical anti"uity classical subject and its elaborate, courtly language sets it apart as one of his most complete and well&formed works. In Troilus and "riseyde Ahaucer draws heavily on his source, $ocaccio, and on the late =atin philosopher $oethius. However, it is The "anterbury Tales, wherein he focuses on 6nglish subjects, with bawdy jokes and respected figures often being undercut with humour that has cemented his reputation.

*ha(+er's Ling(isti+

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Ahaucer wrote in continental accentual&syllabic metre, a style which had developed since around the twelfth century as an alternative to the alliterative %nglo&3axon. Ahaucer is known for metrical innovation, inventing the rhyme, and he was one of the first 6nglish poets to use the five&stress line, the iambic pentameter, in his work, with only a few anonymous short works using it before him. he arrangement of these five&stress lines into rhyming couplets, first seen in his =egend of 7ood ,omen in much of his later work and became one of the standard poetic forms in 6nglish. His early influence as a satirist is also important, with the common humorous device, the funny accent of a regional, apparently making its first appearance in he .eeveJs ale. he poetry of Ahaucer, along with other writers of the era, is credited with helping to standardi>e the =ondon (ialect of the ?iddle 6nglish a combination of the /entish and ?idlands dialects. his is probably overstatedN the influence of the court, chancery and bureaucracyTof which Ahaucer was a partTremains a more probable influence on the development of 3tandard 6nglish, ?odern 6nglish is somewhat distanced from the language of Ahaucer)s poems owing to the effect of the 7reat Bowel 3hift some time after his death. his change in the pronunciation of 6nglish, still not fully understood, makes the reading of Ahaucer difficult for the modern audience, though it is thought by some that the modern 3cottish accent is closely related to the sound of ?iddle 6nglish. he status of the final e in Ahaucer)s verse is uncertain: it seems likely that during the period of Ahaucer)s writing the final e was dropping out of collo"uial 6nglish and that its use was somewhat irregular. Ahaucer)s versification suggests that the final e is sometimes to be vocalised, and sometimes to be silentN however, this remains a point on which there is disagreement. ,hen it is vocalised, most scholars pronounce it as a schwa. %part from the irregular spelling, much of the vocabulary is recognisable to the modern reader. Ahaucer is also recorded in the 1xford (ictionary as the first author to use many common 6nglish words in his writings. hese words were probably fre"uently used in the language at the time but Ahaucer, with his ear for common speech, is the earliest manuscript source. Acceptable, alkali, altercation, amble, angrily, anne/, annoyance, approaching, arbitration, armless, army, arrogant, arsenic, arc, artillery and aspect are just some of those from the first letter of the alphabet.

Literary
Ahaucer)s early popularity is attested by the many poets who imitated his works. *ohn =ydgate was one of earliest imitators who wrote a continuation to the Tales. =ater a group of poets including 7avin (ouglas, ,illiam (unbar and .obert Henryson were known as the 3cottish Ahaucerians for their indebtedness to his style. ?any of the manuscripts of Ahaucer)s works contain material from these admiring poets and the later romantic era poets) appreciation of Ahaucer was coloured by their not knowing which of the works were genuine. 10th and 12th century writers, such as *ohn (ryden, admired Ahaucer for his stories, but not for his rhythm and rhyme, as few critics could then read ?iddle 6nglish and the text had been butchered by printers, leaving a somewhat unadvisable mess. It was not until the late 14 th century that the official Ahaucerian canon, accepted today, was decided uponN largely as a result of ,alter ,illiam 3keat)s work. 1ne hundred and fifty years after his death, The "anterbury Tales was selected by ,illiam Aaxton to be one of the first books to be printed in 6ngland.

*ha(+er's English

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%lthough Ahaucer)s language is much closer to modern 6nglish than the text of $eowulf, it differs enough that most publications modernise 8and sometimes bowdlerise9 his idiom. <ollowing is a sample from the prologue of the O&ummoner@s Tale8 that compares Ahaucer)s text to a modern translation:
$ine 1riginal his frere bosteth that he knoweth helle, %nd 7od it woot, that it is litel wonderN <reres and feendes been but lyte asonder. <or, pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle How that a frere ravyshed was to helle In spirit ones by a visiounN %nd as an angel ladde hym up and doun, o shewen hym the peynes that the were, In al the place saugh he nat a frereN 1f oother folk he saugh ynowe in wo. :nto this angel spak the frere tho: ;ow, sire, "uod he, han freres swich a grace hat noon of hem shal come to this placeE Yis, "uod this aungel, many a milliounK %nd unto sathanas he ladde hym doun. &&%nd now hath sathanas,&&seith he,&&a tayl $rodder than of a carryk is the sayl. Hold up thy tayl, thou sathanasK&&"uod heN &&shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere se ,here is the nest of freres in this placeK&& %nd er that half a furlong wey of space, .ight so as bees out swarmen from an hyve, 1ut of the develes ers ther gonne dryve wenty thousand freres on a route, %nd thurghout helle swarmed al aboute, %nd comen agayn as faste as they may gon, %nd in his ers they crepten everychon. He clapte his tayl agayn and lay ful stille. Translation his friar boasts that he knows hell, %nd 7od knows that it is little wonderN <riars and fiends are seldom far apart. <or, by 7od, you have ofttimes heard tell How a ravished friar went to hell In spirit, once by a visionN %nd as an angel led him up and down, o show him the pains that were there, In the whole place he saw not one friarN He saw enough of other folk in woe. o the angel spoke the friar thus: O;ow sir,O said he, O%re friars in such good grace hat none of them come to this placeEO OYes,O answered the angel, Omany a millionKO %nd the angel led him down to 3atan. He said, O%nd 3atan has a tail, $roader than a large ship)s sail. Hold up your tail, 3atanKO he ordered. O3how your arse, and let the friar see ,here the nest of friars is in this placeKO %nd before half a furlong of space, *ust as bees swarm from a hive, 1ut of the devil)s arse there drove wenty thousand friars on a route, %nd they swarmed all over hell, %nd came again as fast as they had gone, %nd every one crept back into his arse. He clapped his tail again and lay very still.

The general "rolog(e

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;ere bygynneth the ?ook of the Tales of "aunterburySwith the translationT 1 ,han that %prill with his shoures soote ,hen %pril with its sweet&smelling showers ! he droghte of ?arch hath perced to the roote, Has pierced the drought of ?arch to the root, # %nd bathed every veyne in swich licour %nd bathed every vein 8of the plants9 in such li"uid ' 1f which vertu engendred is the flourN $y which power the flower is createdN + ,han \ephirus eek with his sweete breeth ,hen the ,est ,ind also with its sweet breath, Inspired hath in every holt and heeth In every wood and field has breathed life into 0 he tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne he tender new leaves, and the young sun 2 Hath in the .am his half cours yronne, Has run half its course in %ries, 4 %nd smale foweles maken melodye, %nd small fowls make melody, 15 hat slepen al the nyght with open ye hose that sleep all the night with open eyes 11 83o priketh hem ;ature in hir corages9, 83o ;ature incites them in their hearts9, 1! hanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, hen folk long to go on pilgrimages, 1# %nd palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, %nd professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores, 1' o ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londesN o distant shrines, known in various landsN 1+ %nd specially from every shires ende %nd specially from every shire)s end 11f 6ngelond to Aaunterbury they wende, 1f 6ngland to Aanterbury they travel, 10 he hooly blisful martir for to seke, o seek the holy blessed martyr, 12 hat hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. ,ho helped them when they were sick. 14 day, !5 !1 !! $ifil that in that seson on a day, It happened that in that season on one In 3outhwerk at the abard as I lay In 3outhwark at the abard Inn as I lay .edy to wenden on my pilgrymage .eady to go on my pilgrimage o Aaunterbury with ful devout corage, !# !' !+ fallen !alle, !0 o Aanterbury with a very devout spirit, %t nyght was come into that hostelrye %t night had come into that hostelry ,el nyne and twenty in a compaignye ,ell nine and twenty in a company 1f sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 1f various sorts of people, by chance In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they

In fellowship, and they were all pilgrims, hat toward Aaunterbury wolden ryde. ,ho intended to ride toward Aanterbury. !2 he chambres and the stables weren wyde, he bedrooms and the stables were spacious, !4 %nd wel we weren esed atte beste. %nd we were well accommodated in the best way. #5 %nd shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, %nd in brief, when the sun was 8gone9 to rest, #1 3o hadde I spoken with hem everichon I had so spoken with everyone of them #! hat I was of hir felaweshipe anon, hat I was of their fellowship straightway, ## %nd made forward erly for to ryse, %nd made agreement to rise early, #' o take oure wey ther as I yow devyse. o take our way where I 8will9 tell you. #+ $ut nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, $ut nonetheless, while I have time and opportunity, #6r that I ferther in this tale pace, $efore I proceed further in this tale, #0 ?e thynketh it acordaunt to resoun It seems to me in accord with reason #2 o telle yow al the condicioun o tell you all the circumstances #4 1f ech of hem, so as it semed me, 1f each of them, as it seemed to me, '5 %nd whiche they weren, and of what degree, %nd who they were, and of what social rank, '1 %nd eek in what array that they were inneN %nd also what clothing that they were inN '! %nd at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. %nd at a knight then will I first begin. '# man, % /;Y7H ther was, and that a worthy

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% /;I7H there was, and that 8one was9 a worthy man, '' hat fro the tyme that he first bigan ,ho from the time that he first began '+ o riden out, he loved chivalrie, o ride out, he loved chivalry, 'routhe and honour, fredom and curteisie. <idelity and good reputation, generosity and courtesy. '0 <ul worthy was he in his lordes werre, He was very worthy in his lord)s war, '2 %nd therto hadde he riden, no man ferre, %nd for that he had ridden, no man farther, '4 %s wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, %s well in Ahristendom as in heathen lands, +5 %nd evere honoured for his worthynesseN %nd 8was9 ever honored for his worthinessN +1 %t %lisaundre he was whan it was wonne. He was at %lexandria when it was won. +! <ul ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne He had sat very many times in the place of honor, +# %boven alle nacions in DruceN %bove 8knights of9 all nations in DrussiaN +' In =ettow hadde he reysed and in .uce, He had campaigned in =ithuania and in .ussia, ++ ;o Aristen man so ofte of his degree. ;o Ahristian man of his rank so often. +In 7ernade at the seege eek hadde he be %lso he had been in 7renada at the siege +0 1f %lge>ir, and riden in $elmarye. 1f %lgeciras, and had ridden in ?orocco. +2 %t =yeys was he and at 3atalye, He was at %yash and at %talia, +4 ,han they were wonne, and in the 7rete 3ee ,hen they were won, and in the ?editerranean -5 %t many a noble armee hadde he be. He had been at many a noble expedition. -1 %t mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, He had been at fifteen mortal battles, -! %nd foughten for oure feith at ramyssene %nd fought for our faith at lemcen -# In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. hree times in formal duels, and each time slain his foe. -' his ilke worthy knyght hadde been also his same worthy knight had also been -+ 3omtyme with the lord of Dalatye %t one time with the lord of $alat -%gayn another hethen in urkyeN %gainst another heathen in urkeyN -0 %nd everemoore he hadde a sovereyn prys. %nd evermore he had an outstanding reputation -2 %nd though that he were worthy, he was wys, %nd although he was brave, he was prudent, -4 %nd of his port as meeke as is a mayde. %nd of his deportment as meek as is a

maid. 05

He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde He never yet said any rude word 01 In al his lyf unto no maner wight. In all his life unto any sort of person. 0! He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght. He was a truly perfect, noble knight. 0# $ut for to tellen yow of his array, $ut to tell you of his clothing, 0' His hors were goode, but he was nat gay. His horses were good, but he was not gaily dressed. 0+ 1f fustian he wered a gypon He wore a tunic of coarse cloth 0%l bismotered with his habergeon, %ll stained 8with rust9 by his coat of mail, 00 <or he was late ycome from his viage, <or he was recently come 8back9 from his expedition, 02 %nd wente for to doon his pilgrymage. %nd went to do his pilgrimage. 04 ,ith hym ther was his sone, a yong 3h:I6., ,ith him there was his son, a young 3h:I.6, 25 % lovyere and a lusty bacheler, % lover and a lively bachelor, 21 ,ith lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. ,ith locks curled as if they had been laid in a curler. 2! 1f twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. He was twenty years of age, I guess. 2# 1f his stature he was of evene lengthe, 1f his stature he was of moderate height, 2' %nd wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe. %nd wonderfully agile, and of great strength. 2+ %nd he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie %nd he had been for a time on a cavalry expedition 2In <laundres, in %rtoys, and Dycardie, In <landers, in %rtois, and Dicardy, 20 %nd born hym weel, as of so litel space, %nd conducted himself well, for so little a space of time, 22 In hope to stonden in his lady grace. In hope to stand in his lady)s good graces. 24 6mbrouded was he, as it were a meede He was embroidered, as if it were a mead 45 %l ful of fresshe floures, whyte and reede. %ll full of fresh flowers, white and red. 41 3yngynge he was, or floytynge, al the dayN 3inging he was, or fluting, all the dayN 4! He was as fressh as is the month of ?ay. He was as fresh as is the month of ?ay. 4# 3hort was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde. His gown was short, with long and wide sleeves. 4' ,el koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde. He well knew how to sit on horse and handsomely ride. 4+ He koude songes make and wel endite,

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He knew how to make songs and well compose 8the words9, 4*uste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write. *oust and also dance, and well draw and write. 40 3o hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale He loved so passionately that at nighttime 42 He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. He slept no more than does a nightingale. 44 Aurteis he was, lowely, and servysable, Aourteous he was, humble, and willing to serve, 155 %nd carf biforn his fader at the table. %nd carved before his father at the table. 151 % Y6?%; hadde he and servant> namo He 8the /night9 had % Y61?%; and no more servants 15! %t that tyme, for hym liste ride so, %t that time, for it pleased him so to travel, 15# %nd he was clad in cote and hood of grene. %nd he 8the yeoman9 was clad in coat and hood of green. 15' % sheef of pecok arwes, bright and kene, % sheaf of peacock arrows, bright and keen, 15+ :nder his belt he bar ful thriftily He carried under his belt very properly 158,el koude he dresse his takel yemanlyN 8He well knew how to care for his e"uipment as a yeoman shouldN 150 His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe9, His arrows did not fall short because of drooping feathers9, 152 %nd in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. %nd in his hand he carried a mighty bow. 154 % not heed hadde he, with a broun visage. He had a close&cropped head, with a brown face. 115 1f wodecraft wel koude he al the usage. He well knew all the practice of woodcraft. 111 :pon his arm he baar a gay bracer, He wore an elegant archer)s wrist&guard upon his arm, 11! %nd by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, %nd by his side a sword and a small shield, 11# %nd on that oother syde a gay daggere %nd on that other side an elegant dagger 11' Harneised wel and sharp as point of spereN ,ell ornamented and sharp as the point of a spearN 11+ % Aristopher on his brest of silver sheene. % Ahristopher&medal of bright silver on his breast. 11%n horn he bar, the bawdryk was of

greneN He carried a horn, the shoulder strap was greenN 110 % forster was he, soothly, as I gesse. He was a forester, truly, as I guess. 112 114 coyN her was also a ;onne, a D.I1.6336, here was also a ;un, a D.I1.633, hat of hir smylyng was ful symple and

,ho was very simple and modest in her smilingN 1!5 Hire gretteste ooth was but by 3einte =oyN Her greatest oath was but by 3aint =oyN 1!1 %nd she was cleped madame 6glentyne. %nd she was called ?adam 6glantine. 1!! <ul weel she soong the service dyvyne, 3he sang the divine service very well, 1!# 6ntuned in hir nose ful semelyN Intoned in her nose in a very polite mannerN 1!' %nd <renssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, %nd she spoke <rench very well and elegantly, 1!+ %fter the scole of 3tratford atte $owe, In the manner of 3tratford at the $ow, 1!<or <renssh of Darys was to hire unknowe. <or <rench of Daris was to her unknown. 1!0 %t mete wel ytaught was she with alleN %t meals she was well taught indeedN 1!2 3he leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 3he let no morsel fall from her lips, 1!4 ;e wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depeN ;or wet her fingers deep in her sauceN 1#5 ,el koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 3he well knew how to carry a morsel 8to her mouth9 and take good care 1#1 hat no drope ne fille upon hire brest. hat no drop fell upon her breast. 1#! In curteisie was set ful muchel hir lest. Her greatest pleasure was in good manners. 1## Hir over&lippe wyped she so clene 3he wiped her upper lip so clean 1#' hat in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene hat in her cup there was seen no tiny bit 1#+ 1f grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 1f grease, when she had drunk her drink. 1#<ul semely after hir mete she raughte. 3he reached for her food in a very seemly manner. 1#0 %nd sikerly she was of greet desport, %nd surely she was of excellent deportment, 1#2 %nd ful plesaunt, and amyable of port, %nd very pleasant, and amiable in demeanor, 1#4 %nd peyned hire to countrefete cheere %nd she took pains to imitate the manners 1'5 1f court, and to been estatlich of manere,

82

1f court, and to be dignified in behavior, 1'1 %nd to ben holden digne of reverence. %nd to be considered worthy of reverence. 1'! $ut for to speken of hire conscience, $ut to speak of her moral sense, 1'# 3he was so charitable and so pitous 3he was so charitable and so compassionate 1'' 3he wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous 3he would weep, if she saw a mouse 1'+ /aught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Aaught in a trap, if it were dead or bled. 1'1f smale houndes hadde she that she fedde 3he had some small hounds that she fed 1'0 ,ith rosted flessh, or milk and wastel& breed. ,ith roasted meat, or milk and fine white bread. 1'2 $ut soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed, $ut sorely she wept if one of them were dead, 1'4 1r if men smoot it with a yerde smerteN 1r if someone smote it smartly with a stickN 1+5 %nd al was conscience and tendre herte. %nd all was feeling and tender heart. 1+1 <ul semyly hir wympul pynched was, Her wimple was pleated in a very seemly manner, 1+! Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, Her nose well formed, her eyes gray as glass, 1+# Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed. Her mouth very small, and moreover soft and red. 1+' $ut sikerly she hadde a fair forheedN $ut surely she had a fair foreheadN 1++ It was almoost a spanne brood, I troweN It was almost nine inches broad, I believeN 1+<or, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. <or, certainly, she was not undergrown. 1+0 <ul fetys was hir cloke, as I was war. Her cloak was very well made , as I was aware. 1+2 1f smal coral aboute hire arm she bar %bout her arm she bore of small coral 1+4 % peire of bedes, gauded al with grene, % set of beads, adorned with large green beads, 1-5 %nd theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, %nd thereon hung a brooch of very bright gold, 1-1 1n which ther was first write a crowned %, 1n which there was first written an % with a crown, 1-! %nd after %mor vincit omnia. %nd after O=ove con"uers all.O

1-# 1-' thre. priests. 1-+ one, 1--

%nother ;1;;6 with hire hadde she, 3he had another ;:; with her, hat was hir chapeleyne, and preestes ,ho was her secretary, and three

% ?1;/ ther was, a fair for the maistrie, here was a ?1;/, an extremely fine

%n outridere, that lovede venerie, %n outrider 8a monk with business outside the monastery9, who loved hunting, 1-0 % manly man, to been an abbot able. % virile man, "ualified to be an abbot. 1-2 <ul many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable, He had very many fine horses in his stable, 1-4 %nd whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere %nd when he rode, one could hear his bridle 105 7ynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere *ingle in a whistling wind as clear 101 %nd eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle %nd also as loud as does the chapel belle 10! her as this lord was kepere of the celle. ,here this lord was prior of the subordinate monastery. 10# he reule of 3eint ?aure or of 3eint $eneit && he rule of 3aint ?aurus or of 3aint $enedict && 10' $y cause that it was old and somdel streit $ecause it was old and somewhat strict 10+ his ilke ?onk leet olde thynges pace, his same ?onk let old things pass away, 10%nd heeld after the newe world the space. %nd followed the broader customs of modern times. 100 He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, He gave not a plucked hen for that text 102 hat seith that hunters ben nat hooly men, hat says that hunters are not holy men, 104 ;e that a monk, whan he is recchelees, ;or that a monk, when he is heedless of rules, 125 Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees && Is like a fish that is out of water && 121 his is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. his is to say, a monk out of his cloister. 12! $ut thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystreN $ut he considered that same text not worth an oysterN 12# %nd I seyde his opinion was good. %nd I said his opinion was good. 12' ,hat sholde he studie and make hymselven wood, ,hy should he study and make himself cra>y,

83

12+

:pon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, %lways to pore upon a book in the

!50 berry. !52 merye,

cloister, 121r swynken with his handes, and laboure, 1r work with his hands, and labor, 120 %s %ustyn bitE How shal the world be servedE %s %ugustine commandsE How shall the world be servedE 122 =at %ustyn have his swynk to hym reservedK =et %ugustine have his work reserved to himK 124 herfore he was a prikasour aright: herefore he was indeed a vigorous horseman: 145 7rehoundes he hadde as swift as fowel in flightN He had greyhounds as swift as fowl in flightN 141 1f prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 1f tracking and of hunting for the hare 14! ,as al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. ,as all his pleasure, by no means would he refrain from it. 14# I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond I saw his sleeves lined at the hand 14' ,ith grys, and that the fyneste of a londN ,ith s"uirrel fur, and that the finest in the landN 14+ %nd for to festne his hood under his chyn, %nd to fasten his hood under his chin, 14He hadde of gold ywroght a ful curious pynN He had a very skillfully made pin of goldN 140 % love&knotte in the gretter ende ther was. here was an elaborate knot in the larger end. 142 His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, His head was bald, which shone like any glass, 144 %nd eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt. %nd his face did too, as if he had been rubbed with oil. !55 He was a lord ful fat and in good poyntN He was a very plump lord and in good conditionN !51 His eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed, His eyes were prominent, and rolling in his head, !5! hat stemed as a forneys of a leedN ,hich gleamed like a furnace under a cauldronN !5# His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. His boots supple, his horse in excellent condition. !5' ;ow certeinly he was a fair prelaatN ;ow certainly he was a handsome ecclesiastical dignitaryN !5+ He was nat pale as a forpyned goost. He was not pale as a tormented spirit. !5% fat swan loved he best of any roost.

% fat swan loved he best of any roast. His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. His saddle horse was as brown as is a

% <.6.6 ther was, a wantowne and a

here was a <.I%., a pleasure&loving and merry one, !54 % lymytour, a ful solempne man. % limiter 8with an assigned territory9, a very solemn man. !15 In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan In all the four orders of friars is no one that knows !11 3o muchel of daliaunce and fair langage. 3o much of sociability and elegant speech. !1! He hadde maad ful many a mariage He had made very many a marriage !1# 1f yonge wommen at his owene cost. 1f young women at his own cost. !1' :nto his ordre he was a noble post. He was a noble supporter of his order. !1+ <ul wel biloved and famulier was he Bery well beloved and familiar was he !1,ith frankeleyns over al in his contree, ,ith landowners every where in his country, !10 %nd eek with worthy wommen of the tounN %nd also with worthy women of the townN !12 <or he hadde power of confessioun, <or he had power of confession, !14 %s seyde hymself, moore than a curat, %s he said himself, more than a parish priest, !!5 <or of his ordre he was licenciat. <or he was licensed by his order. !!1 <ul swetely herde he confessioun, He heard confession very sweetly, !!! %nd plesaunt was his absolucioun: %nd his absolution was pleasant: !!# He was an esy man to yeve penaunce, He was a lenient man in giving penance, !!' her as he wiste to have a good pitaunce. ,here he knew he would have a good gift. !!+ <or unto a povre ordre for to yive <or to give to a poor order 8of friars9 !!Is signe that a man is wel yshryveN Is a sign that a man is well confessedN !!0 <or if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, <or if he gave, he 8the friar9 dared to assert, !!2 He wiste that a man was repentauntN He knew that a man was repentantN !!4 <or many a man so hard is of his herte, <or many a man is so hard in his heart, !#5 He may nat wepe, althogh hym soore smerte. He can not weep, although he painfully suffers. !#1 herfore in stede of wepynge and preyeres herefore instead of weeping and prayers

84

!#! freres. !## knives !#' !#+ !#roteN

?en moote yeve silver to the povre 1ne may give silver to the poor friars. His typet was ay farsed ful of knyves His hood was always stuffed full of %nd pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves. %nd pins, to give to fair wives. %nd certeinly he hadde a murye note: %nd certainly he had a merry voice: ,el koude he synge and pleyen on a

!+rente.

His purchas was wel bettre than his

He well knew how to sing and play on a rote 8string instrument9N !#0 1f yeddynges he baar outrely the pris. He absolutely took the pri>e for reciting ballads. !#2 His nekke whit was as the flour&de&lysN His neck was white as a lily flowerN !#4 herto he strong was as a champioun. <urthermore he was strong as a champion fighter. !'5 He knew the tavernes wel in every toun He knew the taverns well in every town !'1 %nd everich hostiler and tappestere %nd every innkeeper and barmaid !'! $et than a la>ar or a beggestere, $etter than a leper or a beggar&woman, !'# <or unto swich a worthy man as he <or unto such a worthy man as he !'' %corded nat, as by his facultee, It was not suitable, in view of his official position, !'+ o have with sike la>ars a"ueyntaunce. o have ac"uaintance with sick lepers. !'It is nat honestN it may nat avaunce, It is not respectableN it can not be profitable, !'0 <or to deelen with no swich poraille, o deal with any such poor people, !'2 $ut al with riche and selleres of vitaille. $ut all with rich people and sellers of victuals. !'4 %nd over al, ther as profit sholde arise, %nd every where, where profit should arise, !+5 Aurteis he was and lowely of servyseN He was courteous and graciously humbleN !+1 her nas no man nowher so vertuous. here was no man anywhere so capable 8of such work9. !+! He was the beste beggere in his housN He was the best beggar in his houseN !+!a F%nd yaf a certeyn ferme for the grauntN F%nd he gave a certain fee for his grant 8of begging rights9N !+!a ;oon of his bretheren cam ther in his hauntNG ;one of his brethren came there in his territoryNG !+# <or thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho, <or though a widow had not a shoe, !+' 3o plesaunt was his OIn principio,O 3o pleasant was his OIn the beginning,O !++ Yet wolde he have a ferthyng, er he wente. Yet he would have a farthing, before he went away.

His total profit was much more than his proper income. !+0 %nd rage he koude, as it were right a whelp. %nd he knew how to frolic, as if he were indeed a pup. !+2 In love&dayes ther koude he muchel help, He knew how to be much help on days for resolving disputes, !+4 <or ther he was nat lyk a cloysterer <or there he was not like a cloistered monk !-5 ,ith a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, ,ith a threadbare cope, like a poor scholar, !-1 $ut he was lyk a maister or a pope. $ut he was like a master of arts or a pope. !-! 1f double worstede was his semycope, 1f wide 8expensive9 cloth was his short cloak, !-# hat rounded as a belle out of the presse. ,hich was round as a bell fresh from the clothespress. !-' 3omwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, 3omewhat he lisped, for his affectation, !-+ o make his 6nglissh sweete upon his tongeN o make his 6nglish sweet upon his tongueN !-%nd in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, %nd in his harping, when he had sung, !-0 His eyen twynkled in his heed aryght His eyes twinkled in his head exactly !-2 %s doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. %s do the stars in the frosty night. !-4 his worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. his worthy friar was called Huberd. !05 berd, beard, !01 % ?%.AH%; was ther with a forked here was a ?6.AH%; with a forked In mottelee, and hye on horse he satN ,earing parti&colored cloth, and proudly he sat on his horseN !0! :pon his heed a <laundryssh bever hat, :pon his head 8he wore a9 <lemish beaver hat, !0# His bootes clasped faire and fetisly. His boots were buckled handsomely and elegantly. !0' His resons he spak ful solempnely, His opinions he spoke very solemnly, !0+ 3ownynge alwey th) encrees of his wynnyng. Aoncerning always the increase of his profits. !0He wolde the see were kept for any thyng He wanted the sea to be guarded at all costs !00 $itwixe ?iddelburgh and 1rewelle. $etween ?iddelburgh 8Holland9 and 1rwell 86ngland9.

85

!02 selle.

,el koude he in eschaunge sheeldes

He well knew how to deal in foreign currencies. !04 his worthy man ful wel his wit bisette: his worthy man employed his wit very well: !25 her wiste no wight that he was in dette, here was no one who knew that he was in debt, !21 3o estatly was he of his governaunce He was so dignified in managing his affairs !2! ,ith his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. ,ith his buying and selling and with his financial deals. !2# <or sothe he was a worthy man with alle, ruly, he was a worthy man indeed, !2' $ut, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle. $ut, to say the truth, I do not know what men call him. !2+ 1xford, !2logic. !20 % A=6./ ther was of 1xenford also, here was also a A=6./ 8scholar9 from hat unto logyk hadde longe ygo. ,ho long before had begun the study of

#5! 1f hem that yaf hym wherwith to scoleye. 1f those who gave him the wherewithal to attend the schools. #5# 1f studie took he moost cure and moost heede. He took most care and paid most heed to study. #5' ;oght o word spak he moore than was neede, He spoke not one word more than was needed, #5+ %nd that was seyd in forme and reverence, %nd that was said with due formality and respect, #5%nd short and "uyk and ful of hy sentenceN %nd short and lively and full of elevated contentN #50 3ownynge in moral vertu was his speche, His speech was consonant with moral virtue, #52 %nd gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. %nd gladly would he learn and gladly teach. #54 % 36.76%; 1< H6 =%,6, war and wys, % 36.76%; 1< H6 =%, 8high&ranking attorney9, prudent and wise, #15 hat often hadde been at the Darvys, ,ho often had been at the Dorch of 3t. Daul)s 8where lawyers gather9 #11 her was also, ful riche of excellence. ,as also there, very rich in superior "ualities. #1! (iscreet he was and of greet reverence && He was judicious and of great dignity && #1# He semed swich, his wordes weren so wise. He seemed such, his words were so wise. #1' *ustice he was ful often in assise, He was very often a judge in the court of assi>es, #1+ $y patente and by pleyn commissioun. $y royal appointment and with full jurisdiction. #1<or his science and for his heigh renoun, <or his knowledge and for his excellent reputation, #10 1f fees and robes hadde he many oon. He had many grants of yearly income. #12 3o greet a purchasour was nowher noon: here was nowhere so great a land& buyer: #14 %l was fee symple to hym in effectN In fact, all was unrestricted possession to himN #!5 His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. His purchasing could not be invalidated. #!1 ;owher so bisy a man as he ther nas, here was nowhere so busy a man as he, #!! %nd yet he semed bisier than he was. %nd yet he seemed busier than he was. #!# In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle He had in Year $ooks all the cases and

%s leene was his hors as is a rake, His horse was as lean as is a rake, !22 %nd he nas nat right fat, I undertake, %nd he was not very fat, I affirm, !24 $ut looked holwe, and therto sobrely. $ut looked emaciated, and moreover abstemious. !45 <ul thredbare was his overeste courtepy, His short overcoat was very threadbare, !41 <or he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, <or he had not yet obtained an ecclesiastical living, !4! ;e was so worldly for to have office. ;or was he worldly enough to take secular employment. !4# <or hym was levere have at his beddes heed <or he would rather have at the head of his bed !4' wenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, wenty books, bound in black or red, !4+ 1f %ristotle and his philosophie 1f %ristotle and his philosophy !4han robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie. han rich robes, or a fiddle, or an elegant psaltery. !40 $ut al be that he was a philosophre, $ut even though he was a philosopher, !42 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofreN ;evertheless he had but little gold in his strongboxN !44 $ut al that he myghte of his freendes hente, $ut all that he could get from his friends, #55 1n bookes and on lernynge he it spente, He spent on books and on learning, #51 %nd bisily gan for the soules preye %nd diligently did pray for the souls

86

decisions #!' hat from the tyme of kyng ,illiam were falle. hat from the time of king ,illiam have occurred. #!+ herto he koude endite and make a thyng, <urthermore, he knew how to compose and draw up a legal document, #!her koude no wight pynche at his writyngN 3o that no one could find a flaw in his writingN #!0 %nd every statut koude he pleyn by rote. %nd he knew every statute completely by heart. #!2 He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote, He rode but simply in a parti&colored coat, #!4 7irt with a ceint of silk, with barres smaleN 7irded with a belt of silk, with small stripesN ##5 1f his array telle I no lenger tale. I tell no longer tale of his clothing. ##1 % <.%;/6=6Y; was in his compaignye. % <.%;/=I; was in his company. ##! ,hit was his berd as is the dayesyeN His beard was white as a daisyN ### 1f his complexioun he was sangwyn. %s to his temperament, he was dominated by the humor blood. ##' ,el loved he by the morwe a sop in wynN He well loved a bit of bread dipped in wine in the morningN ##+ o lyven in delit was evere his wone, His custom was always to live in delight, ##<or he was 6picurus owene sone, <or he was 6picurus) own son, ##0 hat heeld opinioun that pleyn delit ,ho held the opinion that pure pleasure ##2 ##4 heN at thatN #'5 ,as verray felicitee parfit. ,as truly perfect happiness. %n housholdere, and that a greet, was He was a householder, and a great one 3eint *ulian he was in his contree. He was 3aint *ulian 8patron of hospitality9 in his country. #'1 His breed, his ale, was alweys after oonN His bread, his ale, was always of the same 8good9 "ualityN #'! % bettre envyned man was nowher noon. ;owhere was there any man better stocked with wine. #'# ,ithoute bake mete was nevere his hous, His house was never without baked pies #'' 1f fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous 1f fish and meat, and that so plentiful #'+ It snewed in his hous of mete and drynkeN hat in his house it snowed with food and drinkN #'1f alle deyntees that men koude thynke, 1f all the dainties that men could

imagine, #'0 %fter the sondry sesons of the yeer, In accord with the various seasons of the year, #'2 3o chaunged he his mete and his soper. 3o he varied his midday meal and his supper. #'4 <ul many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe, He had very many fat partridges in pens, #+5 %nd many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. %nd many a bream and many a pike in his fish pond. #+1 ,o was his cook but if his sauce were ,oe was his cook unless his sauce was #+! Doynaunt and sharp, and redy al his geere. Hotly spiced and sharp, and ready all his cooking e"uipment. #+# His table dormant in his halle alway In his hall his dining table always #+' 3tood redy covered al the longe day. 3tood covered 8with table cloth9 and ready all the long day. #++ %t sessiouns ther was he lord and sireN He presided as lord and sire at court sessionsN #+<ul ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. He was a member of parliament many times. #+0 %n anlaas and a gipser al of silk % dagger and a purse all of silk #+2 Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk. Hung at his belt, white as morning milk. #+4 % shirreve hadde he been, and a contour. He had been a sheriff, and an auditor of taxes. #-5 ,as nowher swich a worthy vavasour. here was nowhere such a worthy landowner. #-1 #-! %; H%$6.(%33H6.6 and a A%.D6; 6., % H%$6.(%3H6. and a A%.D6; 6., % ,6$$6, a (Y6.6, and a %DYA6. && % ,6%B6., a (Y6., and a %D63 .Y&

?%/6. && #-# %nd they were clothed alle in o lyveree %nd they were all clothed in one livery #-' 1f a solempne and a greet fraternitee. 1f a solemn and a great parish guild. #-+ <ul fressh and newe hir geere apiked wasN heir e"uipment was adorned all freshly and newN #-Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras heir knives were not mounted with brass #-0 $ut al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel, $ut entirely with silver, wrought very neatly and well, #-2 Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel. heir belts and their purses every bit. #-4 ,el semed ech of hem a fair burgeys 6ach of them well seemed a solid citi>en #05 o sitten in a yeldehalle on a deys. o sit on a dais in a city hall.

87

#01

6verich, for the wisdom that he kan, 6very one of them, for the wisdom that he knows, #0! ,as shaply for to been an alderman. ,as suitable to be an alderman. #0# <or catel hadde they ynogh and rente, <or they had enough possessions and income, #0' %nd eek hir wyves wolde it wel assenteN %nd also their wives would well assent to itN #0+ %nd elles certeyn were they to blame. %nd otherwise certainly they would be to blame. #0It is ful fair to been ycleped Omadame,O It is very fine to be called Omy lady,O #00 %nd goon to vigilies al bifore, %nd go to feasts on holiday eves heading the procession, #02 %nd have a mantel roialliche ybore. %nd have a gown with a train royally carried. #04 nones % A11/ they hadde with hem for the

% A11/ they had with them for the occasion #25 o boille the chiknes with the marybones, o boil the chickens with the marrow bones, #21 %nd poudre&marchant tart and galyngale. %nd tart poudre&marchant and galingale 8spices9. #2! ,el koude he knowe a draughte of =ondoun ale. He well knew how to judge a draft of =ondon ale. #2# He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye, He knew how to roast, and boil, and broil, and fry, #2' ?aken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. ?ake stews, and well bake a pie. #2+ $ut greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, $ut it was a great harm, as it seemed to me, #2hat on his shyne a mormal hadde he. hat he had an open sore on his shin. #20 <or blankmanger, that made he with the beste. %s for white pudding, he made that of the best "uality. #22 westeN % 3HID?%; was ther, wonynge fer by % 3HID?%; was there, dwelling far in the westN #24 <or aught I woot, he was of (ertemouthe. <or all I know, he was from (artmouth. #45 He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe, He rode upon a cart horse, insofar as he knew how, #41 In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. In a gown of woolen cloth 8that reached9 to the knee. #4! % daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he He had a dagger hanging on a cord #4# %boute his nekke, under his arm adoun. %bout his neck, down under his arm.

#4' he hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al brounN he hot summer had made his hue all brownN #4+ %nd certeinly he was a good felawe. %nd certainly he was a boon companion. #4<ul many a draughte of wyn had he ydrawe He had drawn very many a draft of wine #40 <ro $urdeux&ward, whil that the chapman sleep. ,hile coming from $ordeaux, while the merchant slept. #42 1f nyce conscience took he no keep. He had no concern for a scrupulous conscience. #44 If that he faught and hadde the hyer hond, If he fought and had the upper hand, '55 $y water he sente hem hoom to every lond. He sent them home by water to every land 8they walked the plank9. '51 $ut of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, $ut of his skill to reckon well his tides, '5! His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides, His currents, and his perils near at hand, '5# His herberwe, and his moone, his lodemenage, His harbors, and positions of his moon, his navigation, '5' her nas noon swich from Hulle to Aartage. here was none other such from Hull to Aartagena 83pain9. '5+ Hardy he was and wys to undertakeN He was bold and prudent in his undertakingsN '5,ith many a tempest hadde his berd been shake. His beard had been shaken by many a tempest. '50 He knew alle the havenes, as they were, He knew all the harbors, how they were, '52 <ro 7ootlond to the cape of <ynystere, <rom 7otland to the Aape of <inisterre, '54 %nd every cryke in $ritaigne and in 3payne. %nd every inlet in $rittany and in 3pain. '15 His barge ycleped was the ?audelayne. His ship was called the ?audelayne. '11 ,ith us ther was a (1A 1:. 1< DHI3I/N ,ith us there was a (1A 1. 1< ?6(IAI;6 '1! In al this world ne was ther noon hym lik, In all this world there was no one like him, '1# o speke of phisik and of surgerye, o speak of medicine and of surgery, '1' <or he was grounded in astronomye. <or he was instructed in astronomy. '1+ He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel He took care of his patient very many times '1In houres by his magyk natureel. In 8astronomically suitable9 hours by

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8use of9 his natural science. '10 ,el koude he fortunen the ascendent He well knew how to calculate the planetary position '12 1f his ymages for his pacient. 1f his astronomical talismans for his patient. '14 He knew the cause of everich maladye, He knew the cause of every malady, '!5 ,ere it of hoot, or coold, or moyste, or drye, ,ere it of hot, or cold, or moist, or dry elements, '!1 %nd where they engendred, and of what humour. %nd where they were engendered, and by what bodily fluid. '!! He was a verray, parfit praktisour: He was a truly, perfect practitioner: '!# he cause yknowe, and of his harm the roote, he cause known, and the source of his 8patient)s9 harm, '!' %non he yaf the sike man his boote. 3traightway he gave the sick man his remedy. '!+ <ul redy hadde he his apothecaries He had his apothecaries all ready '!o sende hym drogges and his letuaries, o send him drugs and his electuaries, '!0 <or ech of hem made oother for to wynne && <or each of them made the other to profit && '!2 Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. heir friendship was not recently begun. '!4 ,el knew he the olde 6sculapius, He well knew the old %esculapius, '#5 %nd (eyscorides, and eek .ufus, %nd (ioscorides, and also .ufus, '#1 1lde Ypocras, Haly, and 7alyen, 1ld Hippocrates, Haly, and 7alen, '#! 3erapion, .a>is, and %vycen, 3erapion, .ha>es, and %vicenna, '## %verrois, (amascien, and Aonstantyn, %verroes, *ohn the (amascan, and Aonstantine, '#' $ernard, and 7atesden, and 7ilbertyn. $ernard, and 7addesden, and 7ilbertus. '#+ 1f his diete mesurable was he, He was moderate in his diet, '#<or it was of no superfluitee, <or it was of no excess, '#0 $ut of greet norissyng and digestible. $ut greatly nourishing and digestible. '#2 His studie was but litel on the $ible. His study was but little on the $ible. '#4 In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al, He was clad all in red and in blue, ''5 =yned with taffata and with sendal. =ined with taffeta and with silk. ''1 %nd yet he was but esy of dispenceN %nd yet he was moderate in spendingN ''! He kepte that he wan in pestilence. He kept what he earned in 8times of9 plague. ''# <or gold in phisik is a cordial, 3ince in medicine gold is a restorative for the heart,

'''

herefore he lovede gold in special. herefore he loved gold in particular. % good ,I< was ther 1< biside $% H6, here was a good ,I<6 1< beside $ut she was somdel deef, and that was

''+ $% H, ''scathe.

$ut she was somewhat deaf, and that was a pity. ''0 1f clooth&makyng she hadde swich an haunt 3he had such a skill in cloth&making ''2 3he passed hem of Ypres and of 7aunt. 3he surpassed them of Ypres and of 7hent. ''4 In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon In all the parish there was no wife '+5 hat to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goonN ,ho should go to the 1ffering before herN '+1 %nd if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she %nd if there did, certainly she was so angry '+! hat she was out of alle charitee. hat she was out of all charity 8love for her neighbor9. '+# Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of groundN Her kerchiefs were very fine in textureN '+' I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound I dare swear they weighed ten pound '++ hat on a 3onday weren upon hir heed. hat on a 3unday were upon her head. '+Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, Her stockings were of fine scarlet red, '+0 <ul streite yteyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe. Bery closely laced, and shoes very supple and new. '+2 $oold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. $old was her face, and fair, and red of hue. '+4 3he was a worthy womman al hir lyve: 3he was a worthy woman all her life: '-5 Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, 3he had 8married9 five husbands at the church door, '-1 ,ithouten oother compaignye in youthe && ;ot counting other company in youth && '-! $ut thereof nedeth nat to speke as nowthe. $ut there is no need to speak of that right now. '-# %nd thries hadde she been at *erusalemN %nd she had been three times at *erusalemN '-' 3he hadde passed many a straunge stremN 3he had passed many a foreign seaN '-+ %t .ome she hadde been, and at $oloigne, 3he had been at .ome, and at $oulogne, '-In 7alice at 3eint&*ame, and at Aoloigne. In 7alicia at 3aint&*ames 8of

89

Aompostella9, and at Aologne. '-0 3he koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye. 3he knew much about wandering by the way. '-2 7at&tothed was she, soothly for to seye. 3he had teeth widely set apart, truly to say. '-4 :pon an amblere esily she sat, 3he sat easily upon a pacing horse, '05 Ywympled wel, and on hir heed an hat ,earing a large wimple, and on her head a hat '01 %s brood as is a bokeler or a targeN %s broad as a buckler or a shieldN '0! % foot&mantel aboute hir hipes large, %n overskirt about her large hips, '0# %nd on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. %nd on her feet a pair of sharp spurs. '0' In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe. In fellowship she well knew how to laugh and chatter. '0+ 1f remedies of love she knew per chaunce, 3he knew, as it happened, about remedies for love '0<or she koude of that art the olde daunce. <or she knew the old dance 8tricks of the trade9 of that art. '00 '02 1,;, '04 werk. work. '25 '21 precheN '2! % good man was ther of religioun, % good man was there of religion, %nd was a povre D6.31:; 1< % 1:;, %nd 8he9 was a poor D%.31; 1< % $ut riche he was of hooly thoght and $ut he was rich in holy thought and He was also a lerned man, a clerk, He was also a learned man, a scholar, hat Aristes gospel trewely wolde

,ho would preach Ahrist)s gospel trulyN His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. He would devoutly teach his parishioners. '2# $enygne he was, and wonder diligent, He was gracious, and wonderfully diligent, '2' %nd in adversitee ful pacient, %nd very patient in adversity, '2+ %nd swich he was ypreved ofte sithes. %nd such he was proven many times. '2<ul looth were hym to cursen for his tithes, He was very reluctant to excommunicate for 8nonpayment of9 his tithes, '20 $ut rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, $ut rather would he give, there is no doubt, '22 :nto his povre parisshens aboute :nto his poor parishioners about '24 1f his offryng and eek of his substaunce. 3ome of his offering 8received at mass9 and also some of his income. '45 He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce. He knew how to have sufficiency in few

possessions. '41 ,yd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder, His parish was wide, and houses far apart, '4! $ut he ne lefte nat, for reyn ne thonder, $ut he did not omit, for rain nor thunder, '4# In siknesse nor in meschief to visite In sickness or in trouble to visit '4' he ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite, hose living farthest away in his parish, high&ranking and low, '4+ :pon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 7oing by foot, and in his hand a staff. '4his noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, He gave this noble example to his sheep, '40 hat first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte. hat first he wrought, and afterward he taught. '42 1ut of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, He took those words out of the gospel, '44 %nd this figure he added eek therto, %nd this metaphor he added also to that, +55 hat if gold ruste, what shal iren doE hat if gold rust, what must iron doE +51 <or if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, <or if a priest, on whom we trust, should be foul +5! ;o wonder is a lewed man to rusteN It is no wonder for a layman to go badN +5# %nd shame it is, if a prest take keep, %nd it is a shame, if a priest is concerned: +5' % shiten shepherde and a clene sheep. % shit&stained shepherd and a clean sheep. +5+ ,el oghte a preest ensample for to yive, ,ell ought a priest to give an example, +5$y his clennesse, how that his sheep sholde lyve. $y his purity, how his sheep should live. +50 He sette nat his benefice to hyre He did not rent out his benefice 8ecclesiastical living9 +52 %nd leet his sheep encombred in the myre %nd leave his sheep encumbered in the mire +54 %nd ran to =ondoun unto 3einte Doules %nd run to =ondon unto 3aint Daul)s +15 o seken hym a chaunterie for soules, o seek an appointment as a chantry priest 8praying for a patron9 +11 1r with a bretherhed to been withholdeN 1r to be hired 8as a chaplain9 by a guildN +1! $ut dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, $ut dwelt at home, and kept well his sheep fold 8parish9, +1# 3o that the wolf ne made it nat myscarieN 3o that the wolf did not make it go wrongN +1' He was a shepherde and noght a mercenarie.

90

+1+ +1+10

He was a shepherd and not a hireling. %nd though he hooly were and vertuous, %nd though he was holy and virtuous, He was to synful men nat despitous, He was not scornful to sinful men, ;e of his speche daungerous ne digne, ;or domineering nor haughty in his

+#2

speech, +12 $ut in his techyng discreet and benygne. $ut in his teaching courteous and kind. +14 o drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, o draw folk to heaven by gentleness, +!5 $y good ensample, this was his bisynesse. $y good example, this was his business. +!1 $ut it were any persone obstinat, :nless it were an obstinate person, +!! ,hat so he were, of heigh or lough estat, ,hoever he was, of high or low rank, +!# Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. He would rebuke him sharply at that time. +!' % bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys. I believe that nowhere is there a better priest. +!+ He waited after no pompe and reverence, He expected no pomp and ceremony, +!;e maked him a spiced conscience, ;or made himself an overly fastidious conscience, +!0 $ut Aristes loore and his apostles twelve $ut Ahrist)s teaching and His twelve apostles +!2 He taughteN but first he folwed it hymselve. He taughtN but first he followed it himself. +!4 ,ith hym ther was a D=1,?%;, was his brother, ,ith him there was a D=1,?%;, who was his brother, +#5 hat hadde ylad of dong ful many a fotherN ,ho had hauled very many a cartload of dungN +#1 % trewe swynkere and a good was he, He was a true and good worker, +#! =yvynge in pees and parfit charitee. =iving in peace and perfect love. +## 7od loved he best with al his hoole herte He loved 7od best with all his whole heart +#' %t alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte, %t all times, whether it pleased or pained him, +#+ %nd thanne his neighebor right as hymselve. %nd then 8he loved9 his neighbor exactly as himself. +#He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, He would thresh, and moreover make ditches and dig, +#0 <or Aristes sake, for every povre wight, <or Ahrist)s sake, for every poor person,

,ithouten hire, if it lay in his myght. ,ithout payment, if it lay in his power. +#4 His tithes payde he ful faire and wel, He paid his tithes completely and well, +'5 $othe of his propre swynk and his catel. $oth of his own labor and of his possessions. +'1 In a tabard he rood upon a mere. He rode in a tabard 8sleeveless jacket9 upon a mare. +'! +'# +'' namo. no more. +'+ nonesN +'bones. he ?I==6.6 was a stout carl for the he ?I==6. was a stout fellow indeedN <ul byg he was of brawn, and eek of her was also a .6B6, and a ?I==6.6, here was also a .66B6, and a ?I==6., % 31?;1:., and a D%.(1;6. also, % 3:??1;6., and a D%.(1;6. also, % ?%:;AID=6, and myself && ther were % ?%;AID=6, and myself && there were

He was very strong of muscle, and also of bones. +'0 hat proved wel, for over al ther he cam, hat was well proven, for wherever he came, +'2 %t wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram. %t wrestling he would always take the the pri>e. +'4 He was short&sholdred, brood, a thikke knarreN He was stoutly built, broad, a large& framed fellowN ++5 her was no dore that he nolde heve of harre, here was no door that he would not heave off its hinges, ++1 1r breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 1r break it by running at it with his head. ++! His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, His beard was red as any sow or fox, ++# %nd therto brood, as though it were a spade. %nd moreover broad, as though it were a spade. ++' :pon the cop right of his nose he hade :pon the exact top of his nose he had +++ % werte, and theron stood a toft of herys, % wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs, ++.eed as the brustles of a sowes erysN .ed as the bristles of a sow)s earsN ++0 His nosethirles blake were and wyde. His nostrils were black and wide. ++2 % swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde. He wore a sword and a buckler by his side. ++4 His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys. His mouth was as large as a large furnace. +-5 He was a janglere and a goliardeys, He was a loudmouth and a buffoon,

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+-1 %nd that was moost of synne and harlotries. %nd that was mostly of sin and deeds of harlotry. +-! ,el koude he stelen corn and tollen thriesN He well knew how to steal corn and take payment three timesN +-# %nd yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee. %nd yet he had a thumb of gold, indeed. +-' % whit cote and a blew hood wered he. He wore a white coat and a blue hood. +-+ % baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, He well knew how to blow and play a bag&pipe, +-%nd therwithal he broghte us out of towne. %nd with that he brought us out of town. +-0 % gentil ?%:;AID=6 was ther of a temple, here was a fine ?%;AID=6 of a temple 8law school9, +-2 1f which achatours myghte take exemple 1f whom buyers of provisions might take example +-4 <or to be wise in byynge of vitailleN <or how to be wise in buying of victualsN +05 <or wheither that he payde or took by taille, <or whether he paid 8cash9 or took 8goods9 on credit, +01 %lgate he wayted so in his achaat %lways he watched so 8carefully for his opportunity9 in his purchases +0! hat he was ay biforn and in good staat. hat he was always ahead and in good state. +0# ;ow is nat that of 7od a ful fair grace ;ow is not that a very fair grace of 7od +0' hat swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace hat such an unlearned man)s wit shall surpass +0+ he wisdom of an heep of lerned menE he wisdom of a heap of learned menE +01f maistres hadde he mo than thries ten, He had more than three times ten masters, +00 hat weren of lawe expert and curious, ,ho were expert and skillful in law, +02 1f which ther were a dus>eyne in that hous 1f whom there were a do>en in that house +04 ,orthy to been stywardes of rente and lond ,orthy to be stewards of rent and land +25 1f any lord that is in 6ngelond, 1f any lord that is in 6ngland, +21 o make hym lyve by his propre good o make him live by his own wealth +2! In honour dettelees 8but if he were wood9, In honor and debtless 8unless he were cra>y9, +2# 1r lyve as scarsly as hym list desireN

1r live as economically as it pleased him to desireN +2' %nd able for to helpen al a shire %nd 8they would be9 able to help all a shire +2+ In any caas that myghte falle or happe. In any emergency that might occur or happen. +2%nd yet this ?anciple sette hir aller cappe. %nd yet this ?anciple fooled them all. +20 +22 he canN +24 yshornN earsN +45 he .6B6 was a sclendre colerik man. he .66B6 was a slender choleric man. His berd was shave as ny as ever he kanN His beard was shaved as close as ever His heer was by his erys ful round His hair was closely cropped by his His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. he top of his head in front was cut short like a priest)s. +41 <ul longe were his legges and ful lene, His legs were very long and very lean, +4! Ylyk a stafN ther was no calf ysene. =ike a stickN there was no calf to be seen. +4# ,el koude he kepe a gerner and a bynneN He well knew how to keep a granary and a storage binN +4' her was noon auditour koude on him wynne. here was no auditor who could earn anything 8by catching him9. +4+ ,el wiste he by the droghte and by the reyn He well knew by the drought and by the rain +4he yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn. 8,hat would be9 the yield of his seed and of his grain. +40 His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye, His lord)s sheep, his cattle, his herd of dairy cows, +42 His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye His swine, his horses, his livestock, and his poultry +44 ,as hoolly in this .eves governynge, ,as wholly in this .eeve)s control, -55 %nd by his covenant yaf the rekenynge, %nd in accord with his contract he gave the reckoning, -51 3yn that his lord was twenty yeer of age. 3ince his lord was twenty years of age. -5! her koude no man brynge hym in arrerage. here was no man who could find him in arrears. -5# her nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyne, here was no farm manager, nor herdsman, nor other servant, -5' hat he ne knew his sleighte and his covyneN ,hose trickery and treachery he did not

92

knowN -5+ plague. -5-

hey were adrad of hym as of the deeth. hey were afraid of him as of the

His wonyng was ful faire upon an heethN His dwelling was very nicely situated upon an heathN -50 ,ith grene trees yshadwed was his place. His place was shaded by green trees. -52 He koude bettre than his lord purchace. He could buy property better than his lord could. -54 <ul riche he was astored pryvely. He was secretly very richly provided. -15 His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly, He well knew how to please his lord subtly, -11 o yeve and lene hym of his owene good, $y giving and lending him some of his lord)s own possessions, -1! %nd have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. %nd have thanks, and also a coat and hood 8as a reward9. -1# In youthe he hadde lerned a good myster: In youth he had learned a good craft: -1' He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. He was a very good craftsman, a carpenter. -1+ his .eve sat upon a ful good stot his .eeve sat upon a very good horse -1hat was al pomely grey and highte 3cot. hat was all dapple gray and was called 3cot. -10 % long surcote of pers upon he hade, He had on a long outer coat of dark blue, -12 %nd by his syde he baar a rusty blade. %nd by his side he wore a rusty sword. -14 1f ;orthfolk was this .eve of which I telle, 1f ;orthfolk was this .eeve of whom I tell, -!5 $iside a toun men clepen $aldeswelle. ;ear to a town men call $awdeswelle. -!1 ukked he was as is a frere aboute, He had his coat hitched up and belted, like a friar, -!! %nd evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route. %nd ever he rode as the last of our company. -!# place, place, -!' % 31?1;1:. was ther with us in that here was a 3:??1;6. with us in that hat hadde a fyr&reed cherubynnes face, ,ho had a fire&red cherubim)s face, -!+ <or saucefleem he was, with eyen narwe. <or it was pimpled and discolored, with swollen eyelids. -!%s hoot he was and lecherous as a sparwe, He was as hot and lecherous as a sparrow, -!0 ,ith scalled browes blake and piled berd.

,ith black, scabby brows and a beard with hair fallen out. -!2 1f his visage children were aferd. Ahildren were afraid of his face. -!4 her nas "uyk&silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon, here was no mercury, lead monoxide, nor sulphur, -#5 $oras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon, $orax, white lead, nor any oil of tarter, -#1 ;e oynement that wolde clense and byte, ;or ointment that would cleanse and burn, -#! hat hym myghte helpen of his whelkes white, hat could cure him of his white pustules, -## ;or of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes. ;or of the knobs sitting on his cheeks. -#' ,el loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, He well loved garlic, onions, and also leeks, -#+ %nd for to drynken strong wyn, reed as bloodN %nd to drink strong wine, red as bloodN -#hanne wolde he speke and crie as he were wood. hen he would speak and cry out as if he were cra>y. -#0 %nd whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, %nd when he had drunk deeply of the wine, -#2 hanne wolde he speke no word but =atyn. hen he would speak no word but =atin. -#4 % fewe termes hadde he, two or thre, He had a few legal terms, two or three, -'5 hat he had lerned out of som decree && hat he had learned out of some text of ecclesiastical law && -'1 ;o wonder is, he herde it al the dayN hat is no wonder, he heard it all the dayN -'! %nd eek ye knowen wel how that a jay %nd also you know well how a jay -'# /an clepen O,atteO as wel as kan the pope. Aan call out O,alterO as well as the pope can. -'' $ut whoso koude in oother thyng hym grope, $ut whoever knew how to examine him in other matters, -'+ hanne hadde he spent al his philosophieN 8,ould find that9 he had used up all his learningN -'%y Ohuestio "uid iurisO wolde he crie. %lways O he "uestion is, what point of the law appliesEO he would cry. -'0 He was a gentil harlot and a kyndeN He was a fine rascal and a kind oneN -'2 % bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde. 1ne could not find a better fellow. -'4 He wolde suffre for a "uart of wyn <or a "uart of wine he would allow

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-+5 -+1 fulleN

% good felawe to have his concubyn % good fellow to have his concubine % twelf month, and excuse hym atte

-0' soun.

,as nevere trompe of half so greet a

<or twelve months, and excuse him completelyN -+! <ul prively a fynch eek koude he pulle. 3ecretly he also knew how to pull off a clever trick. -+# %nd if he foond owher a good felawe, %nd if he found anywhere a good fellow, -+' He wolde techen him to have noon awe He would teach him to have no awe -++ In swich caas of the ercedekenes curs, 1f the archdeacon)s curse 8of excommunication9 in such a case, -+$ut if a mannes soule were in his pursN :nless a man)s soul were in his purseN -+0 <or in his purs he sholde ypunysshed be. <or in his purse he would be punished. -+2 ODurs is the ercedekenes helle,O seyde he. ODurse is the archdeacon)s hell,O he said. -+4 $ut wel I woot he lyed right in dedeN $ut well I know he lied right certainlyN --5 1f cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede, 6ach guilty man ought to be afraid of excommunication, --1 <or curs wol slee right as assoillyng savith, <or excommunication will slay just as forgiveness saves, --! %nd also war hym of a 3ignificavit. %nd let him also beware of a 3ignificavit 8order for imprisonment9. --# In daunger hadde he at his owene gise In his control he had as he pleased --' he yonge girles of the diocise, he young people of the diocese, --+ %nd knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed. %nd knew their secrets, and was the adviser of them all. --% gerland hadde he set upon his heed, He had set a garland upon his heed, --0 %s greet as it were for an ale&stake. %s large as if it were for the sign of a tavern --2 % bokeleer hadde he maad hym of a cake. He had made himself a shield of a cake. --4 -05 compeer, ,ith hym ther rood a gentil D%.(1;6. ,ith him there rode a fine D%.(1;6. 1f .ouncivale, his freend and his

1f .ouncivale, his friend and his companion, -01 hat streight was comen fro the court of .ome. ,ho had come straight from the court of .ome. -0! <ul loude he soong OAom hider, love, to meKO Bery loud he sang OAome hither, love, to meKO -0# his 3omonour bar to hym a stif burdounN his 3ummoner harmoni>ed with him in a strong bassN

here was never a trumpet of half so great a sound. -0+ his Dardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex, his Dardoner had hair as yellow as wax, -0$ut smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flexN $ut smooth it hung as does a clump of flaxN -00 $y ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde, $y small strands hung such locks as he had, -02 %nd therwith he his shuldres overspraddeN %nd he spread them over his shouldersN -04 $ut thynne it lay, by colpons oon and oon. $ut thin it lay, by strands one by one. -25 $ut hood, for jolitee, wered he noon, $ut to make an attractive appearance, he wore no hood, -21 <or it was trussed up in his walet. <or it was trussed up in his knapsack. -2! Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jetN It seemed to him that he rode in the very latest styleN -2# (ischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bare. ,ith hair unbound, save for his cap, he rode all bare&headed. -2' 3wiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare. He had glaring eyes such as has a hare. -2+ % vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. He had sewn a Beronica upon his cap. -2His walet, biforn hym in his lappe, $efore him in his lap, 8he had9 his knapsack, -20 $retful of pardoun comen from .ome al hoot. $rimful of pardons come all fresh from .ome. -22 % voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. He had a voice as small as a goat has. -24 ;o berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde haveN He had no beard, nor never would haveN -45 %s smothe it was as it were late shave. It 8his face9 was as smooth as if it were recently shaven. -41 I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare. I believe he was a eunuch or a homosexual. -4! $ut of his craft, fro $erwyk into ,are $ut as to his craft, from $erwick to ,are -4# ;e was ther swich another pardoner. here was no other pardoner like him. -4' <or in his male he hadde a pilwe&beer, <or in his pouch he had a pillow&case, -4+ ,hich that he seyde was 1ure =ady veylN ,hich he said was 1ur =ady)s veilN -4He seyde he hadde a gobet of the seyl He said he had a piece of the sail -40 hat 3eint Deter hadde, whan that he

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wente -42 him. -44 hat 3aint Deter had, when he went :pon the see, til *hesu Arist hym hente. :pon the sea, until *esus Ahrist took night, 0!!

How we conducted ourselves that same ,han we were in that hostelrie alyghtN ,hen we had arrived in that hostelryN 0!# %nd after wol I telle of our viage %nd after that I will tell of our journey 0!' %nd al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. %nd all the rest of our pilgrimage. 0!+ $ut first I pray yow, of youre curteisye, $ut first I pray yow, of your courtesy, 0!hat ye n) arette it nat my vileynye, hat you do not attribute it to my rudeness, 0!0 hogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere, hough I speak plainly in this matter, 0!2 o telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, o tell you their words and their behavior, 0!4 ;e thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. ;or though I speak their words accurately. 0#5 <or this ye knowen al so wel as I: <or this you know as well as I: 0#1 ,hoso shal telle a tale after a man, ,hoever must repeat a story after someone, 0#! He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan He must repeat as closely as ever he knows how 0## 6verich a word, if it be in his charge, 6very single word, if it be in his power, 0#' %l speke he never so rudeliche and large, %lthough he may speak ever so rudely and freely, 0#+ 1r ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, 1r else he must tell his tale inaccurately, 0#1r feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. 1r make up things, or find new words. 0#0 He may nat spare, althogh he were his brotherN He may not refrain from 8telling the truth9, although he were his brotherN 0#2 He moot as wel seye o word as another. He must as well say one word as another. 0#4 Arist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ, Ahrist himself spoke very plainly in holy writ, 0'5 %nd wel ye woot no vileynye is it. %nd you know well it is no rudeness. 0'1 6ek Dlato seith, whoso kan hym rede, %lso Dlato says, whosoever knows how to read him, 0'! he wordes moote be cosyn to the dede. he words must be closely related to the deed. 0'# %lso I prey yow to foryeve it me, %lso I pray you to forgive it to me, 0'' %l have I nat set folk in hir degree %lthough I have not set folk in order of their rank 0'+ Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde. Here in this tale, as they should stand. 0'?y wit is short, ye may wel understonde. ?y wit is short, you can well understand.

He hadde a croys of latoun ful of stones, He had a cross of latten 8brass&like alloy9 covered with stones, 055 %nd in a glas he hadde pigges bones. %nd in a glass container he had pigs) bones. 051 $ut with thise relikes, whan that he fond $ut with these relics, when he found 05! % povre person dwellynge upon lond, % poor parson dwelling in the countryside, 05# :pon a day he gat hym moore moneye In one day he got himself more money 05' han that the person gat in monthes tweyeN han the parson got in two monthsN 05+ %nd thus, with feyned flaterye and japes, %nd thus, with feigned flattery and tricks, 05He made the person and the peple his apes. He made fools of the parson and the people. 050 $ut trewely to tellen atte laste, $ut truly to tell at the last, 052 He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste. He was in church a noble ecclesiast. 054 ,el koude he rede a lessoun or a storie, He well knew how to read a lesson or a story, 015 $ut alderbest he song an offertorieN $ut best of all he sang an 1ffertoryN 011 <or wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, <or he knew well, when that song was sung, 01! He moste preche and wel affile his tonge He must preach and well smooth his speech 01# o wynne silver, as he ful wel koudeN o win silver, as he very well knew howN 01' loude. loud. 01+ ;ow have I toold you soothly, in a clause, ;ow have I told you truly, briefly, 01h) estaat, th) array, the nombre, and eek the cause he rank, the dress, the number, and also the cause 010 ,hy that assembled was this compaignye ,hy this company was assembled 012 In 3outhwerk at this gentil hostelrye In 3outhwark at this fine hostelry 014 hat highte the abard, faste by the $elle. hat is called the abard, close by the $ell. 0!5 $ut now is tyme to yow for to telle $ut now it is time to tell to you 0!1 How that we baren us that ilke nyght, herefore he song the murierly and herefore he sang the more merrily and

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0'0 7reet chiere made oure Hoost us everichon, 1ur Host made great hospitality to everyone of us, 0'2 %nd to the soper sette he us anon. %nd to the supper he set us straightway. 0'4 He served us with vitaille at the besteN He served us with victuals of the best sortN 0+5 3trong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste. he wine was strong, and it well pleased us to drink. 0+1 % semely man 1:.6 H113 6 was withalle 1:. H13 was an impressive man indeed 0+! <or to been a marchal in an halle. 8hualified9 to be a master of ceremonies in a hall. 0+# % large man he was with eyen stepe && He was a large man with prominent eyes && 0+' % fairer burgeys was ther noon in Ahepe && here was no better business man in Aheapside && 0++ $oold of his speche, and wys, and wel ytaught, $old of his speech, and wise, and well mannered, 0+%nd of manhod hym lakkede right naught. %nd he lacked nothing at all of the "ualities proper to a man. 0+0 6ek therto he was right a myrie manN %lso moreover he was a right merry manN 0+2 %nd after soper pleyen he bigan, %nd after supper he began to be merry, 0+4 %nd spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, %nd spoke of mirth among other things, 0-5 ,han that we hadde maad oure rekenynges, ,hen we had paid our bills, 0-1 %nd seyde thus: O;ow, lordynges, trewely, %nd said thus: O;ow, gentlemen, truly, 0-! Ye been to me right welcome, hertelyN You are right heartily welcome to meN 0-# <or by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, <or by my word, if I shall not lie 8I must say9, 0-' I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye I saw not this year so merry a company 0-+ %tones in this herberwe as is now. %t one time in this lodging as is 8here9 now. 0-<ayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how. I would gladly make you happy, if I knew how. 0-0 %nd of a myrthe I am right now bythoght, %nd I have just now thought of an amusement, 0-2 o doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. o give you pleasure, and it shall cost

nothing. 0-4 OYe goon to Aaunterbury && 7od yow speede, OYou go to Aanterbury && 7od give you success, 005 he blisful martir "uite yow youre meedeK ?ay the blessed martyr give you your rewardK 001 %nd wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, %nd well I know, as you go by the way, 00! Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleyeN You intend to tell tales and to amuse yourselvesN 00# <or trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon <or truly, it is no comfort nor mirth 00' o ride by the weye doumb as a stoonN o ride by the way dumb as a stoneN 00+ %nd therfore wol I maken yow disport, %nd therefore I will make a game for you, 00%s I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. %s I said before, and provide you some pleasure. 000 %nd if yow liketh alle by oon assent %nd if pleases you all unanimously 002 <or to stonden at my juggement, o be subject to my judgment, 004 %nd for to werken as I shal yow seye, %nd to do as I shall tell you, 025 omorwe, whan ye riden by the weye, omorrow, when you ride by the way, 021 ;ow, by my fader soule that is deed, ;ow, by the soul of my father who is dead, 02! $ut ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heedK :nless you be merry, I will give you my headK 02# Hoold up youre hondes, withouten moore speche.O Hold up your hands, without more speech.O 02' 02+ it wys, 1ure conseil was nat longe for to seche. 1ur decision was not long to seek out. :s thoughte it was noght worth to make

It seemed to us it was not worthwhile to deliberate on it, 02%nd graunted hym withouten moore avys, %nd 8we9 granted his re"uest without more discussion, 020 %nd bad him seye his voirdit as hym leste. %nd asked him to say his decision as it pleased him. 022 O=ordynges,O "uod he, Onow herkneth for the besteN O7entlemen,O said he, Onow listen for the best course of actionN 024 $ut taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn. $ut, I pray yow, do not take it in disdain 8scorn it9. 045 his is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,

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his is the point, to speak briefly and clearly, 041 weye, hat ech of yow, to shorte with oure

tales, 21+ 21210 assent 212

hat each of yow, to make our way seem short by this means, 04! In this viage shal telle tales tweye ?ust tell two tales in this journey 04# o Aaunterbury&ward, I mene it so, 1n the way to Aanterbury, that is what I mean, 04' %nd homward he shal tellen othere two, %nd on the homeward trip he shall tell two others, 04+ 1f aventures that whilom han bifalle. %bout adventures that in old times have happened. 04%nd which of yow that bereth hym best of alle && %nd whoever of you who does best of all && 040 hat is to seyn, that telleth in this caas hat is to say, who tells in this case 042 ales of best sentence and moost solaas && ales of best moral meaning and most pleasure && 044 3hal have a soper at oure aller cost 3hall have a supper at the cost of us all 255 Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, Here in this place, sitting by this post, 251 ,han that we come agayn fro Aaunterbury. ,hen we come back from Aanterbury. 25! %nd for to make yow the moore mury, %nd to make you the more merry, 25# I wol myselven goodly with yow ryde, I will myself gladly ride with you, 25' .ight at myn owene cost, and be youre gydeN 6ntirely at my own cost, and be your guideN 25+ %nd whoso wole my juggement withseye %nd whosoever will not accept my judgment 253hal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 3hall pay all that we spend by the way. 250 %nd if ye vouche sauf that it be so, %nd if you grant that it be so, 252 el me anon, withouten wordes mo, ell me straightway, without more words, 254 %nd I wol erly shape me therfore.O %nd I will get ready early for this.O 215 swore sworn 211 also him also 21! 21# 21' his thyng was graunted, and oure othes his thing was granted, and our oaths ,ith ful glad herte, and preyden hym ,ith very glad hearts, and 8we9 prayed hat he wolde vouche sauf for to do so, hat he would consent to do so, %nd that he wolde been oure governour, %nd that he would be our governor, %nd of oure tales juge and reportour, %nd judge and score keeper of our

%nd sette a soper at a certeyn pris, %nd set a supper at a certain price, %nd we wol reuled been at his devys %nd we will be ruled as he wishes In heigh and loughN and thus by oon

In every respectN and thus unanimously ,e been acorded to his juggement. ,e are accorded to his judgment. 214 %nd therupon the wyn was fet anonN %nd thereupon the wine was fetched immediatelyN 2!5 ,e dronken, and to reste wente echon, ,e drank, and each one went to rest, 2!1 ,ithouten any lenger taryynge. ,ithout any longer tarrying. 2!! %morwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge, In the morning, when day began to spring, 2!# :p roos oure Hoost, and was oure aller cok, 1ur Host arose, and was the rooster of us all 8awakened us9. 2!' %nd gadrede us togidre alle in a flok, %nd gathered us together all in a flock, 2!+ %nd forth we riden a litel moore than paas %nd forth we rode at little more than a walk 2!:nto the ,ateryng of 3eint homasN :nto the ,atering of 3aint homasN 2!0 %nd there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste %nd there our Host stopped his horse 2!2 %nd seyde, O=ordynges, herkneth, if yow leste. %nd said, O7entlemen, listen, if you please. 2!4 Ye woot youre foreward, and I it yow recorde. You know your agreement, and I remind you of it. 2#5 If even&song and morwe&song accorde, If what you said last night agrees with what you say this morning, 2#1 =at se now who shal telle the firste tale. =et)s see now who shall tell the first tale. 2#! %s evere mote I drynke wyn or ale, %s ever I may drink wine or ale, 2## ,hoso be rebel to my juggement ,hosoever may be rebel to my judgment 2#' 3hal paye for al that by the wey is spent. 3hall pay for all that is spent by the way. 2#+ ;ow draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynneN ;ow draw straws, before we depart further 8from =ondon9N 2#He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne. He who has the shortest shall begin. 2#0 3ire /nyght,O "uod he, Omy mayster and my lord, 3ir /night,O said he, Omy master and my lord,

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2#2

;ow draweth cut, for that is myn accord. ;ow draw a straw, for that is my

decision. 2#4 Aometh neer,O "uod he, Omy lady Drioresse. Aome nearer,O he said, Omy lady Drioress. 2'5 %nd ye, sire Alerk, lat be youre shamefastnesse, %nd you, sir Alerk, let be your modesty, 2'1 ;e studieth noghtN ley hond to, every manKO %nd study notN lay hand to 8draw a straw9, every manKO 2'! %non to drawen every wight bigan, 6very person began straightway to draw, 2'# %nd shortly for to tellen as it was, %nd shortly to tell as it was, 2'' ,ere it by aventure, or sort, or cas, ,ere it by chance, or destiny, or luck, 2'+ he sothe is this: the cut fil to the /nyght, he truth is this: the draw fell to the /night, 2'1f which ful blithe and glad was every wyght, <or which everyone was very happy and glad, 2'0 %nd telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, %nd he must tell his tale, as was reasonable, 2'2 $y foreward and by composicioun, $y our previous promise and by formal

agreement, 2'4 %s ye han herdN what nedeth wordes moE %s you have heardN what more words are neededE 2+5 %nd whan this goode man saugh that it was so, %nd when this good man saw that it was so, 2+1 %s he that wys was and obedient =ike one who was wise and obedient 2+! o kepe his foreward by his free assent, o keep his agreement by his free assent, 2+# He seyde, O3yn I shal bigynne the game, He said, O3ince I must begin the game, 2+' ,hat, welcome be the cut, a 7oddes nameK ,hatK ,elcome be the draw, in 7od)s nameK 2++ ;ow lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.O ;ow let us ride, and listen to what I say.O 2+%nd with that word we ryden forth oure weye, %nd with that word we rode forth on our way, 2+0 %nd he bigan with right a myrie cheere %nd he began with a truly merry demeanor 2+2 His tale anon, and seyde as ye may heere. o tell his tale straightway, and said as you may hear.

98

The 5i/e o/ Bath's Tale

4Alisoun, the 'ife of ?ath, has been married fi#e times and is ready for another husband= "hrist ne#er specified how many times a woman should marry% Virginity is fine but wi#es are not condemnedE the Apostle said that my husband would be my debtor, and , ha#e power o#er his body% Three of my husbands were good and two bad% The first three were old and rich and , picked them clean% 1ne of my old husbands, emboldened with drink, would come home and preach against womenE but , got the better of him% My fourth husband was young and he had a mistress% , pretended to be unfaithful and made him burn in his own grease% , already had my eye on young +ankin, pall bearer for my fourth, and he became my fifth and fa#orite husband% ;e beat me% 1nce when he was reading aloud from his ?ook of 'icked 'i#es, , tore a page from his book, and he knocked me down Sso hard , am still deaf from itT% , pretended to be dying, and when he leaned o#er to ask forgi#eness, , knocked him into the fireplace% 'e made up, and he ga#e me full so#ereignty in marriageE thereafter , was kind and faithful, and we li#ed in bliss%6

The %rologe o/ the 5y,es Tale o/ Bathe <1ith the translation=

1 ! .e me # ' age>

KE-"erien+e> tho(gh noon a(+toritee O6xperience, though no written authority 5ere in this 1orl > is right ynogh /or ,ere in this world, is good enough for To s"eke o/ 1o that is in .ariageM o speak of the woe that is in marriageN For> lor ynges> sith I t1el,e yeer 1as o/

11 1! .e me 1#

To 1e yng> in the *ane o/ )alilee> o a wedding, in the Aana of 7alilee, That 6y the sa.e ensa."le ta(ghte he hat by that same example he taught

<or, gentlemen, since I was twelve years of age, + Thonke 6e )o that is eterne on ly,e> hanked be 7od who is eternally alive, 0o(s6on es at +hir+he ore I ha,e ha /y,e -I have had five husbands at the church door && 0 I/ I so o/te .yghte ha,e y1e e 6ee -If I so often might have been wedded && 2 An alle 1ere 1orthy .en in hir egree7 %nd all were worthy men in their way. 4 B(t .e 1as tool > +erteyn> nat longe agoon is> $ut to me it was told, certainly, it is not long ago, 15 That sith that *rist ne 1ente ne,ere 6(t onis hat since Ahrist went never but once

That I ne shol e 1e e 6e 6(t ones7 hat I should be wedded but once. 1' 0erkne eek> lo> 1hi+h a shar" 1or /or the nones> =isten also, lo, what a sharp word for this purpose, 1+ Bisi e a 1elle> Ches(s> )o an .an> $eside a well, *esus, 7od and man, 1S"ak in re"ree,e o/ the Sa.aritanJ 3poke in reproof of the 3amaritan: 10 NTho( hast yha /y,e ho(s6on es>' '(o he> k hou hast had five husbands,) he said, 12 NAn that ilke .an that no1 hath thee k%nd that same man that now has thee 14 Is noght thyn ho(s6on e>' th(s sey e he +erteyn7 Is not thy husband,) thus he said certainly. !5 5hat that he .ente ther6y> I kan nat seynM ,hat he meant by this, I can not sayN !1 B(t that I a-e> 1hy that the /i/the .an

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$ut I ask, why the fifth man !! 5as noon ho(s6on e to the Sa.aritan; ,as no husband to the 3amaritanE !# 0o1 .anye .yghte she ha,e in .ariage; How many might she have in marriageE !' Yet her e I ne,ere tellen in .yn age I never yet heard tell in my lifetime !+ U"on this no.6re i//ini+io(n7 % definition of this number. !Men .ay e,yne an glosen> (" an o(n> ?en may conjecture and interpret in every way, !0 B(t 1el I 1oot> e-"res> 1itho(te lye> $ut well I know, expressly, without lie, !2 )o 6a (s /or to 1e-e an .(lti"lyeM 7od commanded us to grow fruitful and multiplyN !4 That gentil te-t kan I 1el (n erston e7 hat gentle text I can well understand. #5 Eek 1el I 1oot> he sey e .yn ho(s6on e %lso I know well, he said my husband #1 Shol e lete /a er an .oo er an take to .e7 3hould leave father and mother and take to me. #! B(t o/ no no.6re .en+ion .a e he> $ut he made no mention of number, ## O/ 6iga.ye> or o/ o+toga.yeM 1f marrying two, or of marrying eightN #' 5hy shol e .en thanne s"eke o/ it ,ileynye; ,hy should men then speak evil of itE #+ Lo> heere the 1ise kyng> a(n Salo.onM =o, 8consider9 here the wise king, dan 3alomonN #I tro1e he ha e 1y,es .o than oon7 I believe he had wives more than one. #0 As 1ol e )o it le,e/(l 1ere (nto .e %s would 7od it were lawful unto me #2 To 6e re/resshe hal/ so o/te as heO o be refreshed half so often as heK #4 5hi+h yi/te o/ )o ha e he /or alle his 1y,ysO ,hat a gift of 7od he had because of all his wivesK '5 No .an hath s1i+h that in this 1orl aly,e is7 ;o man that in this world is alive has such 8a gift9. '1 )o 1oot> this no6le kyng> as to .y 1it> 7od knows, this noble king, according to my judgment, '! The /irste nyght ha .any a .yrie /it he first night had many a merry fit '# 5ith e+h o/ he.> so 1el 1as hy. on ly,e7 ,ith each of them, so well things went for him in his lifetime. '' Y6lesse 6e )o that I ha,e 1e e /y,eO $lessed be 7od that I have wedded fiveK ''a PO/ 1hi+he I ha,e "yke o(t the 6este>

F1f which I have picked out the best, ''b Bothe o/ here nether "(rs an o/ here +heste7 $oth of their lower purse 8scrotum9 and of their strongbox. ''c Di,erse s+oles .aken "ar/yt +lerkes> (iffering schools make perfect clerks, ''d An i,erse "ra+tyk in .any son ry 1erkes %nd differing practice in many various works ''e Maketh the 1erk.an "ar/yt sekirlyM ?akes the workman truly perfectN ''f O/ /y,e h(s6on es s+oleiyng a. I7Q 1f five husbands) schooling am I.G '+ 5el+o.e the si-te> 1han that e,ere he shal7 ,elcome the sixth, whenever he shall appear. 'For sothe> I 1ol nat ke"e .e +haast in al7 <or truly, I will not keep myself chaste in everything. '0 5han .yn ho(s6on e is /ro the 1orl ygon> ,hen my husband is gone from the world, '2 So. *risten .an shal 1e e .e anon> 3ome Ahristian man shall wed me straightway, '4 For thanne th' a"ostle seith that I a. /ree <or then the apostle says that I am free +5 To 1e e> a )o es hal/> 1here it liketh .e7 o wed, by 7od)s side 8I swear9, wherever it pleases me. +1 0e seith that to 6e 1e e is no synneM He says that to be wedded is no sinN +! Bet is to 6e 1e e than to 6rynne7 It is better to be wedded than to burn. +# 5hat rekketh .e> thogh /olk seye ,ileynye ,hat do I care, though folk speak evil +' O/ shre1e La.eth an his 6iga.ye; 1f cursed =amech and his bigamyE ++ I 1oot 1el A6raha. 1as an hooly .an> I know well %braham was a holy man, +An Ca+o6 eek> as /er/orth as I kanM %nd *acob also, insofar as I knowN +0 An e+h o/ he. ha e 1y,es .o than t1o> %nd each of them had more than two wives, +2 An .any another holy .an also7 %nd many another holy man also. +4 5her +an ye seye> in any .anere age> ,here can you find, in any historical period, -5 That hye )o e/en e .ariage hat high 7od forbad marriage -1 By e-"res 1or ; I "ray yo1> telleth .e7 $y express wordE I pray you, tell me. -! Or 1here +o.an e he ,irginitee; 1r where commanded he virginityE -# I 1oot as 1el as ye> it is no re e> I know as well as you, it is no doubt, -' Th' a"ostel> 1han he s"eketh o/

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.ay enhe e> he apostle, when he speaks of maidenhood, -+ 0e sey e that "re+e"t thero/ ha e he noon7 He said that he had no precept concerning it. -Men .ay +onseille a 1o..an to 6een oon> ?en may advise a woman to be one, -0 B(t +onseillyng is no +o.an e.ent7 $ut advice is no commandment. -2 0e "(tte it in o(re o1ene 8(gge.entM He left it to our own judgmentN -4 For ha e )o +o.an e .ay enhe e> <or had 7od commanded maidenhood, 05 Thanne ha e he a."ne 1e yng 1ith the e e7 hen had he damned marriage along with the act 8of procreation9. 01 An +ertes> i/ ther 1ere no see yso1e> %nd certainly, if there were no seed sown, 0! :irginitee> thanne 1hero/ shol e it gro1e; hen from what should virginity growE 0# %o(l orste nat +o.an en> atte leeste> In any case, Daul dared not command 0' A thyng o/ 1hi+h his .aister ya/ noon heeste7 % thing of which his master gave no command. 0+ The art is set (" /or ,irginiteeM he pri>e is set up for virginityN 0*a++he 1hoso .ay> 1ho renneth 6est lat see7 Aatch it whoever can, let)s see who runs best. 00 B(t this 1or is nat taken o/ e,ery 1ight> $ut this word does not apply to every person, 02 B(t ther as )o l(st gy,e it o/ his .yght7 $ut where 7od desires to give it by his power. 04 I 1oot 1el that th' a"ostel 1as a .ay eM I know well that the apostle was a virginN 25 B(t nathelees> thogh that he 1root an say e $ut nonetheless, though he wrote and said 21 0e 1ol e that e,ery 1ight 1ere s1i+h as he> He would that every person were such as he, 2! Al nys 6(t +onseil to ,irginitee7 %ll is nothing but advice to 8adopt9 virginity. 2# An /or to 6een a 1y/ he ya/ .e le,e %nd he gave me leave to be a wife 2' O/ in (lgen+eM so nys it no re"re,e $y explicit permissionN so it is not blameful 2+ To 1e e .e> i/ that .y .ake ye> o wed me, if my mate should die,

2-

5itho(ten e-+e"+ion o/ 6iga.ye7 ,ithout objection on the grounds of bigamy. 20 Al 1ere it goo no 1o..an /or to to(+he -%lthough it would be good to touch no woman && 22 0e .ente as in his 6e or in his +o(+he> He meant in his bed or in his couch, 24 For "eril is 6othe /yr an to1 t' asse.6leM <or it is perilous to assemble both fire and flaxN 45 Ye kno1e 1hat this ensa."le .ay rese.6le7 You know what this example may apply to. 41 This is al an so.J he heel ,irginitee his is the sum of it: he held virginity 4! Moore "ar/it than 1e yng in /reletee7 ?ore perfect than wedding in weakness. 4# Freletee +le"e I> 6(t i/ that he an she ,eakness I call it, unless he and she 4' 5ol e le en al hir ly/ in +hastitee7 ,ould lead all their life in chastity. 4+ I gra(nte it 1elM I ha,e noon en,ie> I grant it wellN I have no envy, 4Thogh .ay enhe e "re/erre 6iga.ye7 hough maidenhood may have precedence over a second marriage. 40 It liketh he. to 6e +lene> 6o y an goostM It pleases them to be clean, body and spiritN 42 O/ .yn estaat I nyl nat .ake no 6oost> 1f my state I will make no boast, 44 For 1el ye kno1e> a lor in his ho(shol > <or well you know, a lord in his household, 155 0e nath nat e,ery ,essel al o/ gol M He has not every utensil all of goldN 151 So..e 6een o/ tree> an oon hir lor ser,yse7 3ome are of wood, and do their lord service. 15! )o +le"eth /olk to hy. in son ry 1yse> 7od calls folk to him in various ways, 15# An e,eri+h hath o/ )o a "ro"re yi/te -%nd each one has of 7od an individual gift && 15' So. this> so. that> as hy. liketh shi/te7 3ome this, some that, as it pleases Him to provide. 15+ :irginitee is greet "er/e++ion> Birginity is great perfection, 15An +ontinen+e eek 1ith e,o+ion> %nd continence also with devotion, 150 B(t *rist> that o/ "er/e++ion is 1elle> $ut Ahrist, who is the source of perfection, 152 Ba nat e,ery 1ight he shol e go selle (id not command that every one should

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go sell 154 Al that he ha e> an gy,e it to the "oore> %ll that he had, and give it to the poor, 115 An in s1i+h 1ise /ol1e hy. an his /oore7 %nd in such wise follow him and his footsteps. 111 0e s"ak to he. that 1ol e ly,e "ar/itlyM He spoke to those who would live perfectlyN 11! An lor ynges> 6y yo(re le,e> that a. nat I7 %nd gentlemen, by your leave, I am not that. 11# I 1ol 6isto1e the /lo(r o/ al .yn age I will bestow the flower of all my age 11' In the a+tes an in /r(yt o/ .ariage7 In the acts and in fruit of marriage. 11+ Telle .e also> to 1hat +on+l(sion ell me also, to what purpose 115ere .e.6res .aa o/ genera+ion> ,ere members of generation made, 110 An o/ so "ar/it 1ys a P1rightQ y1roght; %nd by so perfectly wise a ,orkman wroughtE 112 Tr(steth right 1el> they 1ere nat .aa /or noght7 rust right well, they were not made for nothing. 114 )lose 1hoso 1ole> an seye 6othe (" an o(n Interpret whoever will, and say both up and down 1!5 That they 1ere .ake /or "(rga+io(n hat they were made for purgation 1!1 O/ (ryne> an o(re 6othe thynges s.ale 1f urine, and both our small things 1!! 5ere eek to kno1e a /e.ele /ro. a .ale> ,ere also to know a female from a male, 1!# An /or noon oother +a(se -- say ye no; %nd for no other cause && do you say noE 1!' The e-"erien+e 1oot 1el it is noght so7 he experience knows well it is not so. 1!+ So that the +lerkes 6e nat 1ith .e 1rothe> Drovided that the clerks be not angry with me, 1!I sey thisJ that they .ake 6en /or 6otheM I say this: that they are made for bothN 1!0 That is to seye> /or o//i+e an /or ese hat is to say, for urination and for ease 1!2 O/ engen r(re> ther 1e nat )o is"lese7 1f procreation, in which we do not displease 7od. 1!4 5hy shol e .en elles in hir 6ookes sette ,hy else should men set in their books 1#5 That .an shal yel e to his 1y/ hire ette;

hat man shall pay to his wife her debtE 1#1 No1 1her1ith shol e he .ake his "aie.ent> ;ow with what should he make his payment, 1#! I/ he ne (se his sely instr(.ent; If he did not use his blessed instrumentE 1## Thanne 1ere they .aa ("on a +reat(re hen were they made upon a creature 1#' To "(rge (ryne> an eek /or engen r(re7 o purge urine, and also for procreation. 1#+ B(t I seye noght that e,ery 1ight is hol e> $ut I say not that every person is re"uired, 1#That hath s1i+h harneys as I to yo1 tol e> hat has such e"uipment as I to you told, 1#0 To goon an (sen he. in engen r(re7 o go and use them in procreation. 1#2 Thanne shol e .en take o/ +hastitee no +(re7 hen should men have no regard for chastity. 1#4 *rist 1as a .ay e an sha"en as a .an> Ahrist was a virgin and shaped like a man, 1'5 An .any a seint> sith that the 1orl 6iganM %nd many a saint, since the world beganN 1'1 Yet ly,e they e,ere in "ar/it +hastitee7 Yet lived they ever in perfect chastity. 1'! I nyl en,ye no ,irginitee7 I will envy no virginity. 1'# Lat he. 6e 6ree o/ "(re 1hetesee > =et them be bread of pure wheat&seed, 1'' An lat (s 1y,es hoten 6arly-6ree M %nd let us wives be called barley&breadN 1'+ An yet 1ith 6arly-6ree > Mark telle kan> %nd yet with barley&bread, ?ark can tell it, 1'O(re Lor Ches( re/resshe .any a .an7 1ur =ord *esus refreshed many a man. 1'0 In s1i+h estaat as )o hath +le"e (s In such estate as 7od has called us 1'2 I 1ol "erse,ereM I na. nat "re+i(s7 I will persevereN I am not fussy. 1'4 In 1y/ho I 1ol (se .yn instr(.ent In wifehood I will use my instrument 1+5 As /rely as .y Makere hath it sent7 %s freely as my ?aker has it sent. 1+1 I/ I 6e a(ngero(s> )o ye,e .e sor1eO If I be niggardly, 7od give me sorrowK 1+! Myn ho(s6on e shal it ha,e 6othe e,e an .or1e> ?y husband shall have it both evenings and mornings, 1+# 5han that hy. list +o.e /orth an

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"aye his

ette7 ,hen it pleases him to come forth and pay his debt. 1+' An ho(s6on e I 1ol ha,e -- I 1ol nat lette -% husband I will have && I will not desist && 1++ 5hi+h shal 6e 6othe .y etto(r an .y thral> ,ho shall be both my debtor and my slave, 1+An ha,e his tri6(la+ion 1ithal %nd have his suffering also 1+0 U"on his /lessh> 1hil that I a. his 1y/7 :pon his flesh, while I am his wife. 1+2 I ha,e the "o1er (rynge al .y ly/ I have the power during all my life 1+4 U"on his "ro"re 6o y> an noght he7 1ver his own body, and not he. 1-5 Right th(s the A"ostel tol e it (nto .e> .ight thus the %postle told it unto me, 1-1 An 6a o(re ho(s6on es /or to lo,e (s 1eel7 %nd commanded our husbands to love us well. 1-! Al this senten+e .e liketh e,ery eelK -%ll this sentence pleases me every bitO && 1-# U" stirte the %ar oner> an that anonM :p sprang the Dardoner, and that at onceN 1-' KNo1> a.e>K '(o he> K6y )o an 6y Seint CohnO O;ow, madam,O he said, Oby 7od and by 3aint *ohnK 1-+ Ye 6een a no6le "re+ho(r in this +as7 You are a noble preacher in this case. 1-I 1as a6o(te to 1e e a 1y/M allasO I was about to wed a wifeN alasK 1-0 5hat shol e I 6ye it on .y /lessh so eere; ,hy should I pay for it so dearly on my fleshE 1-2 Yet ha e I le,ere 1e e no 1y/ toyeereOK Yet would I rather wed no wife this yearKO 1-4 KA6y eOK '(o she> K.y tale is nat 6igonne7 O,aitKO she said, Omy tale is not begun. 105 Nay> tho( shalt rynken o/ another tonne> ;ay, thou shalt drink from another barrel, 101 Er that I go> shal sa,o(re 1ors than ale7 $efore I go, which shall taste worse than ale. 10! An 1han that I ha,e tool thee /orth .y tale %nd when I have told thee forth my tale 10# O/ tri6(la+ion in .ariage> 1f suffering in marriage, 10' O/ 1hi+h I a. e-"ert in al .yn age -1f which I am expert in all my life && 10+ This is to seyn> .ysel/ ha,e 6een the

1hi""e -his is to say, myself have been the whip && 10Than .aysto1 +hese 1heither tho( 1olt si""e han may thou choose whether thou will sip 100 O/ thilke tonne that I shal a6ro+he7 1f that same barrel that I shall open. 102 Be 1ar o/ it> er tho( to ny a""ro+heM $eware of it, before thou too near approachN 104 For I shal telle ensa."les .o than ten7 <or I shall tell examples more than ten. 125 N5hoso that nyl 6e 1ar 6y othere .en> k,hoever will not be warned by 8the examples of9 other men, 121 By hy. sh(l othere .en +orre+te 6e7' 3hall be an example by which other men shall be corrected.) 12! The sa.e 1or es 1riteth %tholo.eeM he same words writes DtholomyN 12# Re e in his Al.ageste> an take it there7K .ead in his %lmagest, and take it there.O 12' KDa.e> I 1ol e "raye yo1> i/ yo(re 1yl it 1ere>K O?adam, I would pray you, if it were your will,O 12+ Sey e this %ar oner> Kas ye 6igan> 3aid this Dardoner, Oas you began, 12Telle /orth yo(re tale> s"areth /or no .an> ell forth your tale, refrain for no man, 120 An te+he (s yonge .en o/ yo(re "raktike7K %nd teach us young men of your practice.O 122 likeM youN 124 145 141 14! K)la ly>K '(o she> Ksith it .ay yo1

O7ladly,O she said, Osince it may please B(t yet I "raye to al this +o."aignye> $ut yet I pray to all this company, I/ that I s"eke a/ter .y /antasye> If I speak according to my fancy, As taketh not agrie/ o/ that I seye> (o not be annoyed by what I say, For .yn entente nys 6(t /or to "leye7 <or my intention is only to amuse. No1> sire> no1 1ol I telle /orth .y

14# tale7 14'

;ow, sir, now will I tell forth my tale. As e,ere .oote I rynken 1yn or ale> %s ever may I drink wine or ale, 14+ I shal seye soothM tho ho(s6on es that I ha e> I shall speak the truthN those husbands that I had, 14As thre o/ he. 1ere goo e> an t1o 1ere 6a e7 hree of them were good, and two were bad.

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140 The thre 1ere goo e .en> an ri+he> an ol eM he three were good men, and rich, and oldN 142 Unnethe .yghte they the stat(t hol e Hardly might they the statute hold 8pay the debt9 144 In 1hi+h that they 1ere 6o(n en (nto .e7 In which they were bound unto me. !55 Ye 1oot 1el 1hat I .eene o/ this> "ar eeO You know well what I mean of this, by 7odK !51 As hel" .e )o > I la(ghe 1han I thynke 3o help me 7od, I laugh when I think !5! 0o1 "ito(sly a-nyght I .a e he. s1ynkeO How pitifully at night I made them workK !5# An > 6y .y /ey> I tol e o/ it no stoor7 %nd, by my faith, I set no store by it. !5' They ha .e ye,en hir lon an hir tresoorM hey had given me their land and their treasureN !5+ Me ne e nat o lenger iligen+e I needed not work hard any longer !5To 1ynne hir lo,e> or oon he. re,eren+e7 o win their love, or do them reverence. !50 They lo,e .e so 1el> 6y )o a6o,e> hey loved me so well, by 7od above, !52 That I ne tol e no eyntee o/ hir lo,eO hat I reckoned little of their loveK !54 A 1ys 1o..an 1ol 6isye hire e,ere in oon % wise woman will be constantly busy !15 To gete hire lo,e> ye> ther as she hath noon7 o get their love, yes, when she has none. !11 B(t sith I ha e he. hoolly in .yn hon > $ut since I had them wholly in my hand, !1! An sith they ha e .e ye,en al hir lon > %nd since they had me given all their land, !1# 5hat shol e I taken kee" he. /or to "lese> ,hy should I take care to please them, !1' B(t it 1ere /or .y "ro/it an .yn ese; :nless it were for my profit and my pleasureE !1+ I sette he. so a-1erke> 6y .y /ey> I set them so to work, by my faith, !1That .any a nyght they songen N5eila1eyO' hat many a night they sang k,oe is meK) !10 The 6a+on 1as nat /et /or he.> I tro1e> he bacon was not fetched for them, I believe, !12 That so. .en han in Esse- at D(n.o1e7 hat some men have in 6ssex at

(unmowe. !14 I go,erne he. so 1el> a/ter .y la1e> I governed them so well, according to my law, !!5 That e+h o/ he. /(l 6lis/(l 1as an /a1e hat each of them was very blissful and eager !!1 To 6rynge .e gaye thynges /ro the /ayre7 o bring me gay things from the fair. !!! They 1ere /(l gla 1han I s"ak to he. /aire> hey were very glad when I spoke to them pleasantly, !!# For> )o it 1oot> I +hi e he. s"ito(sly7 <or, 7od knows it, I cruelly scolded them. !!' No1 herkneth ho( I 6aar .e "ro"rely> ;ow listen how well I conducted myself, !!+ Ye 1ise 1y,es> that kan (n erston e7 You wise wives, that can understand. !!Th(s sh(l e ye s"eke an 6ere he. 1rong on hon e> hus should you speak and accuse them wrongfully, !!0 For hal/ so 6ol ely kan ther no .an <or half so boldly can there no man !!2 S1ere an lyen> as a 1o..an kan7 3wear and lie, as a woman can. !!4 I sey nat this 6y 1y,es that 6een 1yse> I do not say this concerning wives that are wise, !#5 B(t i/ it 6e 1han they he. .ysa,yse7 :nless it be when they are ill advised. !#1 A 1ys 1y/> i/ that she kan hir goo > % wise wife, if she knows what is good for her, !#! Shal 6eren hy. on hon e the +o1 is 1oo > 3hall deceive him by swearing the bird is cra>y, !## An take 1itnesse o/ hir o1ene .ay e> %nd prove it by taking witness of her own maid !#' O/ hir assent7 B(t herkneth ho1 I say eJ ,ho is in league with her. $ut listen how I spoke: !#+ !#!#0 goothM NSire ol e kaynar > is this thyn array; k3ir old doddering fool, is this thy doingE 5hy is .y neighe6ores 1y/ so gay; ,hy is my neighbor)s wife so gayE She is hono(re o,eral ther she

3he is honored everywhere she goesN !#2 I sitte at hoo.M I ha,e no thri/ty +looth7 I sit at homeN I have no decent clothing. !#4 5hat osto1 at .y neighe6ores ho(s; ,hat dost thou at my neighbor)s houseE !'5 Is she so /air; Arto1 so a.oro(s;

10 4

Is she so fairE %rt thou so amorousE !'1 5hat ro1ne ye 1ith o(re .ay e; Bene i+iteO ,hat do you whisper with our maidE $less meK !'! Sire ol e le++ho(r> lat thy 8a"es 6eO 3ir old lecher, let thy tricks beK !'# An i/ I ha,e a gossi6 or a /reen > %nd if I have a close friend or an ac"uaintance, !'' 5itho(ten gilt> tho( +hi est as a /een > Innocently, thou scold like a fiend, !'+ I/ that I 1alke or "leye (nto his ho(sO If I walk or go unto his house to amuse myselfK !'Tho( +o.est hoo. as ronken as a .o(s> hou comest home as drunk as a mouse, !'0 An "re+hest on thy 6en+h> 1ith y,el "ree/O %nd preach on thy bench, bad luck to youK !'2 Tho( seist to .e it is a greet .es+hie/ hou sayest to me it is a great misfortune !'4 To 1e e a "o,re 1o..an> /or +ostageM o wed a poor woman, because of expenseN !+5 An i/ that she 6e ri+he> o/ heigh "arage> %nd if she be rich, of high birth, !+1 Thanne seisto1 that it is a tor.entrie hen thou sayest that it is a torment !+! To so//re hire "ri e an hire .alen+olie7 o put up with her pride and her angry moods. !+# An i/ that she 6e /air> tho( ,erray kna,e> %nd if she be fair, thou utter knave, !+' Tho( seyst that e,ery holo(r 1ol hire ha,eM hou sayest that every lecher wants to have herN !++ She .ay no 1hile in +hastitee a6y e> 3he can not remain chaste for any length of time, !+That is assaille ("on e+h a sy e7 ,ho is assailed on every side. !+0 Tho( seyst so. /olk esiren (s /or ri+hesse> hou sayest some folk desire us for riches, !+2 So..e /or o(re sha"> an so..e /or o(re /airnesse> 3ome for our shape, and some for our fairness, !+4 An so. /or she kan o(ther synge or a(n+e> %nd one because she can either sing or dance, !-5 An so. /or gentillesse an alia(n+eM %nd some because of noble descent and flirtatious talkN

!-1 So. /or hir han es an hir ar.es s.aleM 3ome because of their hands and their slender armsN !-! Th(s goth al to the e,el> 6y thy tale7 hus goes all to the devil, according to you. !-# Tho( seyst .en .ay nat ke"e a +astel 1al> hou sayest men may not defend a castle wall, !-' It .ay so longe assaille 6een o,eral7 It may so long be assailed on all sides. !-+ An i/ that she 6e /o(l> tho( seist that she %nd if she be ugly, thou sayest that she !-*o,eiteth e,ery .an that she .ay se> Aovets every man that she may see, !-0 For as a s"anyel she 1ol on hy. le"e> <or like a spaniel she will on him leap, !-2 Til that she /yn e so. .an hire to +he"e7 :ntil she find some man to buy 8take9 her. !-4 Ne noon so grey goos gooth ther in the lake ;or does any goose go there in the lake, no matter how drab, !05 As> seisto1> 1ol 6een 1itho(te .ake7 hat, thou sayest, will be without a mate. !01 An seyst it is an har thyng /or to 1el e %nd thou sayest it is a hard thing to control !0! A thyng that no .an 1ole> his thankes> hel e7 % thing that no man will, willingly, hold. !0# Th(s seisto1> lorel> 1han tho1 goost to 6e e> hus sayest thou, scoundrel, when thou goest to bed, !0' An that no 1ys .an ne eth /or to 1e e> %nd that no wise man needs to wed, !0+ Ne no .an that enten eth (nto he,ene7 ;or any man that hopes 8to go9 to heaven. !05ith 1il e thon er- ynt an /iry le,ene ,ith wild thunder&bolt and fiery lightning !00 Moote thy 1elke nekke 6e to6rokeO ?ay thy wrinkled neck be broken in piecesK !02 Tho1 seyst that ro""yng ho(ses> an eek s.oke> hou sayest that leaky houses, and also smoke, !04 An +hi yng 1y,es .aken .en to /lee %nd scolding wives make men to flee !25 O(t o/ hir o1ene ho(sesM a> 6ene i+iteeO 1ut of their own housesN ah, bless meK !21 5hat eyleth s1i+h an ol .an /or to +hi e;

10 5

,hat ails such an old man to chide like thatE !2! hi e Tho1 seyst 1e 1y,es 1ol o(re ,i+es

hou sayest we wives will hide our vices !2# Til 1e 6e /ast> an thanne 1e 1ol he. she1e -:ntil we be securely tied 8in marriage9, and then we will them show && !2' 5el .ay that 6e a "ro,er6e o/ a shre1eO ,ell may that be a proverb of a scoundrelK !2+ Tho( seist that o-en> asses> hors> an ho(n es> hou sayest that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds, !2They 6een assaye at i,erse sto(n esM hey are tried out a number of timesN !20 Ba+yns> la,o(rs> er that .en he. 6ye> $asins, wash bowls, before men them buy, !22 S"oones an stooles> an al s1i+h ho(s6on rye> 3poons and stools, and all such household items, !24 An so 6een "ottes> +lothes> an arrayM %nd so are pots, clothes, and adornmentsN !45 B(t /olk o/ 1y,es .aken noon assay> $ut folk of wives make no trial, !41 Til they 6e 1e e -- ol e otar shre1eO -:ntil they are wedded && old doddering scoundrelK && !4! An thanne> seisto1> 1e 1ol o(re ,i+es she1e7 %nd then, sayest thou, we will show our vices. !4# Tho( seist also that it is"leseth .e hou sayest also that it displeases me !4' B(t i/ that tho( 1olt "reyse .y 6ea(tee> :nless thou will praise my beauty, !4+ An 6(t tho( "o(re al1ey ("on .y /a+e> %nd unless thou peer always upon my face, !4An +le"e .e K/aire a.eK in e,ery "la+e7 %nd call me Odear ladyO in every place. !40 An 6(t tho( .ake a /eeste on thilke ay %nd unless thou make a feast on that same day !42 That I 1as 6orn> an .ake .e /ressh an gayM hat I was born, and make me happy and gayN !44 An 6(t tho( o to .y nori+e hono(r> %nd unless thou do honor to my nurse, #55 An to .y +ha.6erere 1ithinne .y 6o(r>

%nd to my chambermaid within my bedchamber, #51 An to .y /a res /olk an his allyes -%nd to my father)s folk and his allies && #5! Th(s seisto1> ol e 6arel-/(l o/ lyesO hus sayest thou, old barrelful of liesK #5# #5' so /yn> An yet o/ o(re a""renti+e Canekyn> %nd yet of our apprentice *anekin, For his +ris"e heer> shynynge as gol

$ecause of his curly hair, shining like gold so fine, #5+ An /or he s'(iereth .e 6othe (" an o(n> %nd because he familiarly attends me everywhere, #5Yet hasto1 +a(ght a /als s(s"e+io(n7 Yet hast thou caught a false suspicion. #50 I 1ol hy. noght> thogh tho( 1ere ee to.or1eO I do not want him, though thou were dead tomorrowK #52 B(t tel .e thisJ 1hy hy esto1> 1ith sor1e> $ut tell me this: why hidest thou, bad luck to you, #54 The keyes o/ thy +heste a1ey /ro .e; he keys of thy strongbox away from meE #15 It is .y goo as 1el as thyn> "ar eeO It is my property as well as thine, by 7odK #11 5hat> 1enesto1 .ake an y iot o/ o(re a.e; ,hat, think thou to make a fool of the lady of the houseE #1! No1 6y that lor that +alle is Seint Ca.e> ;ow by that lord that is called 3aint *ames, #1# Tho( shalt nat 6othe> thogh that tho( 1ere 1oo > hou shalt not both, though thou were cra>y with anger, #1' Be .aister o/ .y 6o y an o/ .y goo M $e master of my body and of my propertyN #1+ That oon tho( shalt /orgo> .a(gree thyne yen7 1ne of them thou must give up, despite anything you can do. #15hat hel"ith it o/ .e to en'(ere or s"yen; ,hat helps it to in"uire about me or spyE #10 I tro1e tho( 1ol est loke .e in thy +histeO I believe thou would lock me in thy strongboxK #12 Tho( shol est seye> K5y/> go 1her thee listeM hou should say, O,ife, go where you pleaseN #14 Taak yo(re is"ortM I 1ol nat le,e no talys7 6njoy yourselfN I will not believe any gossip.

10 6

#!5 I kno1e yo1 /or a tre1e 1y/> a.e Alys7K I know you for a true wife, dame %lys.O #!1 5e lo,e no .an that taketh ke" or +harge ,e love no man who takes notice or concern about #!! 5her that 1e goonM 1e 1ol 6en at o(re large7 ,here we goN we will be free 8to do as we wish9. #!# O/ alle .en y6lesse .oot he 6e> 1f all men blessed may he be, #!' The 1ise astrologien> Da(n %tholo.e> he wise astrologer, (an Dtolemy, #!+ That seith this "ro,er6e in his Al.agesteJ ,ho says this proverb in his %lmagest: #!KO/ alle .en his 1ys o. is the hyeste O1f all men his wisdom is the highest #!0 That rekketh ne,ere 1ho hath the 1orl in hon e7K ,ho never cares who has the world in his control.O #!2 By this "ro,er6e tho( shalt (n erston e> $y this proverb thou shalt understand, #!4 0a,e tho( ynogh> 1hat thar thee re++he or +are If thou have enough, why should thou take note or care ##5 0o1 .yrily that othere /olkes /are; How merrily other folks fareE ##1 For> +erteyn> ol e otar > 6y yo(re le,e> <or, certainly, old senile fool, by your leave, ##! Ye sh(l ha,e '(eynte right ynogh at e,e7 You shall have pudendum right enough at eve. ### 0e is to greet a nygar that 1ol e 1erne He is too great a miser that would refuse ##' A .an to lighte a +an le at his lanterneM % man to light a candle at his lanternN ##+ 0e shal ha,e ne,er the lasse light> "ar ee7 He shall have never the less light, by 7od. ##0a,e tho( ynogh> thee thar nat "leyne thee7 If thou have enough, thou need not complain. ##0 gay Tho( seyst also> that i/ 1e .ake (s

reinforce thy argument, #'1 An seye thise 1or es in the A"ostles na.eJ %nd say these words in the %postle)s name: #'! KIn ha6it .aa 1ith +hastitee an sha.e OIn clothing made with chastity and shame #'# Ye 1o..en sh(l a""araille yo1>K '(o he> You women shall apparel yourselves,O he said, #'' KAn noght in tresse heer an gay "erree> O%nd not in carefully arranged hair and gay precious stones, #'+ As "erles> ne 1ith gol > ne +lothes ri+he7K 3uch as pearls, nor with gold, nor rich cloth.O #'A/ter thy te-t> ne a/ter thy r(6ri+he> In accordance with thy text, nor in accord with thy interpretation, #'0 I 1ol nat 1ir+he as .(+hel as a gnat7 I will not do as much as a gnat. #'2 +atM #'4 #+5 his inM Tho( sey est this> that I 1as lyk a hou said this, that I was like a catN For 1hoso 1ol e senge a +attes skyn> <or if anyone would singe a cat)s skin, Thanne 1ol e the +at 1el 1ellen in

hen would the cat well stay in his dwellingN #+1 An i/ the +attes skyn 6e slyk an gay> %nd if the cat)s skin be sleek and gay, #+! She 1ol nat 1elle in ho(se hal/ a ay> 3he will not stay in house half a day, #+# B(t /orth she 1ole> er any ay 6e a1e > $ut forth she will 8go9, before any day be dawned, #+' To she1e hir skyn an goon a+ater1a1e 7 o show her skin and go yowling like a cat in heat. #++ This is to seye> i/ I 6e gay> sire shre1e> his is to say, if I be well dressed, sir scoundrel, #+I 1ol renne o(t .y 6orel /or to she1e7 I will run out to show my poor clothes. #+0 Sire ol e /ool> 1hat hel"eth thee to s"yen; 3ir old fool, what help is it for thee to spyE #+2 Thogh tho( "reye Arg(s 1ith his h(n re yen hough thou pray %rgus with his hundred eyes #+4 To 6e .y 1ar e-+ors> as he kan 6est> o be my bodyguard, as he best knows how, #-5 In /eith> he shal nat ke"e .e 6(t .e

hou sayest also, that if we make ourselves gay ##2 5ith +lothyng> an 1ith "re+io(s array> ,ith clothing, and with precious adornments, ##4 That it is "eril o/ o(re +hastiteeM hat it is dangerous to our chastityN #'5 An yet -- 1ith sor1eO -- tho( .ost en/or+e thee> %nd yet && bad luck to theeK && thou must

10 7

lestM In faith, he shall not keep me but as I pleaseN #-1 Yet ko( e I .ake his 6er > so .oot I theeO Yet could I deceive him, as I may prosperK #-! Tho( sey est eek that ther 6een thynges thre> hou said also that there are three things, #-# The 1hi+he thynges tro(6len al this erthe> he which things trouble all this earth, #-' An that no 1ight .ay en (re the /erthe7 %nd that no one can endure the fourth. #-+ O lee,e sire shre1e> Ches( shorte thy ly/O 1 dear sir scoundrel, *esus shorten thy lifeK #-Yet "re+hesto1 an seyst an hate/(l 1y/ Yet thou preachest and sayest a hateful wife #-0 Yrekene is /or oon o/ thise .es+han+es7 Is reckoned as one of these misfortunes. #-2 Been ther none othere .aner rese.6lan+es %re there no other sorts of comparisons #-4 That ye .ay likne yo(re "ara6les to> hat you can use in your sayings, #05 B(t i/ a sely 1y/ 6e oon o/ tho; ,ithout a poor wife)s being one of themE #01 helle> Tho( liknest eek 1o..enes lo,e to

hou also compare women)s love to hell, #0! To 6areyne lon > ther 1ater .ay nat 1elle7 o barren land, where water may not remain. #0# Tho( liknest it also to 1il e /yrM hou compare it also to 7reek 8inextinguishable9 fireN #0' The .oore it 6renneth> the .oore it hath esir he more it burns, the more it has desire #0+ To +ons(.e e,ery thyng that 6rent 1ole 6e7 o consume every thing that will be burned. #0Tho( seyest> right as 1or.es shen e a tree> hou sayest, just as worms destroy a tree, #00 Right so a 1y/ estroyeth hire ho(s6on eM .ight so a wife destroys her husbandN #02 This kno1e they that 6een to 1y,es 6on e7' his know they who are bound to wives.) #04 Lor ynges> right th(s> as ye ha,e (n erston e> 7entlemen, right thus, as you have

heard, #25 Baar I sti/ly .yne ol e ho(s6on es on hon e I firmly swore to my old husbands #21 That th(s they sey en in hir ronkenesseM hat thus they said in their drunkennessN #2! An al 1as /als> 6(t that I took 1itnesse %nd all was false, but I took witness #2# On Canekyn> an on .y ne+e also7 1n *anekin, and on my niece also. #2' O Lor O The "eyne I i e he. an the 1o> 1 =ordK he pain I did them and the woe, #2+ F(l giltelees> 6y )o es s1eete "yneO 6ntirely guiltless 8they were9, by 7od)s sweet painK #2For as an hors I ko( e 6yte an 1hyne7 <or like a horse I could bite and whinny. #20 I ko( e "leyne> an yit 1as in the gilt> I could complain, and yet was in the wrong, #22 Or elles o/ten ty.e ha e I 6een s"ilt7 1r else many times had I been ruined. #24 5hoso that /irst to .ille +o.th> /irst gryntM ,hoever first comes to the mill, first grindsN #45 I "leyne /irst> so 1as o(re 1erre ystynt7 I complained first, so was our war ended. #41 They 1ere /(l gla e to e-+(se he. 6ly,e hey were very glad to excuse themselves "uickly #4! O/ thyng o/ 1hi+h they ne,ere agilte hir ly,e7 1f things of which they were never guilty in their lives. #4# O/ 1en+hes 1ol e I 6eren he. on hon e> 1f wenches would I falsely accuse them, #4' 5han that /or syk (nnethes .yghte they ston e7 ,hen for sickness they could hardly stand. #4+ Yet tikle I his herte> /or that he Yet I tickled his heart, for he #45en e that I ha e o/ hy. so greet +hierteeO $elieved that I had of him so great affectionK #40 I s1oor that al .y 1alkynge o(t 6y nyghte I swore that all my walking out by night #42 5as /or t' es"ye 1en+hes that he ighteM ,as to spy out wenches with whom he had intercourseN #44 Un er that +olo(r ha e I .any a .yrthe7 :nder that pretense I had many a mirth. '55 For al s1i+h 1it is ye,en (s in o(re 6yrtheM

10 8

'51 yi,e

<or all such wit is given us in our birthN De+eite> 1e"yng> s"ynnyng )o hath

(eceit, weeping, spinning 7od has given '5! To 1o..en kyn ely> 1hil that they .ay ly,e7 o women naturally, while they may live. '5# An th(s o/ o thyng I a,a(nte .eJ %nd thus of one thing I boast: '5' Atte en e I ha e the 6ettre in e+h egree> %t the end I had the better in every way, '5+ By sleighte> or /or+e> or 6y so. .aner thyng> $y trickery, or force, or by some such thing, '5As 6y +ontin(eel .(r.(r or gr(++hyng7 %s by continual grumbling or grouching. '50 Na.ely a6e e ha en they .es+ha(n+eJ 6specially in bed they had misfortune: '52 Ther 1ol e I +hi e an o he. no "lesa(n+eM here would I scold and do them no pleasureN '54 I 1ol e no lenger in the 6e a6y e> I would no longer in the bed abide, '15 I/ that I /elte his ar. o,er .y sy e> If I felt his arm over my side, '11 Til he ha .aa his ra(nson (nto .eM :ntil he had paid his penalty to meN '1! Thanne 1ol e I s(//re hy. o his ny+etee7 hen would I allow him to do his foolishness. '1# An ther/ore e,ery .an this tale I telle> %nd therefore this tale I tell to every man, '1' 5ynne 1hoso .ay> /or al is /or to selleM %nyone can profit, for everything is for saleN '1+ 5ith e."ty han .en .ay none ha(kes l(re7 1ne can lure no hawks with an empty hand. '1For 1ynnyng 1ol e I al his l(st en (re> <or profit I would endure all his lust, '10 An .ake .e a /eyne a""etitM %nd make me a feigned appetiteN '12 An yet in 6a+on ha e I ne,ere elit7 %nd yet in bacon 8old meat9 I never had delight. '14 That .a e .e that e,ere I 1ol e he. +hi e> hat made me so that I would always scold them, '!5 For thogh the "o"e ha e seten he. 6isi e> <or though the pope had sat beside them, '!1 I 1ol e nat s"are he. at hir o1ene 6or > I would not spare them at their own table, '!! For> 6y .y tro(the> I '(itte he. 1or

/or 1or 7 <or, by my troth, I paid them back word for word. '!# As hel"e .e ,erray )o o.ni"otent> %s help me true 7od omnipotent, '!' Tho(gh I right no1 shol e .ake .y testa.ent> hough I right now should make my will, '!+ I ne o1e he. nat a 1or that it nys '(it7 I owe them not one word that has not been avenged. '!I 6roghte it so a6o(te 6y .y 1it I brought it so about by my wit '!0 That they .oste ye,e it ("> as /or the 6este> hat they had to give it up, as the best they could do, '!2 Or elles ha e 1e ne,ere 6een in resteM 1r else had we never been at peaceN '!4 For thogh he looke as a 1oo leon> <or though he looked like a furious lion, '#5 Yet shol e he /aille o/ his +on+l(sion7 Yet should he fail to attain his goal. '#1 Thanne 1ol e I seye> N)oo e lie/> taak kee" hen I would say, k3weetheart, see '#! 0o1 .ekely looketh 5ilkyn> o(re shee"O How meekly looks ,illy, our sheepK '## *o. neer> .y s"o(se> lat .e 6a thy +hekeO Aome near, my spouse, let me kiss thy cheekK '#' Ye shol e 6een al "a+ient an .eke> You should be all patient and meek, '#+ An han a s1eete s"i+e +ons+ien+e> %nd have a sweet tender disposition, '#Sith ye so "re+he o/ Co6es "a+ien+e7 3ince you so preach of *ob)s patience. '#0 S(//reth al1ey> syn ye so 1el kan "re+heM 3uffer always, since you so well can preachN '#2 An 6(t ye o> +ertein 1e shal yo1 te+he %nd unless you do, certainly we shall teach you '#4 That it is /air to ha,e a 1y/ in "ees7 hat it is fair to have a wife in peace. ''5 Oon o/ (s t1o .oste 6o1en> o(telees> 1ne of us two must bow, doubtless, ''1 An sith a .an is .oore resona6le %nd since a man is more reasonable ''! Than 1o..an is> ye .oste 6een s(//ra6le7 han a woman is, you must be able to bear suffering. ''# 5hat eyleth yo1 to gr(++he th(s an grone; ,hat ails you to grouch thus and groanE ''' Is it /or ye 1ol e ha,e .y '(eynte allone; Is it because you want to have my pudendum all to yourselfE ''+ 5y> taak it alO Lo> ha,e it e,ery eelO ,hy, take it allK =o, have it every bitK

10 9

''1eelM

%eterO I shre1e yo1> 6(t ye lo,e it

'-2

This kno1en le++ho(rs 6y e-"erien+e7 his lechers know by experience.

$y 3aint DeterK I would curse you, if you did not love it wellN ''0 For i/ I 1ol e selle .y 6ele +hose> <or if I would sell my kpretty thing,) ''2 I ko( e 1alke as /ressh as is a roseM I could walk as fresh 8newly clothed9 as is a roseN ''4 B(t I 1ol ke"e it /or yo(re o1ene tooth7 $ut I will keep it for your own pleasure. '+5 Ye 6e to 6la.e> 6y )o O I sey yo1 sooth7' You are to blame, by 7odK I tell you the truth.) '+1 S1i+he .anere 1or es ha e 1e on hon e7 3uch sorts of words we had in hand. '+! No1 1ol I s"eken o/ .y /o(rthe ho(s6on e7 ;ow will I speak of my fourth husband. '+# -'+' -'++ '+"ye7 My /o(rthe ho(s6on e 1as a re,elo(r ?y fourth husband was a reveller && This is to seyn> he ha e a "ara.o(r his is to say, he had a mistress && An I 1as yong an /(l o/ ragerye> %nd I was young and full of playfulness, Sti6o(rn an strong> an 8oly as a

3tubborn and strong, and jolly as a magpie. '+0 0o1 ko( e I a(n+e to an har"e s.ale> How well I could dance to a small harp, '+2 An synge> y1is> as any nyghtyngale> %nd sing, indeed, like any nightingale, '+4 5han I ha ronke a ra(ghte o/ s1eete 1ynO ,hen I had drunk a draft of sweet wineK '-5 Metelli(s> the /o(le +herl> the s1yn> ?etellius, the foul churl, the swine, '-1 That 1ith a sta/ 6ira/te his 1y/ hir ly/> ,ho with a staff deprived his wife of her life, '-! For she rank 1yn> thogh I ha e 6een his 1y/> $ecause she drank wine, if I had been his wife, '-# 0e shol e nat han a(nte .e /ro rynkeO He should not have frightened me away from drinkK '-' An a/ter 1yn on :en(s .oste I thynke> %nd after wine on Benus must I think, '-+ For al so siker as +ol engen reth hayl> <or as surely as cold engenders hail, '-A likero(s .o(th .oste han a likero(s tayl7 % gluttonous mouth must have a lecherous tail. '-0 In 1o..en ,inolent is no e/en+e -In drunken women there is no defense &&

'-4 B(t -- Lor *ristO -- 1han that it re.e.6reth .e $ut && =ord AhristK && when I remember '05 U"on .y yo1the> an on .y 8olitee> ?y youth, and my gaiety, '01 It tikleth .e a6o(te .yn herte roote7 It tickles me to the bottom of my heart. '0! Unto this ay it ooth .yn herte 6oote :nto this day it does my heart good '0# That I ha,e ha .y 1orl as in .y ty.e7 hat I have had my world in my time. '0' B(t age> allas> that al 1ole en,eny.e> $ut age, alas, that all will poison, '0+ 0ath .e 6ira/t .y 6ea(tee an .y "ith7 Has deprived me of my beauty and my vigor. '0Lat go7 Fare1elO The e,el go ther1ithO =et it go. <arewellK he devil go with itK '00 The /lo(r is goonM ther is na.oore to telleM he flour is goneN there is no more to tellN '02 The 6ren> as I 6est kan> no1 .oste I selleM he bran, as I best can, now I must sellN '04 B(t yet to 6e right .yrie 1ol I /on e7 $ut yet I will try to be right merry. '25 No1 1ol I tellen o/ .y /o(rthe ho(s6on e7 ;ow will I tell of my fourth husband. '21 '2! '2# Co+eO I seye> I ha e in herte greet es"it I say, I had in heart great anger That he o/ any oother ha elit7 hat he had delight in any other. B(t he 1as '(it> 6y )o an 6y Seint

$ut he was paid back, by 7od and by 3aint *oceK '2' I .a e hy. o/ the sa.e 1o e a +ro+eM I made him a cross of the same woodN '2+ Nat o/ .y 6o y> in no /o(l .anere> ;ot of my body, in no foul manner, '2B(t +erteinly> I .a e /olk s1i+h +heere $ut certainly, I treated folk in such a way '20 /rye '22 '24 '45 glorie7 glory. '41 song> That in his o1ene gre+e I .a e hy. hat I made him fry in his own grease For angre> an /or ,erray 8alo(sye7 <or anger, and for pure jealousy. By )o > in erthe I 1as his "(rgatorie> $y 7od, in earth I was his purgatory, For 1hi+h I ho"e his so(le 6e in <or which I hope his soul may be in For> )o it 1oot> he sat /(l o/te an

<or, 7od knows it, he sat very often and

11 0

cried out in pain, '4! 5han that his shoo /(l 6itterly hy. 1rong7 ,hen his shoe very bitterly pinched him. '4# Ther 1as no 1ight> sa,e )o an he> that 1iste> here was no person who knew it, save 7od and he, '4' In .any 1ise> ho1 soore I hy. t1iste7 In many a way, how painfully I tortured him. '4+ 0e ey e 1han I +a. /ro Cer(sale.> He died when I came from *erusalem, '4An lith ygra,e (n er the roo e 6ee.> %nd lies buried under the rood beam, '40 Al is his to.6e noght so +(ry(s %lthough his tomb is not so elaborate '42 As 1as the se"(l+re o/ hy. Dary(s> %s was the sepulcher of that (arius, '44 5hi+h that A""elles 1roghte s(6tillyM ,hich %ppelles wrought skillfullyN +55 It nys 6(t 1ast to 6(rye hy. "re+io(sly7 It is nothing but waste to bury him expensively. +51 Lat hy. /are 1elM )o ye,e his so(le resteO =et him fare wellN 7od give his soul restK +5! 0e is no1 in his gra,e an in his +heste7 He is now in his grave and in his casket. +5# telle7 No1 o/ .y /i/the ho(s6on e 1ol I

+1+10 ha,e>

,e women have, if I shall not lie, In this .atere a '(eynte /antasyeJ In this matter a curious fantasy: 5ayte 1hat thyng 1e .ay nat lightly

;ote that whatever thing we may not easily have, +12 Thera/ter 1ol 1e +rie al ay an +ra,e7 ,e will cry all day and crave for it. +14 For6e e (s thyng> an that esiren 1eM <orbid us a thing, and we desire itN +!5 %reesse on (s /aste> an thanne 1ol 1e /le7 Dress on us fast, and then will we flee. +!1 5ith a(nger o(te 1e al o(re +ha//areM ,ith niggardliness we spread out all our merchandiseN +!! )reet "rees at .arket .aketh eere 1are> % great crowd at the market makes wares expensive, +!# An to greet +hee" is hol e at litel "rysJ %nd too great a supply makes them of little value: +!' This kno1eth e,ery 1o..an that is 1ys7 6very woman that is wise knows this. +!+ My /i/the ho(s6on e -- )o his so(le 6lesseO -?y fifth husband && 7od bless his soulK && +!5hi+h that I took /or lo,e> an no ri+hesse> ,hom I took for love, and no riches, +!0 0e so. ty.e 1as a +lerk o/ O-en/or > He was formerly a clerk of 1xford, +!2 An ha e le/t s+ole> an 1ente at ho. to 6or %nd had left school, and came home to board +!4 5ith .y gossi6> 1ellynge in o(re to(nM ,ith my close friend, dwelling in our townN +#5 )o ha,e hir so(leO 0ir na.e 1as Aliso(n7 7od have her soulK Her name was %lisoun. +#1 She kne1 .yn herte> an eek .y "ri,etee> 3he knew my heart, and also my secrets, +#! Bet than o(re "arisshe "reest> so .oot I theeO $etter than our parish priest, as I may prosperK +## To hire 6i1reye I .y +onseil al7 o her I revealed all my secrets. +#' For ha e .yn ho(s6on e "isse on a 1al> <or had my husband pissed on a wall, +#+ Or oon a thyng that shol e han +ost his ly/> 1r done a thing that should have cost his life, +#To hire> an to another 1orthy 1y/>

;ow of my fifth husband I will tell. +5' )o lete his so(le ne,ere +o.e in helleO 7od let his soul never come in hellK +5+ An yet 1as he to .e the .ooste shre1eM %nd yet he was to me the greatest scoundrelN +5That /eele I on .y ri66es al 6y re1e> hat feel I on my ribs one after another, +50 An e,ere shal (nto .yn en yng ay7 %nd ever shall unto my final day. +52 B(t in o(re 6e he 1as so /ressh an gay> $ut in our bed he was so lively and gay, +54 An ther1ithal so 1el ko( e he .e glose> %nd moreover he so well could deceive me, +15 5han that he 1ol e han .y 6ele +hoseM ,hen he would have my kpretty thing)N +11 That thogh he ha e .e 6ete on e,ery 6on> hat though he had beat me on every bone, +1! 0e ko( e 1ynne agayn .y lo,e anon7 He could win back my love straightway. +1# I tro1e I lo,e hy. 6est> /or that he I believe I loved him best, because he +1' 5as o/ his lo,e a(ngero(s to .e7 ,as of his love standoffish to me. +1+ 5e 1o..en han> i/ that I shal nat lye>

11 1

+#0 1eel> +#2 eel7

An

o her, and to another worthy wife, to .y ne+e> 1hi+h that I lo,e

gytes7 %nd wore my gay scarlet robes. +-5 Thise 1or.es> ne thise .otthes> ne thise .ytes> hese worms, nor these moths, nor these mites, +-1 U"on .y "eril> /rete he. ne,er a eelM :pon my peril 8I swear9, chewed on them never a bitN +-! An 1osto1 1hy; For they 1ere (se 1eel7 %nd know thou whyE $ecause they were well used. +-# .e7 me. +-' No1 1ol I tellen /orth 1hat ha""e ;ow will I tell forth what happened to I seye that in the /eel es 1alke 1e> I say that in the fields we walked, +-+ Til tre1ely 1e ha e s1i+h alian+e> :ntil truly we had such flirtation, +-This +lerk an I> that o/ .y "(r,eian+e his clerk and I, that for my provision for the future +-0 I s"ak to hy. an sey e hy. ho1 that he> I spoke to him and said to him how he, +-2 I/ I 1ere 1y 1e> shol e 1e e .e7 If I were a widow, should wed me. +-4 For +erteinly -- I sey /or no 6o6an+e -<or certainly && I say this for no boast && +05 Yet 1as I ne,ere 1itho(ten "(r,eian+e I was never yet without providing beforehand +01 O/ .ariage> n' o/ othere thynges eek7 <or marriage, nor for other things also. +0! I hol e a .o(ses herte nat 1orth a leek I hold a mouse)s heart not worth a leek +0# That hath 6(t oon hole /or to sterte to> hat has but one hole to flee to, +0' An i/ that /aille> thanne is al y o7 If that should fail, then all is lost. +0+ I 6ar hy. on hon e he ha e en+hante .e -I falsely swore that he had enchanted me && +0My a.e ta(ghte .e that so(tiltee -?y mother taught me that trick && +00 An eek I sey e I .ette o/ hy. al nyght> %nd also I said I dreamed of him all night, +02 0e 1ol e han slayn .e as I lay ("right> He would have slain me as I lay on my back, +04 An al .y 6e 1as /(l o/ ,erray 6loo M %nd all my bed was full of real bloodN +25 NB(t yet I ho"e that ye shal o .e goo > k$ut yet I hope that you shall do me good,

%nd to my niece, whom I loved well, I 1ol e han tool his +onseil e,ery

I would have told every one of his secrets. +#4 An so I i e /(l o/ten> )o it 1oot> %nd so I did very often, 7od knows it, +'5 That .a e his /a+e o/ten ree an hoot hat made his face often red and hot +'1 For ,erray sha.e> an 6la.e hy.sel/ /or he <or true shame, and blamed himself because he +'! 0a tool to .e so greet a "ry,etee7 Had told to me so great a secret. +'# An so 6i/el that ones in a Lente -%nd so it happened that once in a 3pringtime && +'' So o/ten ty.es I to .y gossy6 1ente> 3ince fre"uently I went to visit my close friend, +'+ For e,ere yet I lo,e to 6e gay> <or I always loved to be gay, +'An /or to 1alke in Mar+h> A,erill> an May> %nd to walk in ?arch, %pril, and ?ay, +'0 Fro ho(s to ho(s> to heere son ry talys -<rom house to house, to hear various bits of gossip && +'2 That Cankyn +lerk> an .y gossy6 a.e Alys> hat *ankin the clerk, and my close friend dame %lys, +'4 An I .ysel/> into the /eel es 1ente7 %nd I myself, into the fields went. ++5 Myn ho(s6on e 1as at Lon o(n al that LenteM ?y husband was at =ondon all that 3pringN ++1 I ha e the 6ettre leyser /or to "leye> I had the better opportunity to amuse myself, ++! An /or to se> an eek /or to 6e seye %nd to see, and also to be seen ++# O/ l(sty /olk7 5hat 1iste I 1her .y gra+e $y amorous folk. ,hat did I know about where my good fortune ++' 5as sha"en /or to 6e> or in 1hat "la+e; ,as destined to be, or in what placeE +++ Ther/ore I .a e .y ,isita+io(ns herefore I made my visitations ++To ,igilies an to "ro+essio(ns> o religious feasts and to processions, ++0 To "re+hyng eek> an to thise "ilgri.ages> o preaching also, and to these pilgrimages, ++2 To "leyes o/ .yra+les> an to .ariages> o plays about miracles, and to marriages, ++4 An 1ere ("on .y gaye s+arlet

11 2

+21 For 6loo 6itokeneth gol > as .e 1as ta(ght7' <or blood symboli>es gold, as I was taught.) +2! An al 1as /alsM I re.e o/ it right na(ght> %nd all was falseN I dreamed of it not at all, +2# B(t as I /ol1e ay .y a.es loore> $ut I followed always my mother)s teaching, +2' As 1el o/ this as o/ othere thynges .oore7 %s well in this as in other things more. +2+ seyn7 +2B(t no1> sire> lat .e se 1hat I shal $ut now, sir, let me see what I shall say. A haO By )o > I ha,e .y tale ageyn7 % haK $y 7od, I have my tale again.

1eelM ,ith teeth set wide apart I was, and that became me wellN -5' I ha e the "rente o/ seinte :en(s seel7 I had the print of 3aint Benus)s seal. -5+ As hel" .e )o > I 1as a l(sty oon> %s help me 7od, I was a lusty one, -5An /aire> an ri+he> an yong> an 1el 6igon> %nd fair, and rich, and young, and well fixed, -50 An tre1ely> as .yne ho(s6on es tol e .e> %nd truly, as my husbands told me, -52 I ha e the 6este '(onia. .yghte 6e7 I had the best pudendum that might be. -54 For +ertes> I a. al :enerien <or certainly, I am all influenced by Benus -15 In /eelynge> an .yn herte is Mar+ien7 In feeling, and my heart is influenced by ?ars. -11 :en(s .e ya/ .y l(st> .y likero(snesse> Benus me gave my lust, my amorousness, -1! An Mars ya/ .e .y st(r y har ynesseM %nd ?ars gave me my sturdy boldnessN -1# Myn as+en ent 1as Ta(r> an Mars therinne7 ?y ascendant was aurus, and ?ars was therein. -1' Allas> allasO That e,ere lo,e 1as synneO %las, alasK hat ever love was sinK -1+ I /ol1e ay .yn in+lina+io(n I followed always my inclination -1By ,ert( o/ .y +onstella+io(nM $y virtue of the state of the heavens at my birthN -10 That .a e .e I ko( e noght 1ith ra1e hat made me that I could not withdraw -12 My +ha.6re o/ :en(s /ro. a goo /ela1e7 ?y chamber of Benus from a good fellow. -14 Yet ha,e I Martes .ark ("on .y /a+e> Yet have I ?ars) mark upon my face, -!5 An also in another "ri,ee "la+e7 %nd also in another private place. -!1 For )o so 1ys 6e .y sa,a+io(n> <or as 7od may be my salvation, -!! I ne lo,e ne,ere 6y no is+re+io(n> I never loved in moderation, -!# B(t e,ere /ol1e e .yn a""etit> $ut always followed my appetite, -!' Al 1ere he short> or long> or 6lak> or 1hitM ,hether he were short, or tall, or black& haired, or blondN -!+ I took no ke"> so that he like .e> I took no notice, provided that he pleased me, -!0o1 "oore he 1as> ne eek o/ 1hat

+20 5han that .y /o(rthe ho(s6on e 1as on 6eere> ,hen my fourth husband was on the funeral bier, +22 I 1ee" algate> an .a e sory +heere> I wept continuously, and acted sorry, +24 As 1y,es .ooten> /or it is (sage> %s wives must do, for it is the custom, +45 An 1ith .y +o,er+hie/ +o,ere .y ,isage> %nd with my kerchief covered my face, +41 B(t /or that I 1as "(r,eye o/ a .ake> $ut because I was provided with a mate, +4! I 1e"te 6(t s.al> an that I (n ertake7 I wept but little, and that I affirm. +4# To +hir+he 1as .yn ho(s6on e 6orn a-.or1e o church was my husband carried in the morning +4' 5ith neighe6ores> that /or hy. .a en sor1eM $y neighbors, who for him made sorrowN +4+ An Cankyn> o(re +lerk> 1as oon o/ tho7 %nd *ankin, our clerk, was one of those. +4As hel" .e )o > 1han that I sa(gh hy. go %s help me 7od, when I saw him go +40 A/ter the 6eere> .e tho(ghte he ha e a "aire %fter the bier, I thought he had a pair +42 O/ legges an o/ /eet so +lene an /aire 1f legs and of feet so neat and fair +44 That al .yn herte I ya/ (nto his hool 7 hat all my heart I gave unto his keeping. -55 0e 1as> I tro1e> t1enty 1ynter ool > He was, I believe, twenty years old, -51 An I 1as /o(rty> i/ I shal seye soothM %nd I was forty, if I shall tell the truthN -5! B(t yet I ha e al1ey a +oltes tooth7 $ut yet I had always a colt)s tooth. -5# )at-tothe I 1as> an that 6i+a. .e

11 3

egree7 How poor he was, nor also of what rank. -!0 5hat shol e I seye 6(t> at the .onthes en e> ,hat should I say but, at the month)s end, -!2 This 8oly +lerk> Cankyn> that 1as so hen e> his jolly clerk, *ankin, that was so courteous, -!4 0ath 1e e .e 1ith greet sole."nytee> Has wedded me with great solemnity, -#5 An to hy. ya/ I al the lon an /ee %nd to him I gave all the land and property -#1 That e,ere 1as .e ye,en ther6i/oore7 hat ever was given to me before then. -#! B(t a/ter1ar re"ente .e /(l sooreM $ut afterward I repented very bitterlyN -## 0e nol e s(//re nothyng o/ .y list7 He would not allow me anything of my desires. -#' By )o > he s.oot .e ones on the lyst> $y 7od, he hit me once on the ear, -#+ For that I rente o(t o/ his 6ook a lee/> $ecause I tore a leaf out of his book, -#That o/ the strook .yn ere 1a- al ee/7 3o that of the stroke my ear became all deaf. -#0 Sti6o(rn I 1as as is a leonesse> I was as stubborn as is a lioness, -#2 An o/ .y tonge a ,erray 8angleresse> %nd of my tongue a true chatterbox, -#4 An 1alke I 1ol e> as I ha oon 6i/orn> %nd I would walk, as I had done before, -'5 Fro. ho(s to ho(s> altho(gh he ha it s1ornM <rom house to house, although he had sworn the contraryN -'1 For 1hi+h he o/ten ty.es 1ol e "re+he> <or which he often times would preach, -'! An .e o/ ol e Ro.ayn geestes te+heM %nd teach me of old .oman storiesN -'# 0o1 he Sy."li+i(s )all(s le/te his 1y/> How he, 3implicius 7allus, left his wife, -'' An hire /orsook /or ter.e o/ al his ly/> %nd forsook her for rest of all his life, -'+ Noght 6(t /or o"en-he,e e he hir say $ecause of nothing but because he saw her bare&headed -'Lookynge o(t at his ore ("on a ay7 =ooking out at his door one day. -'0 Another Ro.ayn tol e he .e 6y na.e> %nother .oman he told me by name, -'2 That> /or his 1y/ 1as at a so.eres ga.e ,ho, because his wife was at a midsummer revel

-'4 eke7 also. -+5 seke -+1 -+! /aste

5itho(ten his 1ityng> he /orsook hire ,ithout his knowledge, he forsook her An thanne 1ol e he ("on his Bi6le

%nd then he would seek in his $ible That ilke "ro,er6e o/ E++lesiaste hat same proverb of 6cclesiasticus 5here he +o.an eth an /or6e eth

,here he commands and strictly forbids that -+# Man shal nat s(//re his 1y/ go ro(le a6o(te7 ?an should suffer his wife go wander about. -+' Thanne 1ol e he seye right th(s> 1itho(ten o(teJ hen would he say right thus, without doubt: -++ N5hoso that 6(yl eth his ho(s al o/ sal1es> k,hoever builds his house all of willow twigs, -+An "riketh his 6lyn e hors o,er the /al1es> %nd spurs his blind horse over the open fields, -+0 An s(//reth his 1y/ to go seken hal1es> %nd suffers his wife to go on pilgrimages, -+2 Is 1orthy to 6een hange on the gal1esO' Is worthy to be hanged on the gallowsK) -+4 B(t al /or noght> I sette noght an ha1e $ut all for nothing, I gave not a hawthorn berry --5 O/ his "ro,er6es n' o/ his ol e sa1e> <or his proverbs nor for his old sayings, --1 Ne I 1ol e nat o/ hy. +orre+te 6e7 ;or would I be corrected by him. --! I hate hy. that .y ,i+es telleth .e> I hate him who tells me my vices, --# An so oo .o> )o 1oot> o/ (s than I7 %nd so do more of us, 7od knows, than I. --' This .a e hy. 1ith .e 1oo al o(trelyM his made him all utterly furious with meN --+ I nol e noght /or6ere hy. in no +as7 I would not put up with him in any way. --No1 1ol I seye yo1 sooth> 6y Seint Tho.as> ;ow will I tell you the truth, by 3aint homas, --0 5hy that I rente o(t o/ his 6ook a lee/> ,hy I tore a leaf out of his book, --2 For 1hi+h he s.oot .e so that I 1as ee/7 <or which he hit me so hard that I was deaf.

11 4

--4 an day, -05 readN -01

0e ha e a 6ook that gla ly> nyght ay> He had a book that regularly, night and For his es"ort he 1ol e re e al1ayM <or his amusement he would always 0e +le"e it :alerie an Theo/raste> He called it Balerie and heofrastus, At 1hi+h 6ook he lo(gh al1ey /(l

-0! /aste7

%t which book he always heartily laughed. -0# An eek ther 1as so.ty.e a +lerk at Ro.e> %nd also there was once a clerk at .ome, -0' A +ar inal> that highte Seint Cero.e> % cardinal, who is called 3aint *erome, -0+ That .a e a 6ook agayn Co,inianM hat made a book against *ovinianN -0In 1hi+h 6ook eek ther 1as Tert(lan> In which book also there was ertullian, -00 *risi""(s> Trot(la> an 0elo1ys> Arisippus, rotula, and Heloise, -02 That 1as a66esse nat /er /ro %arys> ,ho was abbess not far from Daris, -04 An eek the %ara6les o/ Salo.on> %nd also the Darables of 3alomon, -25 O,i es Art> an 6ookes .any on> 1vid)s %rt, and many other books, -21 An alle thise 1ere 6o(n en in o ,ol(.e7 %nd all these were bound in one volume. -2! An e,ery nyght an ay 1as his +(st(.e> %nd every night and day was his custom, -2# 5han he ha e leyser an ,a+a+io(n ,hen he had leisure and spare time -2' Fro. oother 1orl ly o++("a+io(n> <rom other worldly occupations, -2+ To re en on this 6ook o/ 1ikke 1y,es7 o read in this book of wicked wives. -20e kne1 o/ he. .o legen es an ly,es He knew of them more legends and lives -20 Than 6een o/ goo e 1y,es in the Bi6le7 han are of good women in the $ible. -22 For tr(steth 1el> it is an i."ossi6le <or trust well, it is an impossibility -24 That any +lerk 1ol s"eke goo o/ 1y,es> hat any clerk will speak good of women, -45 B(t i/ it 6e o/ hooly seintes ly,es> :nless it be of holy saints) lives, -41 Ne o/ noon oother 1o..an ne,er the .o7 ;or of any other woman in any way. -4! 5ho "eynte e the leon> tel .e 1ho; ,ho painted the lion, tell me whoE -4# By )o > i/ 1o..en ha e 1riten stories> $y 7od, if women had written stories, -4' As +lerkes han 1ithinne hire oratories> %s clerks have within their studies,

-4+ They 1ol e han 1riten o/ .en .oore 1ikke nesse hey would have written of men more wickedness -4Than al the .ark o/ A a. .ay re resse7 han all the male sex could set right. -40 The +hil ren o/ Mer+(rie an o/ :en(s he children of ?ercury 8clerks9 and of Benus 8lovers9 -42 Been in hir 1irkyng /(l +ontrari(sM %re directly contrary in their actionsN -44 Mer+(rie lo,eth 1ys a. an s+ien+e> ?ercury loves wisdom and knowledge, 055 An :en(s lo,eth ryot an is"en+e7 %nd Benus loves riot and extravagant expenditures. 051 An > /or hire i,erse is"osi+io(n> %nd, because of their diverse dispositions, 05! E+h /alleth in otheres e-alta+io(n7 6ach falls in the other)s most powerful astronomical sign. 05# An th(s> )o 1oot> Mer+(rie is esolat %nd thus, 7od knows, ?ercury is powerless 05' In %is+es> 1her :en(s is e-altat> In Disces 8the <ish9, where Benus is exalted, 05+ An :en(s /alleth ther Mer+(rie is reyse 7 %nd Benus falls where ?ercury is raised. 05Ther/ore no 1o..an o/ no +lerk is "reyse 7 herefore no woman is praised by any clerk. 050 The +lerk> 1han he is ool > an .ay noght o he clerk, when he is old, and can not do 052 O/ :en(s 1erkes 1orth his ol e sho> %ny of Benus)s works worth his old shoe, 054 Thanne sit he o(n> an 1rit in his otage hen he sits down, and writes in his dotage 015 That 1o..en kan nat ke"e hir .ariageO hat women can not keep their marriageK 011 01! 01# sire> B(t no1 to "(r"os> 1hy I tol e thee $ut now to the point, why I told thee That I 1as 6eten /or a 6ook> "ar eeO hat I was beaten for a book, by 7odK U"on a nyght Cankyn> that 1as o(re

:pon a night *ankin, that was master of our house, 01' Re e on his 6ook> as he sat 6y the /ire> .ead on his book, as he sat by the fire, 01+ O/ E,a /irst> that /or hir 1ikke nesse 1f 6ve first, how for her wickedness 015as al .ankyn e 6roght to 1re++he nesse> %ll mankind was brought to wretchedness, 010 For 1hi+h that Ches( *rist hy.sel/ 1as slayn>

11 5

<or which *esus Ahrist himself was slain, 012 That 6oghte (s 1ith his herte 6loo agayn7 ,ho bought us back with his heart)s blood. 014 Lo> heere e-"res o/ 1o..an .ay ye /yn e =o, here clearly of woman you may find 0!5 That 1o..an 1as the los o/ al .ankyn e7 hat woman was the cause of the loss of all mankind. 0!1 Tho re e he .e ho1 Sa."son loste his heresJ hen he read me how 3ampson lost his hair: 0!! Sle"ynge> his le..an kitte it 1ith hir sheresM 3leeping, his lover cut it with her shearsN 0!# Th(rgh 1hi+h treson loste he 6othe his yen7 hrough which treason he lost both his eyes. 0!' Tho re e he .e> i/ that I shal nat lyen> hen he read to me, if I shall not lie, 0!+ O/ 0er+(les an o/ his Dianyre> 1f Hercules and of his (ianyre, 0!That +a(se hy. to sette hy.sel/ a/yre7 ,ho caused him to set himself on fire. 0!0 1o woe 0!2 t1o> No thyng /orgat he the +are an the

0## O/ %hasi"ha> that 1as the '(eene o/ *rete> 1f Dhasipha, that was the "ueen of Arete, 0#' For shre1e nesse> hy. tho(ghte the tale s1eteM <or sheer malignancy, he thought the tale sweetN 0#+ FyO S"ek na.oore -- it is a grisly thyng -<ieK 3peak no more && it is a grisly thing && 0#O/ hire horri6le l(st an hir likyng7 1f her horrible lust and her pleasure. 0#0 0#2 to ye> 0#4 O/ *liter.ystra> /or hire le+herye> 1f Alitermystra, for her lechery, That /alsly .a e hire ho(s6on e /or hat falsely made her husband to die, 0e re e it 1ith /(l goo e,o+io(n7 He read it with very good devotion.

0'5

He forgot not a bit of the care and the That So+rates ha e 1ith his 1y,es

0e tol e .e eek /or 1hat o++asio(n He told me also for what occasion 0'1 A."hiora- at The6es loste his ly/7 %mphiorax at hebes lost his life. 0'! Myn ho(s6on e ha e a legen e o/ his 1y/> ?y husband had a legend of his wife, 0'# Eri"hile.> that /or an o(+he o/ gol 6riphilem, that for a brooch of gold 0'' 0ath "ri,ely (nto the )rekes tol Has secretly unto the 7reeks told 0'+ 5her that hir ho(s6on e hi e hy. in a "la+e> ,here her husband hid him in a place, 0'For 1hi+h he ha e at The6es sory gra+e7 <or which he had at hebes a sad fate. 0'0 0'2 to ye> 0'4 hate7 hate. 0+5 0+1 his /oM 0+! so O/ Ly,ia tol e he .e> an o/ L(+yeJ 1f =ivia told he me, and of =ucie: They 6othe .a e hir ho(s6on es /or hey both made their husbands to die, That oon /or lo,e> that oother 1as /or hat one for love, that other was for Ly,ia hir ho(s6on e> on an e,en late> =ivia her husband, on a late evening, E."oysone hath> /or that she 1as Has poisoned, because she was his foeN L(+ia> likero(s> lo,e hire ho(s6on e

hat 3ocrates had with his two wives, 0!4 0o1 ?anti""a +aste "isse ("on his hee 7 How Uantippa caste piss upon his head. 0#5 This sely .an sat stille as he 1ere ee M his poor man sat still as if he were deadN 0#1 0e 1i"e his hee > na.oore orste he seyn> He wiped his head, no more dared he say, 0#! B(t NEr that thon er stynte> +o.th a reynO' $ut k$efore thunder stops, there comes a rainK)

=ucia, lecherous, loved her husband so much 0+# That> /or he shol e al1ey ("on hire thynke> hat, so that he should always think upon her, 0+' She ya/ hy. s1i+h a .anere lo,erynke 3he gave him such a sort of love&drink 0++ That he 1as ee er it 1ere 6y the .or1eM hat he was dead before it was morningN

11 6

0+An th(s algates ho(s6on es han sor1e7 %nd thus always husbands have sorrow. 0+0 Thanne tol e he .e ho1 oon Lat(.y(s hen he told me how one =atumius 0+2 *o."leyne (nto his /ela1e Arri(s Aomplained unto his fellow %rrius 0+4 That in his gar yn gro1e s1i+h a tree hat in his garden grew such a tree 0-5 On 1hi+h he sey e ho1 that his 1y,es thre 1n which he said how his three wives 0-1 0ange he.sel/ /or herte es"it(s7 Hanged themselves for the malice of their hearts 0-! NO lee,e 6rother>' '(o this Arri(s> k1 dear brother,) this %rrius said, 0-# NYi/ .e a "lante o/ thilke 6lisse tree> k7ive me a shoot of that same blessed tree, 0-' An in .y gar yn "lante shal it 6ee7' %nd in my garden shall it be planted.) 0-+ O/ latter ate> o/ 1y,es hath he re 1f latter date, of wives has he read 0-That so..e han slayn hir ho(s6on es in hir 6e > hat some have slain their husbands in their bed, 0-0 An lete hir le++ho(r ighte hire al the nyght> %nd let her lecher copulate with her all the night, 0-2 5han that the +or"s lay in the /loor ("right7 ,hen the corpse lay in the floor flat on its back. 0-4 An so..e han ry,e nayles in hir 6rayn> %nd some have driven nails in their brains, 005 5hil that they sle"te> an th(s they ha he. slayn7 ,hile they slept, and thus they had them slain. 001 So..e han he. ye,e "oyso(n in hire rynke7 3ome have given them poison in their drink. 00! 0e s"ak .oore har. than herte .ay 6ithynke> He spoke more harm than heart may imagine, 00# An ther1ithal he kne1 o/ .o "ro,er6es %nd concerning this he knew of more proverbs 00' Than in this 1orl ther gro1en gras or her6es7 han in this world there grow grass or herbs. 00+ NBet is>' '(o he> Nthyn ha6ita+io(n k$etter is,) he said, kthy habitation 00Be 1ith a leon or a /o(l rago(n> $e with a lion or a foul dragon, 000 Than 1ith a 1o..an (synge /or to +hy e7

han with a woman accustomed to scold. 002 Bet is>' '(o he> Nhye in the roo/ a6y e> $etter is,) he said, kto stay high in the roof, 004 Than 1ith an angry 1y/ o(n in the ho(sM han with an angry wife down in the houseN 025 They 6een so 1ikke an +ontrario(s> hey are so wicked and contrary, 021 They haten that hir ho(s6on es lo,en ay7' hey always hate what their husbands love.) 02! 0e sey e> NA 1o..an +ast hir sha.e a1ay> He said, k% woman casts their shame away, 02# 5han she +ast o/ hir s.ok'M an /orther.o> ,hen she casts off her undergarment)N and furthermore, 02' NA /air 1o..an> 6(t she 6e +haast also> k% fair woman, unless she is also chaste, 02+ Is lyk a gol ryng in a so1es nose7' Is like a gold ring in a sow)s nose.) 025ho 1ol e 1ene> or 1ho 1ol e s(""ose> ,ho would believe, or who would suppose, 020 The 1o that in .yn herte 1as> an "yne; he woe that in my heart was, and painE 022 /yne An 1han I sa(gh he 1ol e ne,ere

%nd when I saw he would never cease 024 To re en on this +(rse 6ook al nyght> .eading on this cursed book all night, 045 Al so eynly thre le,es ha,e I "lyght %ll suddenly have I plucked three leaves 041 O(t o/ his 6ook> right as he ra e> an eke 1ut of his book, right as he read, and also 04! I 1ith .y /est so took hy. on the +heke I with my fist so hit him on the cheek 04# That in o(re /yr he /il 6ak1ar a o(n7 hat in our fire he fell down backwards. 04' An he (" stirte as ooth a 1oo leo(n> %nd he leaped up as does a furious lion, 04+ An 1ith his /est he s.oot .e on the hee %nd with his fist he hit me on the head 04That in the /loor I lay as I 1ere ee 7 hat on the floor I lay as if I were dead. 040 An 1han he sa(gh ho1 stille that I lay> %nd when he saw how still I lay, 042 0e 1as agast an 1ol e han /le his 1ay> He was frightened and would have fled on his way, 044 Til atte laste o(t o/ .y s1ogh I

11 7

6rey e7 :ntil at the last out of my swoon I awoke. 255 NOO hasto1 slayn .e> /alse thee/;' I sey e> k1K hast thou slain me, false thiefE) I said, 251 NAn /or .y lan th(s hasto1 .or re .e; k%nd for my land thus hast thou murdered meE 25! Er I 6e ee > yet 1ol I kisse thee7' $efore I am dead, yet will I kiss thee.) 25# An neer he +a.> an knele /aire a o(n> %nd near he came, and kneeled gently down, 25' An sey e> NDeere s(ster Aliso(n> %nd said, k(ear sister %lisoun, 25+ As hel" .e )o > I shal thee ne,ere s.yteO 3o help me 7od, I shall never 8again9 smite theeK 25That I ha,e oon> it is thysel/ to 1yte7 ,hat I have done, it is thyself to blame 8you drove me to it9. 250 Forye,e it .e> an that I thee 6isekeO' <orgive it me, and that I beseech theeK) 252 An yet e/tsoones I hitte hy. on the +heke> %nd yet immediately I hit him on the cheek, 254 An sey e> NThee/> th(s .(+hel a. I 1rekeM %nd said, k hief, thus much am I avengedN 215 No1 1ol I ye> I .ay no lenger s"eke7' ;ow will I die, I may no longer speak.) 211 B(t atte laste> 1ith .(+hel +are an 1o> $ut at the last, with much care and woe, 21! 5e /ille a+or e 6y (s sel,en t1o7 ,e made an agreement between our two selves. 21# 0e ya/ .e al the 6ri el in .yn hon > He gave me all the control in my hand, 21' To han the go,ernan+e o/ ho(s an lon > o have the governance of house and land, 21+ An o/ his tonge> an o/ his hon alsoM %nd of his tongue, and of his hand alsoN 21An .a e hy. 6renne his 6ook anon right tho7 %nd made him burn his book immediately right then. 210 An 1han that I ha e geten (nto .e> %nd when I had gotten unto me, 212 By .aistrie> al the so,eraynetee> $y mastery, all the sovereignty, 214 An that he sey e> NMyn o1ene tre1e 1y/> %nd that he said, k?y own true wife, 2!5 Do as thee l(st the ter.e o/ al thy ly/M

(o as you please the rest of all thy lifeN 2!1 @ee" thyn hono(r> an kee" eek .yn estaat' -7uard thy honor, and guard also my reputation) && 2!! A/ter that ay 1e ha en ne,er e6aat7 %fter that day we never had an argument. 2!# )o hel"e .e so> I 1as to hy. as kyn e %s 7od may help me, I was to him as kind 2!' As any 1y/ /ro. Den.ark (nto Yn e> %s any wife from (enmark unto India, 2!+ An also tre1e> an so 1as he to .e7 %nd also true, and so was he to me. 2!I "rey to )o > that sit in .agestee> I pray to 7od, who sits in majesty, 2!0 So 6lesse his so(le /or his .er+y eere7 3o bless his soul for his mercy dear. 2!2 No1 1ol I seye .y tale> i/ ye 1ol heere7K ;ow will I say my tale, if you will hear.O ?eholde the wordes bitwene the &omonour and the 3rere 2!4 The Frere lo(gh> 1han he ha e her al thisM he <riar laughed, when he had heard all thisN 2#5 KNo1 a.e>K '(o he> Kso ha,e I 8oye or 6lis> O;ow dame,O he said, Oas I may have joy or bliss, 2#1 This is a long "rea.6le o/ a taleOK his is a long preamble of a taleKO 2#! An 1han the So.ono(r her e the Frere gale> %nd when the 3ummoner heard the <riar cry out, 2## KLo>K '(o the So.ono(r> K)o es ar.es t1oO O=o,O said the 3ummoner, O$y 7od)s two armsK 2#' A /rere 1ol entre.ette hy. e,ere.o7 % friar will always intrude himself 8in others) affairs9. 2#+ Lo> goo e .en> a /lye an eek a /rere =o, good men, a fly and also a friar 2#5ol /alle in e,ery yssh an eek .ateere7 ,ill fall in every dish and also every discussion. 2#0 5hat s"ekesto1 o/ "rea.6(la+io(n; ,hat speakest thou of perambulationE 2#2 5hatO a.6le> or trotte> or "ees> or go sit o(nO ,hatK amble, or trot, or keep still, or go sit downK 2#4 Tho( lettest o(re is"ort in this .anere7K hou spoil our fun in this manner.O 2'5 '(o KYe> 1olto1 so> sire So.ono(r;K the FrereM OYes, wilt thou have it thus, sir

11 8

3ummonerEO said the <riarN 2'1 KNo1> 6y .y /eith I shal> er that I go> O;ow, by my faith I shall, before I go, 2'! Telle o/ a so.ono(r s1i+h a tale or t1o ell of a summoner such a tale or two 2'# That alle the /olk shal la(ghen in this "la+e7K hat all the folk shall laugh in this place.O 2'' /a+e>K KNo1 elles> Frere> I 6ishre1e thy

O;ow otherwise, <riar, I curse thy face,O 2'+ 3(o this So.ono(r> Kan I 6ishre1e .e> 3aid this 3ummoner, Oand I curse myself, 2'B(t i/ I telle tales t1o or thre :nless I tell tales two or three 2'0 O/ /reres er I +o.e to Si yng6orne 1f friars before I come to 3iitingbourne 2'2 That I shal .ake thyn herte /or to .orne> hat I shall make thy heart to mourn, 2'4 For 1el I 1oot thy "a+ien+e is gon7K <or well I know thy patience is gone.O 2+5 anonOK O(re 0ooste +ri e K%eesO An that

1ur Host cried ODeaceK %nd that right nowKO 2+1 An sey e> KLat the 1o..an telle hire tale7 %nd said, O=et the woman tell her tale. 2+! Ye /are as /olk that ronken 6en o/ ale7 You act like folk that are drunk on ale. 2+# Do> a.e> telle /orth yo(re tale> an that is 6est7K (o, dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.O 2+' KAl re y> sire>K '(o she> Kright as yo1 lest> O%ll ready, sir,O she said, Oright as you please, 2++ I/ I ha,e li+en+e o/ this 1orthy Frere7K If I have permission of this worthy <riar.O 2+KYis> a.e>K '(o he> Ktel /orth> an I 1ol heere7K OYes, dame,O he said, Otell forth, and I will hear.O ;eere endeth the 'yf of ?athe hir )rologe The 5i/e o/ Bath's Tale ;eere bigynneth the Tale of the 'yf of ?athe 2+0 In th' ol e ayes o/ the @yng Artho(r> In the old days of /ing %rthur, 2+2 O/ 1hi+h that Britons s"eken greet hono(r>

1f whom $ritons speak great honor, Al 1as this lan /(l/il o/ /ayerye7 his land was all filled full of supernatural creatures. 2-5 The el/-'(eene> 1ith hir 8oly +o."aignye> he elf&"ueen, with her jolly company, 2-1 Da(n+e /(l o/te in .any a grene .e e7 (anced very often in many a green mead. 2-! This 1as the ol e o"inion> as I re eM his was the old belief, as I readN 2-# I s"eke o/ .anye h(n re yeres ago7 I speak of many hundred years ago. 2-' B(t no1 kan no .an se none el,es .o> $ut now no man can see any more elves, 2-+ For no1 the grete +haritee an "rayeres <or now the great charity and prayers 2-O/ ly.yto(rs an othere hooly /reres> 1f licensed beggars and other holy friars, 2-0 That ser+hen e,ery lon an e,ery stree.> hat overrun every land and every stream, 2-2 As thikke as .otes in the sonne6ee.> %s thick as specks of dust in the sun& beam, 2-4 Blessynge halles> +ha.6res> ki+henes> 6o(res> $lessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bedrooms, 205 *itees> 6(rghes> +astels> hye to(res> Aities, towns, castles, high towers, 201 Thro"es> 6ernes> shi"nes> ayeryes -Billages, barns, stables, dairies && 20! This .aketh that ther 6en no /ayeryes7 his makes it that there are no fairies. 20# For ther as 1ont to 1alken 1as an el/ <or where an elf was accustomed to walk 20' Ther 1alketh no1 the ly.yto(r hy.sel/ here walks now the licensed begging friar himself 20+ In (n er.eles an in .or1enynges> In late mornings and in early mornings, 20An seyth his .atyns an his hooly thynges %nd says his morning prayers and his holy things 200 As he gooth in his ly.yta+io(n7 %s he goes in his assigned district. 202 5o..en .ay go sa(/ly (" an o(n7 ,omen may go safely up and down. 204 In e,ery 6(ssh or (n er e,ery tree In every bush or under every tree 225 Ther is noon oother in+(6(s 6(t he> here is no other evil spirit but he, 2+4

11 9

221 An he ne 1ol oon he. 6(t ishono(r7 %nd he will not do them any harm except dishonor. 22! %rthur 22# 22' An so 6i/el that this kyng Artho(r %nd so it happened that this king 0a e in his ho(s a l(sty 6a+heler> Had in his house a lusty bachelor, That on a ay +a. ri ynge /ro ry,er> hat on one day came riding from

%nd after this she spoke thus to the knight, 451 a ayJ 5han that she sa(gh hir ty.e> ("on

hawking, 22+ An ha""e that> allone as he 1as 6orn> %nd it happened that, alone as he was born, 220e sa(gh a .ay e 1alkynge hy. 6i/orn> He saw a maiden walking before him, 220 O/ 1hi+h .ay e anon> .a(gree hir hee > 1f which maiden straightway, despite all she could do, 222 By ,erray /or+e> he ra/te hire .ay enhe M $y utter force, he took away her maidenheadN 224 For 1hi+h o""ressio(n 1as s1i+h +la.o(r <or which wrong was such clamor 245 An s1i+h "(rs(te (nto the kyng Artho(r %nd such demand for justice unto king %rthur 241 That a."ne 1as this knyght /or to 6e ee > hat this knight was condemned to be dead, 24! By +o(rs o/ la1e> an shol e han lost his hee -$y course of law, and should have lost his head && 24# %ara,ent(re s1i+h 1as the stat(t tho -Derhaps such was the statute then && 24' B(t that the '(eene an other la yes .o 6xcept that the "ueen and other ladies as well 24+ So longe "reye en the kyng o/ gra+e 3o long prayed the king for grace 24Til he his ly/ hy. gra(nte in the "la+e> :ntil he granted him his life right there, 240 An ya/ hy. to the '(eene> al at hir 1ille> %nd gave him to the "ueen, all at her will, 242 To +hese 1heither she 1ol e hy. sa,e or s"ille7 o choose whether she would him save or put to death. 244 The '(eene thanketh the kyng 1ith al hir .yght> he "ueen thanks the king with all her might, 455 An a/ter this th(s s"ak she to the knyght>

,hen she saw her time, upon a day: 45! KTho( stan est yet>K '(o she> Kin s1i+h array O hou standest yet,O she said, Oin such condition, 45# That o/ thy ly/ yet hasto1 no s(retee7 hat of thy life yet thou hast no assurance 45' I grante thee ly/> i/ tho( kanst tellen .e I grant thee life, if thou canst tell me 45+ 5hat thyng is it that 1o..en .oost esiren7 ,hat thing it is that women most desire. 45Be 1ar> an kee" thy nekke-6oon /ro. irenO $eware, and keep thy neck&bone from iron 8axe9K 450 An i/ tho( kanst nat tellen it anon> %nd if thou canst not tell it right now, 452 Yet 1ol I ye,e thee le,e /or to gon Yet I will give thee leave to go 454 A t1el/-.onth an a ay> to se+he an leere % twelvemonth and a day, to seek to learn 415 An ans1ere s(//isant in this .ateereM % satisfactory answer in this matterN 411 An s(retee 1ol I han> er that tho( "a+e> %nd I will have, before thou go, a pledge 41! Thy 6o y /or to yel en in this "la+e7K o surrender thy body in this place.O 41# 5o 1as this knyght> an sor1e/(lly he sikethM ,oe was this knight, and sorrowfully he sighsN 41' B(t 1hatO 0e .ay nat o al as hy. liketh7 $ut whatK He can not do all as he pleases. 41+ An at the laste he +hees hy. /or to 1en e %nd at the last he chose to leave 41An +o.e agayn> right at the yeres en e> %nd come again, exactly at the year)s end, 410 5ith s1i+h ans1ere as )o 1ol e hy. "(r,eyeM ,ith such answer as 7od would provide himN 412 An taketh his le,e> an 1en eth /orth his 1eye7 %nd takes his leave, and goes forth on his way. 414 "la+e 4!5 0e seketh e,ery ho(s an e,ery

He seeks every house and every place 5here as he ho"eth /or to /yn e

12 0

gra+e 4!1 .oost> 4!! 4!# .ateere 4!' ,here he hopes to have the luck To lerne 1hat thyng 1o..en lo,en o learn what thing women love most, B(t he ne ko( e arry,en in no +oost $ut he could not arrive in any region 5her as he .yghte /yn e in this

,here he might find in this matter T1o +reat(res a++or ynge in-/eere7 wo creatures agreeing together. 4!+ So..e sey e 1o..en lo,en 6est ri+hesse> 3ome said women love riches best, 4!So..e sey e hono(r> so..e sey e 8olynesse> 3ome said honor, some said gaiety, 4!0 So..e ri+he array> so..e sey en l(st a6e e> 3ome rich clothing, some said lust in bed, 4!2 An o/tety.e to 6e 1y 1e an 1e e7 %nd fre"uently to be widow and wedded. 4!4 So..e sey e that o(re hertes 6een .oost ese 3ome said that our hearts are most eased 4#5 5han that 1e 6een y/latere an y"lese 7 ,hen we are flattered and pleased. 4#1 0e gooth /(l ny the sothe> I 1ol nat lye7 He goes very near the truth, I will not lie. 4#! A .an shal 1ynne (s 6est 1ith /laterye> % man shall win us best with flattery, 4## An 1ith atten an+e an 1ith 6isynesse %nd with attentions and with solicitude 4#' Been 1e yly.e > 6othe .oore an lesse7 ,e are caught, every one of us. 4#+ 6est 4#lest> 4#0 ,i+e> An so..e seyen that 1e lo,en

tells us the truth. 4'! Assay> an he shal /yn e it that so oothM ry it, and whoever so does shall find it trueN 4'# For> 6e 1e ne,er so ,i+io(s 1ithinne> <or, be we never so vicious within, 4'' 5e 1ol 6een hol en 1ise an +lene o/ synne7 ,e want to be considered wise and clean of sin. 4'+ An so..e seyn that greet elit han 1e %nd some say that we have great delight 4'For to 6een hol en sta6le> an eek se+ree> o be considered steadfast, and also 8able to keep a9 secret, 4'0 An in o "(r"os ste e/astly to 1elle> %nd in one purpose steadfastly to remain, 4'2 An nat 6i1reye thyng that .en (s telle7 %nd not reveal things that men tell us. 4'4 B(t that tale is nat 1orth a rakestele7 $ut that tale is not worth a rake handle. 4+5 %ar ee> 1e 1o..en konne no thyng heleM $y 7od, we women can hide nothingN 4+1 5itnesse on My a -- 1ol ye heere the tale; ,itness on ?idas && will you hear the taleE 4+! s.ale> 4+# heres> 4+' eres> O,y e> a.onges othere thynges 1vid, among other small matters, Sey e My a ha e> (n er his longe 3aid ?idas had, under his long hair, )ro1ynge ("on his hee t1o asses

%nd some say that we love best For to 6e /ree an o right as (s An o be free and do just as we please, that no .an re"re,e (s o/ o(re

%nd that no man reprove us for our vices, 4#2 B(t seye that 1e 6e 1ise an no thyng ny+e7 $ut say that we are wise and not at all silly. 4#4 For tre1ely ther is noon o/ (s alle> <or truly there is not one of us all, 4'5 I/ any 1ight 1ol +la1e (s on the galle> If any one will scratch us on the sore spot, 4'1 That 1e nel kike> /or he seith (s sooth7 hat we will not kick back, because he

wo ass)s ears, growing upon his head, 4++ The 1hi+he ,i+e he hy e as he 6est .yghte he which vice he hid as he best could 4+F(l s(6tilly /ro. e,ery .annes sighte> Bery skillfully from every man)s sight, 4+0 That> sa,e his 1y/> ther 1iste o/ it na.o7 hat, except for his wife, there knew of it no others. 4+2 0e lo,e hire .oost> an tr(ste hire alsoM He loved her most, and trusted her alsoN 4+4 0e "reye e hire that to no +reat(re He prayed her that to no creature 4-5 She shol e tellen o/ his is/ig(re7 3he should tell of his disfigurement.

12 1

4-1 1orl to win, 4-! 4-# na.e7

She s1oor hi.> KNayKM /or al this to 1ynne> 3he swore him, O;ayON for all this world She nol e o that ,ileynye or synne> 3he would not do that dishonor or sin, To .ake hir ho(s6on e han so /o(l a o make her husband have so foul a

Yet out it must comeN we can hide no secret. 421 heere> 42! leere7 The re.enant o/ the tale i/ ye 1ol he remnant of the tale if you will hear, Re eth O,y e> an ther ye .ay it .ead 1vid, and there you may learn it. 42# This knyght> o/ 1hi+h .y tale is s"e+ially> his knight, of whom my tale is in particular, 42' 5han that he sa(gh he .yghte nat +o.e ther6y -,hen he saw he might not come to that && 42+ This is to seye> 1hat 1o..en lo,e .oost -his is to say, what women love most && 425ithinne his 6rest /(l sor1e/(l 1as the goost7 ,ithin his breast very sorrowful was the spirit. 420 B(t hoo. he goothM he .yghte nat so8o(rneM $ut home he goesN he could not lingerN 422 The ay 1as +o.e that ho.1ar .oste he to(rne7 he day was come that homeward he must turn. 424 An in his 1ey it ha""e hy. to ry e> %nd in his way he happened to ride, 445 In al this +are> (n er a /orest sy e> In all this care, near a forest side, 441 5her as he sa(gh ("on a a(n+e go ,here he saw upon a dance go 44! O/ la yes /o(re an t1enty> an yet .oM =adies four and twenty, and yet moreN 44# To1ar the 1hi+he a(n+e he ro1 /(l yerne> oward the which dance he drew very eagerly, 44' In ho"e that so. 1ys o. shol e he lerne7 In hope that he should learn some wisdom. 44+ B(t +erteinly> er he +a. /(lly there> $ut certainly, before he came fully there, 44:anysshe 1as this a(n+e> he nyste 1here7 Banished was this dance, he knew not where. 440 No +reat(re sa(gh he that 6ar ly/> He saw no creature that bore life, 442 Sa,e on the grene he sa(gh sittynge a 1y/ -3ave on the green he saw sitting a woman && 444 A /o(ler 1ight ther .ay no .an e,yse7 here can no man imagine an uglier creature. 1555 Agayn the knyght this ol e 1y/ gan ryse> %t the knight)s coming this old wife did rise,

reputation. 4-' She nol e nat telle it /or hir o1ene sha.e7 3he would not tell it for her own shame. 4-+ B(t nathelees> hir tho(ghte that she y e $ut nonetheless, she thought that she would die 4-That she so longe shol e a +onseil hy eM If she should hide a secret so longN 4-0 0ir tho(ghte it s1al so soore a6o(te hir herte 3he thought it swelled so sore about her heart 4-2 That ne ely so. 1or hire .oste asterteM hat necessarily some word must escape herN 4-4 An sith she orste telle it to no .an> %nd since she dared tell it to no man, 405 Do(n to a .areys /aste 6y she ran -3he ran down to a marsh close by && 401 Til she +a. there hir herte 1as a/yre -:ntil she came there her heart was afire && 40! An as a 6itore 6o.6leth in the .yre> %nd as a bittern bumbles in the mire, 40# She ley e hir .o(th (nto the 1ater o(nJ 3he laid her mouth down unto the water: 40' KBi1reye .e nat> tho( 1ater> 1ith thy so(n>K O$etray me not, thou water, with thy sound,O 40+ 3(o sheM Kto thee I telle it an na.oM 3he saidN Oto thee I tell it and no othersN 40Myn ho(s6on e hath longe asses erys t1oO ?y husband has two long asses earsK 400 No1 is .yn herte al hoolM no1 is it o(te7 ;ow is my heart all wholeN now is it out. 402 I .yghte no lenger ke"e it> o(t o/ o(te7K I could no longer keep it, without doubt.O 404 0eere .ay ye se> thogh 1e a ty.e a6y e> Here you may see, though we a time abide, 425 Yet o(t it .ootM 1e kan no +onseil hy e7

12 2

1551 An sey e> KSire knyght> heer /orth ne lith no 1ey7 %nd said, O3ir knight, there lies no road out of here. 155! Tel .e 1hat that ye seken> 6y yo(re /eyO ell me what you seek, by your faithK 155# %ara,ent(re it .ay the 6ettre 6eM Derhaps it may be the betterN 155' Thise ol e /olk kan .(+hel thyng>K '(o she7 hese old folk know many things,O she said. 155+ KMy lee,e .oo er>K '(o this knyght> K+erteyn O?y dear mother,O said this knight, Ocertainly 155I na. 6(t ee 6(t i/ that I kan seyn I am as good as dead unless I can say 1550 5hat thyng it is that 1o..en .oost esire7 ,hat thing it is that women most desire. 1552 @o( e ye .e 1isse> I 1ol e 1el '(ite yo(re hire7K If you could teach me, I would well repay you.O 1554 K%light .e thy tro(the heere in .yn han >K '(o she> ODledge me thy word here in my hand,O she said, 1515 KThe ne-te thyng that I re'(ere thee> O he next thing that I re"uire of thee, 1511 Tho( shalt it o> i/ it lye in thy .yght> hou shalt do it, if it lies in thy power, 151! An I 1ol telle it yo1 er it 6e nyght7K %nd I will tell it to you before it is night.O 151# K0a,e heer .y tro(the>K '(o the knyght> KI grante7K OHave here my pledged word,O said the knight, OI agree.O 151' KThanne>K '(o she> KI ar .e 1el a,ante O hen,O she said, OI dare me well boast 151+ Thy ly/ is sa(/> /or I 1ol ston e ther6yM hy life is safe, for I will stand therebyN 151U"on .y ly/> the '(eene 1ol seye as I7 :pon my life, the "ueen will say as I. 1510 Lat se 1hi+h is the "ro( este o/ he. alle =et)s see which is the proudest of them all 1512 That 1ereth on a +o,er+hie/ or a +alle hat wears a kerchief or a hairnet 1514 That ar seye nay o/ that I shal thee te+he7 hat dares say knay) of what I shall teach thee. 15!5 Lat (s go /orth 1itho(ten lenger s"e+he7K

15!1 ear, 15!! /ere7

=et us go forth without longer speech.O Tho ro1ne she a "istel in his ere> hen she whispered a message in his An 6a hy. to 6e gla an ha,e no

%nd commanded him to be glad and have no fear. 15!# 5han they 6e +o.en to the +o(rt> this knyght ,hen they are come to the court, this knight 15!' Sey e he ha hol e his ay> as he ha e hight> 3aid he had held his day, as he had promised, 15!+ An re y 1as his ans1ere> as he say e7 %nd his answer was ready, as he said. 15!F(l .any a no6le 1y/> an .any a .ay e> Bery many a noble wife, and many a maid, 15!0 An .any a 1y 1e> /or that they 6een 1ise> %nd many a widow, because they are wise, 15!2 The '(eene hirsel/ sittynge as a 8(stise> he "ueen herself sitting as a justice, 15!4 Asse.6le 6een> his ans1ere /or to heereM %re assembled, to hear his answerN 15#5 An a/ter1ar this knyght 1as 6o e a""eere7 %nd afterward this knight was commanded to appear. 15#1 To e,ery 1ight +o.an e 1as silen+e> 3ilence was commanded to every person, 15#! An that the knyght shol e telle in a( ien+e %nd that the knight should tell in open court 15## 5hat thyng that 1orl ly 1o..en lo,en 6est7 ,hat thing 8it is9 that worldly women love best. 15#' This knyght ne stoo nat stille as oth a 6est> his knight stood not silent as does a beast, 15#+ B(t to his '(estio(n anon ans1er e $ut to his "uestion straightway answered 15#5ith .anly ,oys> that al the +o(rt it her eJ ,ith manly voice, so that all the court heard it: 15#0 KMy lige la y> generally>K '(o he> O?y liege lady, without exception,O he

said, 15#2 K5o..en esiren to ha,e so,ereynetee O,omen desire to have sovereignty 15#4 As 1el o,er hir ho(s6on as hir lo,e> %s well over her husband as her love,

12 3

15'5 An /or to 6een in .aistrie hy. a6o,e7 %nd to be in mastery above him. 15'1 This is yo(re .ooste esir> thogh ye .e kille7 his is your greatest desire, though you kill me. 15'! Dooth as yo1 listM I a. heer at yo(re 1ille7K (o as you pleaseN I am here subject to your will.O 15'# In al the +o(rt ne 1as ther 1y/> ne .ay e> In all the court there was not wife, nor maid, 15'' Ne 1y 1e that +ontrarie that he say e> ;or widow that denied what he said, 15'+ B(t sey en he 1as 1orthy han his ly/7 $ut said that he was worthy to have his life. 15'An 1ith that 1or (" stirte the ol e 1y/> %nd with that word up sprang the old woman, 15'0 5hi+h that the knyght sa(gh sittynge on the greneJ ,hom the knight saw sitting on the green: 15'2 KMer+y>K '(o she> K.y so,ereyn la y '(eeneO O?ercy,O she said, Omy sovereign lady "ueenK 15'4 Er that yo(re +o(rt e"arte> o .e right7 $efore your court departs, do me justice. 15+5 I ta(ghte this ans1ere (nto the knyghtM I taught this answer to the knightN 15+1 For 1hi+h he "lighte .e his tro(the there> <or which he pledged me his word there, 15+! The /irste thyng that I 1ol e hy. re'(ere he first thing that I would ask of him 15+# 0e 1ol e it o> i/ it lay in his .yghte7 He would do, if it lay in his power. 15+' Bi/ore the +o(rt thanne "reye I thee> sir knyght>K $efore the court then I pray thee, sir knight,O 15++ 3(o she> Kthat tho( .e take (nto thy 1y/> 3aid she, Othat thou take me as thy wife, 15+For 1el tho( 1oost that I ha,e ke"t thy ly/7 <or well thou know that I have saved thy life. 15+0 I/ I seye /als> sey nay> ("on thy /eyOK If I say false, say knay), upon thy faithKO 15+2 This knyght ans1er e> KAllas an 1eyla1eyO his knight answered, O%las and woe is meK

15+4 I 1oot right 1el that s1i+h 1as .y 6iheste7 I know right well that such was my promise. 15-5 For )o es lo,e> as +hees a ne1e re'(esteO <or 7od)s love, choose a new re"uestK 15-1 Taak al .y goo an lat .y 6o y go7K ake all my goods and let my body go.O 15-! KNay> thanne>K '(o she> KI shre1e (s 6othe t1oO O;ay, then,O she said, OI curse both of us twoK 15-# For thogh that I 6e /o(l> an ool > an "oore <or though I am ugly, and old, and poor 15-' I nol e /or al the .etal> ne /or oore I would not for all the metal, nor for ore 15-+ That (n er erthe is gra,e or lith a6o,e> hat under earth is buried or lies above, 15-B(t i/ thy 1y/ I 1ere> an eek thy lo,e7K Have anything except that I were thy wife, and also thy love.O 15-0 KMy lo,e;K '(o he> Knay> .y a."na+io(nO O?y loveEO he said, Onay, my damnationK 15-2 Allas> that any o/ .y na+io(n %las, that any of my family 15-4 Shol e e,ere so /o(le is"arage 6eOK 3hould ever be so foully degradedKO 1505 B(t al /or noghtM the en e is this> that he $ut all for naughtN the end is this, that he 1501 *onstreyne 1asM he ne es .oste hire 1e e> Aonstrained wasN he must by necessity wed her, 150! An taketh his ol e 1y/> an gooth to 6e e7 %nd takes his old wife, and goes to bed. 150# No1 1ol en so. .en seye> "ara,ent(re> ;ow would some men say, perhaps, 150' That /or .y ne+ligen+e I o no +(re hat because of my negligence I make no effort 150+ To tellen yo1 the 8oye an al th' array o tell you the joy and all the rich display 150That at the /eeste 1as that ilke ay7 hat was at the 8wedding9 feast that same day. 1500 To 1hi+h thyng shortly ans1eren I shalJ o which thing shortly I shall answer: 1502 I seye ther nas no 8oye ne /eeste at alM

12 4

1504 sor1e7

I say there was no joy nor feast at allN Ther nas 6(t he,ynesse an .(+he

1544 1155 1151 kyn e>

here was nothing but heaviness and much sorrow. 1525 For "ri,ely he 1e e hire on .or1e> <or he wedded her in private in the morning, 1521 An al ay a/ter hi e hy. as an o1le> %nd all day after hid himself like an owl, 152! So 1o 1as hy.> his 1y/ looke so /o(le7 3o woeful was he, his wife looked so ugly. 152# )reet 1as the 1o the knyght ha e in his thoght> 7reat was the woe the knight had in his thought, 152' 5han he 1as 1ith his 1y/ a6e e y6roghtM ,hen he was brought to bed with his wifeN 152+ 0e 1al1eth an he t(rneth to an /ro7 He wallows and he turns to and fro. 1520is ol e 1y/ lay s.ylynge e,ere.o> His old wife lay smiling evermore, 1520 An sey e> KO eere ho(s6on e> 6ene i+iteeO %nd said, O1 dear husband, bless meK 1522 Fareth e,ery knyght th(s 1ith his 1y/ as ye; (oes every knight behave thus with his wife as you doE 1524 Is this the la1e o/ kyng Arth(res ho(s; Is this the law of king %rthur)s houseE 1545 Is e,ery knyght o/ his so angero(s; Is every knight of his so aloofE 1541 I a. yo(re o1ene lo,e an yo(re 1y/M I am your own love and your wifeN 154! I a. she 1hi+h that sa,e hath yo(re ly/> I am she who has saved your life, 154# An > +ertes> yet ne i e I yo1 ne,ere (nrightM %nd, certainly, I did you never wrong yetN 154' 5hy /are ye th(s 1ith .e this /irste nyght; ,hy behave you thus with me this first nightE 154+ Ye /aren lyk a .an ha lost his 1it7 You act like a man who had lost his wit. 1545hat is .y gilt; For )o es lo,e> tel it> ,hat is my offenseE <or 7od)s love, tell it, 1540 An it shal 6een a.en e > i/ I .ay7K %nd it shall be amended, if I can.O 1542 KA.en e ;K '(o this knyght> KAllas> nay> nayO O%mendedEO said this knight, O%las, nay, nayK

It 1ol nat 6een a.en e ne,ere .o7 It will not be amended ever more. Tho( art so loothly> an so ool also> hou art so loathsome, and so old also, An therto +o.en o/ so lo(gh a

%nd moreover descended from such low born lineage, 115! That litel 1on er is thogh I 1al1e an 1yn e7 hat little wonder is though I toss and twist about. 115# So 1ol e )o .yn herte 1ol e 6resteOK 3o would 7od my heart would burstKO 115' KIs this>K '(o she> Kthe +a(se o/ yo(re (nreste;K OIs this,O she said, Othe cause of your distressEO 115+ is7K wonder.O 115KNo1> sire>K '(o she> KI ko( e a.en e al this> O;ow, sir,O she said, OI could amend all this, 1150 I/ that .e liste> er it 1ere ayes thre> If I pleased, before three days were past, 1152 So 1el ye .yghte 6ere yo1 (nto .e7 Droviding that you might behave well towards me. 1154 KB(t> /or ye s"eken o/ s1i+h gentillesse O$ut, since you speak of such nobility 1115 As is es+en e o(t o/ ol ri+hesse> %s is descended out of old riches, 1111 That ther/ore shol en ye 6e gentil .en> hat therefore you should be noble men, 111! S1i+h arrogan+e is nat 1orth an hen7 3uch arrogance is not worth a hen. 111# Looke 1ho that is .oost ,ert(o(s al1ay> =ook who is most virtuous always, 111' %ry,ee an a"ert> an .oost enten eth ay In private and public, and most intends ever 111+ To o the gentil e es that he kanM o do the noble deeds that he canN 111Taak hy. /or the grettest gentil .an7 ake him for the greatest noble man. 1110 *rist 1ole 1e +lay.e o/ hy. o(re gentillesse> Ahrist wants us to claim our nobility from him, 1112 Nat o/ o(re el res /or hire ol ri+hesse7 ;ot from our ancestors for their old KYe> +erteinly>K '(o he> Kno 1on er

OYes, certainly,O he said, Oit is no

12 5

riches. 1114 For thogh they ye,e (s al hir heritage> <or though they give us all their heritage, 11!5 For 1hi+h 1e +lay.e to 6een o/ heigh "arage> <or which we claim to be of noble lineage, 11!1 Yet .ay they nat 6i'(ethe /or no thyng Yet they can not be"ueath by any means 11!! To noon o/ (s hir ,ert(o(s ly,yng> o any of us their virtuous living, 11!# That .a e he. gentil .en y+alle 6e> hat made them be called noble men, 11!' An 6a (s /ol1en he. in s1i+h egree7 %nd commanded us to follow them in such matters. 11!+ K5el kan the 1ise "oete o/ Floren+e> O,ell can the wise poet of <lorence, 11!That highte Dant> s"eken in this senten+e7 ,ho is called (ante, speak on this matter. 11!0 Lo> in s1i+h .aner ry. is Dantes taleJ =o, in such sort of rime is (ante)s speech: 11!2 NF(l sel e (" riseth 6y his 6ran+hes s.ale kBery seldom grows up from its small branches 11!4 %ro1esse o/ .an> /or )o > o/ his goo nesse> ;obility of man, for 7od, of his goodness, 11#5 5ole that o/ hy. 1e +lay.e o(re gentillesse'M ,ants us to claim our nobility from him)N 11#1 For o/ o(re el res .ay 1e no thyng +lay.e <or from our ancestors we can claim no thing 11#! B(t te."orel thyng> that .an .ay h(rte an .ay.e7 6xcept temporal things, that may hurt and injure a man. 11## I> KEek e,ery 1ight 1oot this as 1el as

11#2

o do the just duties of nobilityN They .yghte o no ,ileynye or ,i+e7 hey could do no dishonor or vice. KTaak /yr an 6er it in the erkeste

11#4 ho(s

O ake fire and bear it in the darkest house 11'5 Bit1i- this an the .o(nt o/ @a(kaso(s> $etween this and the mount of Aaucasus, 11'1 An lat .en shette the ores an go thenneM %nd let men shut the doors and go awayN 11'! Yet 1ole the /yr as /aire lye an 6renne Yet will the fire as brightly bla>e and burn 11'# As t1enty tho(san .en .yghte it 6ihol eM %s if twenty thousand men might it beholdN 11'' 0is o//i+e nat(reel ay 1ol it hol e> Its natural function it will always hold, 11'+ U" "eril o/ .y ly/> til that it ye7 1n peril of my life 8I say9, until it dies. 11'K0eere .ay ye se 1el ho1 that genterye OHere may you see well that nobility 11'0 Is nat anne-e to "ossessio(n> Is not joined with possession, 11'2 Sith /olk ne oon hir o"era+io(n 3ince folk not do behave as they should 11'4 Al1ey> as ooth the /yr> lo> in his kyn e7 %lways, as does the fire, lo, in its nature. 11+5 For> )o it 1oot> .en .ay 1el o/ten /yn e <or, 7od knows it, men may well often find 11+1 A lor es sone o sha.e an ,ileynyeM % lord)s son doing shame and dishonorN 11+! An he that 1ole han "ris o/ his gentrye> %nd he who will have praise for his noble birth, 11+# For he 1as 6oren o/ a gentil ho(s $ecause he was born of a noble house 11+' An ha e his el res no6le an ,ert(o(s> %nd had his noble and virtuous ancestors, 11++ An nel hy.sel,en o no gentil e is %nd will not himself do any noble deeds 11+Ne /ol1en his gentil a(n+estre that ee is> ;or follow his noble ancestry that is dead, 11+0 0e nys nat gentil> 6e he (+ or erl> He is not noble, be he duke or earl, 11+2 For ,ileyns syn/(l e es .ake a +herl7 <or churlish sinful deeds make a churl.

O%lso every person knows this as well as I, 11#' I/ gentillesse 1ere "lante nat(reelly If nobility were planted naturally 11#+ Unto a +erteyn lynage o(n the lyne> :nto a certain lineage down the line, 11#%ry,ee an a"ert thanne 1ol e they ne,ere /yne hen in private and in public they would never cease 11#0 To oon o/ gentillesse the /aire o//i+eM

12 6

11+4

For gentillesse nys 6(t reno.ee <or nobility is nothing but renown 11-5 O/ thyne a(n+estres> /or hire heigh 6o(ntee> 1f thy ancestors, for their great goodness, 11-1 5hi+h is a strange thyng to thy "ersone7 ,hich is a thing not naturally part of thy person. 11-! Thy gentillesse +o.eth /ro )o allone7 hy nobility comes from 7od alone. 11-# Thanne +o.th o(re ,erray gentillesse o/ gra+eM hen our true nobility comes from grace N 11-' It 1as no thyng 6i'(ethe (s 1ith o(re "la+e7 It was not at all be"ueathed to us with our social rank. 11-+ KThenketh ho( no6le> as seith :aleri(s> O hink how noble, as says Balerius, 11-5as thilke T(lli(s 0ostilli(s> ,as that same ullius Hostillius, 11-0 That o(t o/ "o,erte roos to heigh no6lesse7 hat out of poverty rose to high nobility. 11-2 Ree eth Senek> an re eth eek Boe+eM .ead 3eneca, and read also $oethiusN 11-4 Ther sh(l ye seen e-"res that it no re e is here shall you see clearly that it is no doubt 1105 That he is gentil that ooth gentil e is7 hat he is noble who does noble deeds. 1101 An ther/ore> lee,e ho(s6on e> I th(s +on+l( eJ %nd therefore, dear husband, I thus conclude: 110! Al 1ere it that .yne a(n+estres 1ere r( e> %lthough it is so that my ancestors were rude, 110# Yet .ay the hye )o > an so ho"e I> Yet may the high 7od, and so hope I, 110' )rante .e gra+e to ly,en ,ert(o(sly7 7rant me grace to live virtuously. 110+ Thanne a. I gentil> 1han that I 6igynne hen am I noble, when I begin 110To ly,en ,ert(o(sly an 1ey,e synne7 o live virtuously and abandon sin. 1100 KAn ther as ye o/ "o,erte .e re"ree,e> O%nd whereas you reprove me for poverty, 1102 The hye )o > on 1ho. that 1e 6ilee,e> he high 7od, on whom we believe, 1104 In 1il/(l "o,erte +hees to ly,e his ly/7

In voluntary poverty chose to live his life. 1125 1y/ An +ertes e,ery .an> .ay en> or

%nd certainly every man, maiden, or woman 1121 May (n erston e that Ches(s> he,ene kyng> Aan understand that *esus, heaven)s king, 112! Ne 1ol e nat +hese a ,i+io(s ly,yng7 ,ould not choose a vicious form of living. 112# )la "o,erte is an honest thyng> +erteynM 7lad poverty is an honest thing, certainN 112' This 1ole Sene+ an othere +lerkes seyn7 his will 3eneca and other clerks say. 112+ 5hoso that halt hy. "ay o/ his "o,erte> ,hoever considers himself satisfied with his poverty, 112I hol e hy. ri+he> al ha e he nat a sherte7 I consider him rich, although he had not a shirt. 1120 0e that +o,eiteth is a "o,re 1ight> He who covets is a poor person, 1122 For he 1ol e han that is nat in his .yghtM <or he would have that which is not in his powerN 1124 B(t he that noght hath> ne +o,eiteth ha,e> $ut he who has nothing, nor covets to have anything, 1145 Is ri+he> altho(gh ye hol e hy. 6(t a kna,e7 Is rich, although you consider him but a knave. 1141 :erray "o,erte> it syngeth "ro"relyM rue poverty, it rightly singsN 114! C(,enal seith o/ "o,erte .yrilyJ *uvenal says of poverty merrily: 114# NThe "o,re .an> 1han he goth 6y the 1eye> k he poor man, when he goes along the roadway, 114' Bi/ore the the,es he .ay synge an "leye7' $efore the thieves he may sing and play.) 114+ %o,erte is hate/(l goo an > as I gesse> Doverty is a hateful good and, as I guess, 114A /(l greet 6ryngere o(t o/ 6isynesseM % very great remover of caresN 1140 A greet a.en ere eek o/ sa"ien+e % great amender also of wisdom 1142 To hy. that taketh it in "a+ien+e7 o him that takes it in patience. 1144 %o,erte is this> altho(gh it se.e alengeJ Doverty is this, although it may seem miserable: 1!55 %ossessio(n that no 1ight 1ol

12 7

+halenge7 % possession that no one will challenge. 1!51 %o,erte /(l o/te> 1han a .an is lo1e> Doverty very often, when a man is low, 1!5! Maketh his )o an eek hy.sel/ to kno1e7 ?akes him know his 7od and also himself. 1!5# %o,erte a s"e+ta+le is> as thynketh .e> Doverty is an eye glass, as it seems to me, 1!5' Th(rgh 1hi+h he .ay his ,erray /reen es see7 hrough which one may see his true friends. 1!5+ An ther/ore> sire> syn that I noght yo1 gre,e> %nd therefore, sir, since I do not injure you, 1!5O/ .y "o,erte na.oore ye .e re"re,e7 You 8should9 no longer reprove me for my poverty. 1!50 KNo1> sire> o/ el e ye re"re,e .eM O;ow, sir, of old age you reprove meN 1!52 An +ertes> sire> thogh noon a(+toritee %nd certainly, sir, though no authority 1!54 5ere in no 6ook> ye gentils o/ hono(r ,ere in any book, you gentlefolk of honor 1!15 Seyn that .en shol e an ool 1ight oon /a,o(r 3ay that men should be courteous to an old person 1!11 An +le"e hy. /a er> /or yo(re gentillesseM %nd call him father, because of your nobilityN 1!1! An a(+to(rs shal I /yn en> as I gesse7 %nd authors shall I find, as I guess. 1!1# ol > KNo1 ther ye seye that I a. /o(l an

1!14 K*hese no1>K '(o she> Koon o/ thise thynges t1eyeJ OAhoose now,O she said, Oone of these two things: 1!!5 To han .e /o(l an ol til that I eye> o have me ugly and old until I die, 1!!1 An 6e to yo1 a tre1e> h(.6le 1y/> %nd be to you a true, humble wife, 1!!! An ne,ere yo1 is"lese in al .y ly/> %nd never displease you in all my life, 1!!# Or elles ye 1ol han .e yong an /air> 1r else you will have me young and fair, 1!!' An take yo(re a,ent(re o/ the re"air %nd take your chances of the crowd 1!!+ That shal 6e to yo(re ho(s 6y +a(se o/ .e> hat shall be at your house because of me, 1!!Or in so. oother "la+e> .ay 1el 6e7 1r in some other place, as it may well be. 1!!0 No1 +hese yo(rsel,en> 1heither that yo1 liketh7K ;ow choose yourself, whichever you please.O 1!!2 This knyght a,yseth hy. an sore siketh> his knight deliberates and painfully sighs, 1!!4 B(t atte laste he sey e in this .anereJ $ut at the last he said in this manner: 1!#5 KMy la y an .y lo,e> an 1y/ so eere> O?y lady and my love, and wife so dear, 1!#1 I "(t .e in yo(re 1ise go,ernan+eM I put me in your wise governanceN 1!#! *heseth yo(resel/ 1hi+h .ay 6e .oost "lesan+e Ahoose yourself which may be most pleasure 1!## An .oost hono(r to yo1 an .e also7 %nd most honor to you and me also. 1!#' I o no /ors the 1heither o/ the t1o> I do not care which of the two, 1!#+ For as yo1 liketh> it s(//iseth .e7K <or as it pleases you, is enough for me.O 1!#KThanne ha,e I gete o/ yo1 .aistrie>K '(o she> O hen have I gotten mastery of you,O she said, 1!#0 KSyn I .ay +hese an go,erne as .e lest;K O3ince I may choose and govern as I pleaseEO 1!#2 KYe> +ertes> 1y/>K '(o it 6est7K he> KI hol e

O;ow where you say that I am ugly and old, 1!1' Than re e yo( noght to 6een a +oke1ol M han do not fear to be a cuckoldN 1!1+ For /ilthe an eel e> also .oot I thee> <or filth and old age, as I may prosper, 1!1Been grete 1ar eyns ("on +hastitee7 %re great guardians of chastity. 1!10 B(t nathelees> syn I kno1e yo(re elit> $ut nonetheless, since I know your delight, 1!12 I shal /(l/ille yo(re 1orl ly a""etit7 I shall fulfill your worldly appetite.

12 8

OYes, certainly, wife,O he said, OI consider it best.O 1!#4 K@ys .e>K '(o she> K1e 6e no lenger 1rothe> O/iss me,O she said, Owe are no longer angry, 1!'5 For> 6y .y tro(the> I 1ol 6e to yo1 6othe -<or, by my troth, I will be to you both && 1!'1 This is to seyn> ye> 6othe /air an goo 7 his is to say, yes, both fair and good. 1!'! I "rey to )o that I .oote ster,en 1oo > I pray to 7od that I may die insane 1!'# B(t I to yo1 6e also goo an tre1e :nless I to you be as good and true 1!'' As e,ere 1as 1y/> syn that the 1orl 1as ne1e7 %s ever was wife, since the world was new. 1!'+ An 6(t I 6e to-.orn as /air to seene %nd unless I am tomorrow morning as fair to be seen 1!'As any la y> e."eri+e> or '(eene> %s any lady, empress, or "ueen, 1!'0 That is 6it1i-e the est an eke the 1est> hat is between the east and also the west, 1!'2 Dooth 1ith .y ly/ an eth right as yo1 lest7 (o with my life and death right as you please. 1!'4 *ast (" the +(rtyn> looke ho1 that it is7K Aast up the curtain, look how it is.O 1!+5 An 1han the knyght sa(gh ,erraily al this> %nd when the knight saw truly all this, 1!+1 That she so /air 1as> an so yong therto> hat she so was beautiful, and so ;eere endeth the 'y#es Tale of ?athe

young moreover, 1!+! For 8oye he hente hire in his ar.es t1o7 <or joy he clasped her in his two arms. 1!+# 0is herte 6athe in a 6ath o/ 6lisse7 His heart bathed in a bath of bliss. 1!+' A tho(san ty.e a-re1e he gan hire kisse> % thousand time in a row he did her kiss, 1!++ An she o6eye hy. in e,ery thyng %nd she obeyed him in every thing 1!+That .yghte oon hy. "lesan+e or likyng7 hat might do him pleasure or enjoyment. 1!+0 en e 1!+2 sen e An th(s they ly,e (nto hir ly,es

%nd thus they live unto their lives) end In "ar/it 8oyeM an Ches( *rist (s

In perfect joyN and *esus Ahrist us send 1!+4 0o(s6on es .eeke> yonge> an /ressh a6e e> Husbands meek, young, and vigorous in bed, 1!-5 An gra+e t' o,er6y e he. that 1e 1e eM %nd grace to outlive them whom we wedN 1!-1 An eek I "raye Ches( shorte hir ly,es %nd also I pray *esus shorten their lives 1!-! That noght 1ol 6e go,erne 6y hir 1y,esM hat will not be governed by their wivesN 1!-# An ol e an angry nygar es o/ is"en+e> %nd old and angry misers in spending, 1!-' )o sen e he. soone ,erray "estilen+eO 7od send them soon the very pestilenceK

*o..ents

The 1i/e o/ Bath4s %rolog(e


Her prologue gives insight into the role of women in the =ate ?iddle %ges and is probably of interest to Ahaucer himself, for the character is one of his most developed ones, with her prologue twice as long as her tale. He also goes so far as to describe two sets of clothing for her in his 7eneral Drologue. 3he holds her own among the bickering pilgrims, and evidence in the manuscripts suggests that although she was first assigned a different, plainer taleTperhaps the one told by the 3hipmanTshe received her present tale as her significance increased. 3he calls herself both %lyson and %lys in the prologue, but to confuse matters these are also the names of her )gossib) 8a close friend or gossip9, whom she mentions several times, as well as many female characters throughout The "anterbury Tales.

12 9

he ,ife of $ath believes herself an expert on the relations between men and women, having had five husbands herself, beginning with her first at age 1!. 3he provides a long history and defends her many marriages with selected "uotations from $iblical and other sources, glossed to support her views. 3he also expands on the status of sex, claiming that virginity is not necessary to be a good and virtuous person, and asks the rhetorical "uestion of what genitals are for, if not for procreation. ?any of her comments are counter&arguments to those put forth by 3t. *erome, mainly in his work O%gainst *ovinianusO. 3he is both direct and opinionated, particularly about the futility of men attempting to gain sovereignty or domination over women, and her opinions prepare the reader for her tale, often mislabeled a breton lai, about the role of sovereignty in marriage. he tale is often regarded as the first of the so&called Omarriage groupO of tales, which includes the Alerk)s, the ?erchant)s and the <ranklin)s tales. $ut some scholars contest this grouping, first proposed by Ahaucer scholar 7eorge =yman /ittredge, not least because the later tales of ?elibee and the ;unJs Driest also discuss this theme. % separation between tales that deal with moral issues and ones that deal with magical issues, as the ,ife of $ath)s does, is favoured by some scholars. %t the start of her prologue, the ,ife of $ath argues that experience and homegrown wisdom are better guides in life than texts, scripture, and tradition. 3he posits that her experience makes her eminently suited to tell a tale of women and their true desire, and her tale can be seen as a refutation of the way women have been LglossedO by earlier male writers. Ahaucer may have intended to both poke fun at the ,ife of $ath)s incomplete understanding of the sources she uses and to show her spunk and native intelligence. 3ince the tale isn)t very supportive of a switch in gender roles, given the subservient nature of the old woman at the end, it is unclear whether Ahaucer was supportive of strong independent female personalities.

The 5i/e o/ Bath4s tale


Her tale begins with an allusion to the absence of fairies in modern day and their prevalence in /ing %rthur )s time. 3he then starts in on her tale though she interrupts and is interrupted several times throughout the telling, creating several digressions. % knight in /ing %rthur)s court rapes a woman in a corn field. $y law, his punishment is death, but the "ueen intercedes on his behalf, and the king turns the knight over to her for judgement. he "ueen punishes the knight by sending him out on a "uest to find out what women really want Omore than anything else,O giving him a year and a day to discover it and having his word that he will return. If he fails to satisfy the "ueen with his answer, he forfeits his life. He searches, but every woman he finds says something different, from riches to flattery. 1n his way back to the "ueen after failing to find the truth, he sees four and twenty ladies dancing. hey disappear suddenly, leaving behind an old hag whom he asks for help. 3he says she)ll tell him the answer that will save him if he promises to grant her re"uest at a time she chooses. He agrees and they go back to the court where the "ueen pardons him after he explains that what women want most is Oto have the sovereignty as well upon their husband as their love, and to have mastery their man above.O he old woman cries out to him before the court that she saved him and that her reward will be that he takes her as his wife and loves her. He protests, but to no avail, and the marriage takes place the next day. he old woman and the knight converse about the knight)s happiness in their marriage bed and discuss that he is unhappy because she is ugly and low&born. 3he discourses upon the origins of gentility, as told by *esus and (ante, and reflects on the origins of poverty. 3he says he can choose between her being ugly and faithful or beautiful and unfaithful. He gives the choice to her to become whatever would bring the most honour and happiness to them both and she, pleased with her mastery of her husband, becomes fair and faithful to live with him happily until the end of their days. 'e wommen han, if that , shal nat lye, ,n this matere a Gueynte fantasye= 'ayte what thyng we may nat lightly ha#e, Therafter wol we crie al day and cra#e%

13 0

3orbede us thyng, and that desiren weE )reesse on us faste, and thanne wol we fle%

The.e
hroughout the .oman Aatholic Ahurch ?iddle %ges authority was in the books and the men who wrote them. (utiful monks, friars and brothers copied the sacred texts worshipfully as repositories of truthN the books, then, were sacred treasuries these men were willing to die defending. hey were men of the book, and the book was their distinctive cultural achievement. $ut that whole world was swept away by bubonic plague, the $lack (eath of 1#'4&+1, when Ahaucer was ten or eleven and one&third of 6uropeJs population died. he pilgrims in AhaucerJs poem are all survivors of that cataclysm, new men and women in a new world. he old church hierarchy was unable to stop the plague. he survivors looked about for new sources of authority, and one place a number of them began relying on was their own experience. OI know by experience that the old church fathers were wrong when they wrote x 8or y9,O these new 6uropeans claimed. %nd that is the shape of the ,ife of $athJs opening claim: S<rom experience I know the woe that is in marriage.J In the Introduction to the Aambridge :niversity Dress edition of )) he ,ife of $athJs Drologue and ale)) *ames ,inny sums it up this way: L%gainst the accumulated learning of her times she poses the pungent wisdom of proverbial sayings, and the certainties of knowledge which she has gained in the cut and thrust of daily events. 1ne side of the contest fetches its opinions from written commentaries, not consulting the evidence of tangible fact but regarding the pronouncements of the Ahurch and the 3choolmen as unassailable authority. he other bases itself upon the certainty of everyday events, and the pressing realities of human affairs, where learned opinions seem insubstantial.O 81-9 he tale utili>es the Oloathly ladyO motif, the oldest examples of which are the medieval Irish sovereignty myths like that of ;iall of the ;ine Hostages. %rthur)s nephew 7awain goes on a nearly identical "uest to discover what women truly want in the medieval poem )) he ,edding of 3ir 7awain and (ame .agnelle)), and the ballad O he ?arriage of 3ir 7awainO, a retelling of the same story. he usual formula is simply that the woman will be a hag during the day and a beautiful woman at night. ,here O he ,ife)s aleO differs from these stories is the initial rape and his emphasis on faithfulness and the redemptive decision of the knight. he knight)s decision of faithfulness or fairness, his choice of the most honourable option, and then his eventual reward for making the right choice, displays his chivalrous nature. $oth the tale and the ,ife of $ath)s prologue deal with the "uestion of who has control in relationships between men and women. Aritics are divided on the personality of the ,ife of $ath. 3ome see her as a strong independent woman while others regard her as a terrible old harridan. his latter view is helped by potential hints in the text that she may have murdered her fourth husband. % significant body of modern literary criticism regards the ,ife of $ath as attacking the substantial body of antifeminist literature known by the later middle ages, though these critics are cognisant of the fact that FFfeminismGG, as a distinct political and intellectual movement, did not emerge until the nineteenth century. Ahaucer was taking inspiration from a significant amount of misogynist literature around at the time but it is subject to debate whether he is copying these sentiments or slyly lampooning them. here are also theories that the ,ife)s tale was written to ease Ahaucer)s guilty conscience. It is recorded that in 1#25 associates of Ahaucer stood surety for an amount e"ual to half his yearly salary for a charge brought by Aecilia Ahampaign for Ode raptoO rape or abductionN the same view has been taken of his =egend of 7ood ,omen, which Ahaucer himself describes as a penance. It remains important, however, as with any author, to observe the difference between the author)s intentions and the multiplicity of potential meanings in the text.

13 1

The English Literat(re as a "art o/ )eneral Me ie,al E(ro"ean Literat(re7


1ne of the most striking general facts in the later ?iddle %ges is the uniformity of life in many of its aspects throughout all ,estern 6urope. It was only during this period that the modern nations, ac"uiring national consciousness, began definitely to shape themselves out of the chaos which had followed the fall of the .oman 6mpire. he .oman Ahurch, firmly established in every corner of every land, was the actual inheritor of much of the unifying power of the .oman government, and the feudal system everywhere gave to society the same political organi>ation and ideals. In a truer sense, perhaps, than at any later time, ,estern 6urope was one great brotherhood, thinking much the same thoughts, speaking in part the same speech, and actuated by the same beliefs. %t least, the literature of the period, largely composed and copied by the great army of monks, exhibits everywhere a thorough uniformity in types and ideas. ,e of the twentieth century should not allow ourselves to think vaguely of the ?iddle %ges as a benighted or shadowy period when life and the people who constituted it had scarcely anything in common with ourselves. In reality the men of the ?iddle %ges were moved by the same emotions and impulses as our own, and their lives presented the same incongruous mixture of nobility and baseness. Yet it is true that the externals of their existence were strikingly different from those of more recent times. In society the feudal system&&lords with their serfs, towns struggling for municipal independence, kings and nobles doing, peaceably or with violence, very much what they pleasedN a constant condition of public or private warN cities walled as a matter of course for protection against bands of robbers or hostile armiesN the country still largely covered with forests, wildernesses, and fensN roads infested with brigands and so bad that travel was scarcely possible except on horsebackN in private life, most of the modern comforts unknown, and the houses, even of the wealthy, so filthy and uncomfortable that all classes regularly, almost necessarily, spent most of the daylight hours in the open airN in industry no coal, factories, or large machinery, but in the towns guilds of workmen each turning out by hand his slow product of single articlesN almost no education except for priests and monks, almost no conceptions of genuine science or history, but instead the abstract system of scholastic logic and philosophy, highly ingenious but highly fantasticN in religion no outward freedom of thought except for a few courageous spirits, but the arbitrary dictates of a despotic hierarchy, insisting on an ironbound creed which the remorseless process of time was steadily rendering more and more inade"uate&&this offers some slight suggestion of the conditions of life for several centuries, ending with the period with which we are now concerned. In medieval literature likewise the modern student encounters much which seems at first sight grotes"ue. 1ne of the most conspicuous examples is the pervasive use of allegory. he men of the ?iddle %ges often wrote, as we do, in direct terms and of simple things, but when they wished to rise above the commonplace they turned with a fre"uency which to&day appears astonishing to the devices of abstract personification and veiled meanings. ;o doubt this tendency was due in part to an ideali>ing dissatisfaction with the crudeness of their actual life 8as well as to fre"uent inability to enter into the realm of deeper and finer thought without the aid of somewhat mechanical imagery9N and no doubt it was greatly furthered also by the medieval passion for translating into elaborate and fantastic symbolism all the details of the $ible narratives. $ut from whatever cause, the tendency hardened into a ruling conventionN thousands upon thousands of medieval manuscripts seem to declare that the world is a mirage of shadowy forms, or that it exists merely to body forth remote and highly surprising ideas. 1f all these countless allegories none was reiterated with more unwearied persistence than that of the 3even (eadly 3ins 8those sins which in the doctrine of the Ahurch lead to spiritual death because they are wilfully committed9. hese sins are: Aovetousness, :nchastity, %nger, 7luttony, 6nvy, 3loth, and, chief of all, Dride, the earliest of all, through which =ucifer was moved to his fatal rebellion against 7od, whence spring all human ills. 6ach of the seven, however, was interpreted as including so many related offences that among them they embraced nearly the whole range of possible wickedness. Dersonified, the 3even 3ins in themselves almost dominate medieval literature, a sort of shadowy evil pantheon. ?oral and religious "uestions could scarcely be discussed without regard to themN and they maintain their commanding place even as late as in 3penser)s )<aerie hueene,) at the very end of the sixteenth century. o the 3even 3ins were commonly opposed, but with much less emphasis, the 3even Aardinal Birtues, <aith, Hope, Aharity 8=ove9, Drudence, emperance, Ahastity, and <ortitude. %gain, almost as prominent as the 3even 3ins was the figure of <ortune with her revolving wheel, a goddess whom the violent vicissitudes

13 2

and tragedies of life led the men of the ?iddle %ges, in spite of their Ahristianity, to bring over from classical literature and virtually to accept as a real divinity, with almost absolute control in human affairs. In the seventeenth century 3hakespeare)s plays are full of allusions to her, but so for that matter is the everyday talk of all of us in the twentieth century.

Literat(re in the three lang(ages7


It is not to the purpose in a study like the present to give special attention to the literature written in 6ngland in =atin and <renchN we can speak only briefly of that composed in 6nglish. $ut in fact when the 6nglish had made its new beginning, about the year 1!55, the same general forms flourished in all three languages, so that what is said in general of the 6nglish applies almost as much to the other two as well.

Religio(s Literat(re
,e may virtually divide all the literature of the period, roughly, into 819 .eligious and 8!9 3ecular. $ut it must be observed that religious writings were far more important as literature during the ?iddle %ges than in more recent times, and the separation between religious and secular less distinct than at present. he forms of the religious literature were largely the same as in the previous period. here were songs, many of them addressed to the Birgin, some not only beautiful in their sincere and tender devotion, speaking for the finer spirits in an age of crudeness and violence, but occasionally beautiful as poetry. here were paraphrases of many parts of the $ible, lives of saints, in both verse and prose, and various other miscellaneous work. Derhaps worthy of special mention among single productions is the )Aursor ?undi) 83urveyor of the ,orld9, an early fourteenth century poem of twenty&four thousand lines 8)Daradise =ost) has less than eleven thousand9, relating universal history from the beginning, on the basis of the $iblical narrative. ?ost important of all for their promise of the future, there were the germs of the modern drama in the form of the Ahurch playsN but to these we shall give special attention in a later chapter.

Se+(lar Literat(re
In secular literature the variety was greater than in religious. ,e may begin by transcribing one or two of the songs, which, though not as numerous then as in some later periods, show that the great tradition of 6nglish secular lyric poetry reaches back from our own time to that of the %nglo& 3axons without a break. he best known of all is the )Auckoo 3ong,) of the thirteenth century, intended to be sung in harmony by four voices:
&umer is icumen inE $hude sing, cuccuB :roweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wde nu% &ing, cuccuB Awe bleteth after lomb, $houth after cal#e cu% ?ulluc sterteth, bucke #ertethE Murie sing, cuccuB "uccu, cuccu, 'el singes thu, cuccuE !e swik thu ne#er nu%

3ummer is come inN loud sing, cuckooK 7rows the seed and blooms the mead FmeadowG and buds the wood anew. 3ing, cuckooK he ewe bleats for the lamb, lows for the calf the cow. he bullock gambols, the buck leapsN merrily sing, cuckooK Auckoo, cuckoo, well singest thou, cuckooN cease thou never now. he next is the first stan>a of )%lysoun) 8)<air %lice)9:
?ytuene Mersh ant A#eril, 'hen spray beginnth to springe, The lutel foul hath hire wyl 1n hyre lud to synge% ,eh libbe in lo#e longinge

13 3

3or semlokest of alle thingeE ;e may me blisse bringeE ,cham in hire baundoun% An hendy hap ichabbe ybentE ,ehot from he#ene it is me sentE 3rom alle wymmen mi lo#e is lent Ant lyht on Alysoun%

$etween ?arch and %pril, ,hen the sprout begins to spring, the little bird has her desire In her tongue to sing. I live in love&longing <or the fairest of all thingsN 3he may bring me blissN I am at her mercy. % lucky lot I have securedN I think from heaven it is sent meN from all women my love is turned %nd is lighted on %lysoun. here were also political and satirical songs and miscellaneous poems of various sorts, among them certain )$estiaries,) accounts of the supposed habits of animals, generally drawn originally from classical tradition, and most of them highly fantastic and allegori>ed in the interests of morality and religion. here was an abundance of extremely realistic coarse tales, hardly belonging to literature, in both prose and verse. he popular ballads of the fourteenth century we must reserve for later consideration. ?ost numerous of all the prose works, perhaps, were the Ahronicles, which were produced generally in the monasteries and chiefly in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the greater part in =atin, some in <rench, and a few in rude 6nglish verse. ?any of them were mere annals like the %nglo&3axon Ahronicle, but some were the lifelong works of men with genuine historical vision. 3ome dealt merely with the history of 6ngland, or a part of it, others with that of the entire world as it was known to medieval 6urope. he majority will never be withdrawn from the obscurity of the manuscripts on which the patient care of their authors inscribed themN others have been printed in full and serve as the main basis for our knowledge of the events of the period.

The Ro.an+es
$ut the chief form of secular literature during the period, beginning in the middle of the twelfth century, was the romance, especially the metrical 8verse9 romance. he typical romances were the literary expression of chivalry. hey were composed by the professional minstrels, some of whom, as in %nglo&3axon times, were richly supported and rewarded by kings and nobles, while others still wandered about the country, always welcome in the manor&houses. here, like 3cott)s =ast ?instrel, they recited their sometimes almost endless works from memory, in the great halls or in the ladies) bowers, to the accompaniment of occasional strains on their harps. <or two or three centuries the romances were to the lords and ladies, and to the wealthier citi>ens of the towns, much what novels are to the reading public of our own day. $y far the greater part of the romances current in 6ngland were written in <rench, whether by ;ormans or by <rench natives of the 6nglish provinces in <rance, and the 6nglish ones which have been preserved are mostly translations or imitations of <rench originals. he romances are extreme representatives of the whole class of literature of all times to which they have given the name. <rankly abandoning in the main the world of reality, they carry into that of ideali>ed and glamorous fancy the chief interests of the medieval lords and ladies, namely, knightly exploits in war, and lovemaking. =ove in the romances, also, retains all its courtly affectations, together with that worship of woman by man which in the twelfth century was exalted into a sentimental art by the poets of wealthy and luxurious Drovence in 3outhern <rance. 3ide by side, again, with war and love, appears in the romances medieval religion, likewise conventionali>ed and childishly superstitious, but in some inade"uate degree a mitigator of cruelty and a restrainer of lawless passion. %rtistically, in some respects or all, the greater part of the romances are crude and immature. heir usual main or only purpose is to hold attention by successions of marvellous adventures, natural or supernaturalN of structure, therefore, they are often destituteN the characters are ordinarily mere typesN and motivation is little considered. here were, however, exceptional authors, genuine artists, masters of meter and narrative, possessed by a true feeling for beautyN and in some of the romances the psychological analysis of love, in particular, is subtile and powerful, the direct precursor of one of the main developments in modern fiction. he romances may very roughly be grouped into four great classes. <irst in time, perhaps, come those which are derived from the earlier <rench epics and in which love, if it appears at all, is subordinated to the military exploits of Aharlemagne and his twelve peers in their wars against the 3aracens. 3econd are the romances which, battered salvage from a greater past, retell in strangely altered romantic fashion the great stories of classical anti"uity, mainly the achievements

13 4

of %lexander the 7reat and the tragic fortunes of roy. hird come the %rthurian romances, and fourth those scattering miscellaneous ones which do not belong to the other classes, dealing, most of them, with native 6nglish heroes. 1f these, two, )/ing Horn) and )Havelok,) spring direct from the common people and in both substance and expression reflect the hard reality of their lives, while )7uy of ,arwick) and )$evis of Hampton,) which are among the best known but most tedious of all the list, belong, in their original form, to the upper classes. 1f all the romances the %rthurian are by far the most important. hey belong peculiarly to 6nglish literature, because they are based on traditions of $ritish history, but they have assumed a very prominent place in the literature of the whole western world. .ich in varied characters and incidents to which a universal significance could be attached, in their own time they were the most popular works of their classN and living on vigorously after the others were forgotten, they have continued to form one of the chief "uarries of literary material and one of the chief sources of inspiration for modern poets and romancers. It seems well worth while, therefore, to outline briefly their literary history. he period in which their scene is nominally laid is that of the %nglo&3axon con"uest of 7reat $ritain. 1f the actual historical events of this period extremely little is known, and even the capital "uestion whether such a person as %rthur ever really existed can never receive a definite answer. he only contemporary writer of the least importance is the $riton 8priest or monk9, 7ildas, who in a violent =atin pamphlet of about the year ++5 8) he (estruction and Aon"uest of $ritain)9 denounces his countrymen for their sins and urges them to unite against the 3axonsN and 7ildas gives only the slightest sketch of what had actually happened. He tells how a $ritish king 8to whom later tradition assigns the name Bortigern9 invited in the %nglo&3axons as allies against the troublesome northern 3cots and Dicts, and how the %nglo&3axons, victorious against these tribes, soon turned in furious con"uest against the $ritons themselves, until, under a certain %mbrosius %urelianus, a man )of .oman race,) the $ritons successfully defended themselves and at last in the battle of ?ount $adon checked the 3axon advance. ;ext in order after 7ildas, but not until about the year 255, appears a strangely jumbled document, last edited by a certain ;ennius, and entitled )Historia $ritonum) 8 he History of the $ritons9, which adds to 7ildas) outline traditions, natural and supernatural, which had meanwhile been growing up among the $ritons 8,elsh9. It supplies the names of the earliest 3axon leaders, Hengist and Horsa 8who also figure in the )%nglo&3axon Ahronicle)9, and narrates at length their treacherous dealings with Bortigern. %mong other stories we find that of Bortigern)s tower, where 7ildas) %mbrosius appears as a boy of supernatural nature, destined to develop in the romances into the great magician ?erlin. In ;ennius) book occurs also the earliest mention of %rthur, who, in a comparatively sober passage, is said, some time after the days of Bortigern, to have )fought against the 3axons, together with the kings of the $ritons, but he himself was leader in the battles.) % list, also, is given of his twelve victories, ending with ?ount $adon. It is impossible to decide whether there is really any truth in this account of ;ennius, or whether it springs wholly from the imagination of the $ritons, attempting to solace themselves for their national overthrowN but it allows us to believe if we choose that sometime in the early sixth century there was a $ritish leader of the name of %rthur, who by military genius rose to high command and for a while beat back the 3axon hordes. %t most, however, it should be clearly reali>ed, %rthur was probably only a local leader in some limited region, and, far from filling the splendid place which he occupies in the later romances, was but the hard&pressed captain of a few thousand barbarous and half&armed warriors. <or three hundred years longer the traditions about %rthur continued to develop among the ,elsh people. he most important change which took place was %rthur)s elevation to the position of chief hero of the $ritish 8,elsh9 race and the subordination to him, as his followers, of all the other native heroes, most of whom had originally been gods. o %rthur himself certain divine attributes were added, such as his possession of magic weapons, among them the sword 6xcalibur. It also came to be passionately believed among the ,elsh that he was not really dead but would some day return from the mysterious 1ther ,orld to which he had withdrawn and recon"uer the island for his people. It was not until the twelfth century that these %rthurian traditions, the cherished heritage of the ,elsh and their cousins, the $retons across the 6nglish Ahannel in <rance, were suddenly adopted as the property of all ,estern 6urope, so that %rthur became a universal Ahristian hero. his remarkable transformation, no doubt in some degree inevitable, was actually brought about chiefly through the instrumentality of a single man, a certain 6nglish archdeacon of ,elsh descent, 7eoffrey of ?onmouth. 7eoffrey, a literary and ecclesiastical adventurer looking about for a means of making himself famous, put forth about the year 11#-, in =atin, a )History of

13 5

the $ritons) from the earliest times to the seventh century, in which, imitating the form of the serious chronicles, he combined in cleverly impudent fashion all the adaptable miscellaneous material, fictitious, legendary, or traditional, which he found at hand. In dealing with %rthur, 7eoffrey greatly enlarges on 7ildas and ;enniusN in part, no doubt, from his own invention, in part, perhaps, from ,elsh tradition. He provides %rthur with a father, /ing :ther, makes of %rthur)s wars against the 3axons only his youthful exploits, relates at length how %rthur con"uered almost all of ,estern 6urope, and adds to the earlier story the figures of ?erlin, 7uenevere, ?odred, 7awain, /ay, and $edivere. ,hat is not least important, he gives to %rthur)s reign much of the atmosphere of feudal chivalry which was that of the ruling class of his own age. 7eoffrey may or may not have intended his astonishing story to be seriously accepted, but in fact it was received with almost universal credence. <or centuries it was incorporated in outline or in excerpts into almost all the sober chronicles, and what is of much more importance for literature, it was taken up and rehandled in various fashions by very numerous romancers. %bout twenty years after 7eoffrey wrote, the <rench poet ,ace, an 6nglish subject, paraphrased his entire )History) in vivid, fluent, and diffuse verse. ,ace imparts to the whole, in a thorough&going way, the manners of chivalry, and adds, among other things, a mention of the .ound able, which 7eoffrey, somewhat chary of the supernatural, had chosen to omit, though it was one of the early elements of the ,elsh tradition. 1ther poets followed, chief among them the delightful Ahretien of royes, all writing mostly of the exploits of single knights at %rthur)s court, which they made over, probably, from scattering tales of ,elsh and $reton mythology. o declare that most romantic heroes had been knights of %rthur)s circle now became almost a matter of course. Drose romances also appeared, vast formless compilations, which gathered up into themselves story after story, according to the fancy of each successive editor. 7reatest of the additions to the substance of the cycle was the story of the Holy 7rail, originally an altogether independent legend. Important changes necessarily developed. %rthur himself, in many of the romances, was degraded from his position of the bravest knight to be the inactive figurehead of a brilliant courtN and the only really historical element in the story, his struggle against the 3axons, was thrust far into the background, while all the emphasis was laid on the romantic achievements of the single knights. LA)0AMON'S 'BRUT7' hus it had come about that %rthur, originally the national hero of the ,elsh, and the deadly foe of the 6nglish, was adopted, as a Ahristian champion, not only for one of the medieval ;ine ,orthies of all history, but for the special glory of the 6nglish race itself. In that light he figures in the first important work in which native 6nglish reemerges after the ;orman Aon"uest, the )$rut) 8Ahronicle9 wherein, about the year 1!55, =aghamon paraphrased ,ace)s paraphrase of 7eoffrey. F<ootnote: =aghamon)s name is generally written )=ayamon,) but this is incorrect. he word )$rut) comes from the name )$rutus,) according to 7eoffrey a rojan hero and eponymous founder of the $ritish race. 3tanding at the beginning of $ritish 8and 6nglish9 history, his name came to be applied to the whole of it, just as the first two 7reek letters, alpha and beta, have given the name to the alphabet.G =aghamon was a humble parish priest in ,orcestershire, and his thirty&two thousand half&lines, in which he imperfectly follows the %nglo&3axon alliterative meter, are rather crudeN though they are by no means dull, rather are often strong with the old&time %nglo&3axon fighting spirit. In language also the poem is almost purely 3axonN occasionally it admits the <rench device of rime, but it is said to exhibit, all told, fewer than a hundred words of <rench origin. 6xpanding throughout on ,ace)s version, =aghamon adds some minor featuresN but 6nglish was not yet ready to take a place beside <rench and =atin with the reading class, and the poem exercised no influence on the development of the %rthurian story or on 6nglish literature.

3ir 7awain and he 7reen /night.


,e can make special mention of only one other romance, which all students should read in modern translation, namely, )3ir 7awain 8pronounced 7aw)&wain9 and the 7reen /night.) his is the brief and carefully constructed work of an unknown but very real poetic artist, who lived a century and more later than =aghamon and probably a little earlier than Ahaucer. he story consists of two old folk&tales, here finely united in the form of an %rthurian romance and so treated as to bring out all the better side of knightly feeling, with which the author is in charming sympathy. =ike many other medieval writings, this one is preserved by mere chance in a single manuscript, which contains also three slightly shorter religious poems 8of a thousand or two lines apiece9, all possibly

13 6

by the same author as the romance. 1ne of them in particular, ) he Dearl,) is a narrative of much fine feeling, which may well have come from so true a gentleman as he. he dialect is that of the ;orthwest ?idland, scarcely more intelligible to modern readers than %nglo&3axon, but it indicates that the author belonged to the same border region between 6ngland and ,ales from which came also 7eoffrey of ?onmouth and =aghamon, a region where 3axon and ;orman elements were mingled with Aeltic fancy and delicacy of temperament. he meter, also, is interesting&&the %nglo& 3axon unrimed alliterative verse, but divided into long stan>as of irregular length, each ending in a )bob) of five short riming lines. )3ir 7awain and the 7reen /night) may very fittingly bring to a close our hasty survey of the entire ;orman&<rench period, a period mainly of formation, which has left no literary work of great and permanent fame, but in which, after all, there were some sincere and talented writers, who have fallen into forgetfulness rather through the untoward accidents of time than from lack of genuine merit in themselves.

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he 6nd of he ?iddle %ges. %bout 1#+5 to about 1+55


he first fifty years. Dolitical and social conditions.
1f the century and a half, from 1#+5 to 1+55, which forms our third period, the most important part for literature was the first fifty years, which constitutes the age of Ahaucer. he middle of the fourteenth century was also the middle of the externally brilliant fifty years) reign of 6dward III. In 1##0 6dward had begun the terrible though often&interrupted series of campaigns in <rance which historians group together as the Hundred ears) ,ar, and having won the battle of Arecy against ama>ing odds, he had inaugurated at his court a period of splendor and luxury. he country as a whole was really increasing in prosperityN 6dward was fostering trade, and the towns and some of the town&merchants were becoming wealthyN but the oppressiveness of the feudal system, now becoming outgrown, was apparent, abuses in society and state and church were almost intolerable, and the spirit which was to create our modern age, beginning already in Italy to move toward the .enaissance, was felt in faint stirrings even so far to the ;orth as 6ngland. he towns, indeed, were achieving their freedom. hanks to compact organi>ation, they were loosening the bonds of their dependence on the lords or bishops to whom most of them paid taxesN and the alliance of their representatives with the knights of the shire 8country gentlemen9 in the House of Aommons, now a separate division of Darliament, was laying the foundation of the political power of the whole middle class. $ut the feudal system continued to rest cruelly on the peasants. 3till bound, most of them, to the soil, as serfs of the land or tenants with definite and heavy obligations of service, living in dark and filthy hovels under indescribably unhealthy conditions, earning a wretched subsistence by ceaseless labor, and almost altogether at the mercy of masters who regarded them as scarcely better than beasts, their lot was indeed pitiable. ;evertheless their spirit was not broken nor their state so hopeless as it seemed. It was by the archers of the class of yeomen 8small free&holders9, men akin in origin and interests to the peasants, that the victories in the <rench wars were won, and the knowledge that this was so created in the peasants an increased self&respect and an increased dissatisfaction. heir groping efforts to better their condition received strong stimulus also from the ravages of the terrible $lack (eath, a pestilence which, sweeping off at its first visitation, in 1#'2, at least half the population, and on two later recurrences only smaller proportions, led to a scarcity of laborers and added strength to their demand for commutation of personal services by money&payments and for higher wages. his demand was met by the ruling classes with sternly repressive measures, and the socialistic Deasants) .evolt of *ohn $all and ,at yler in 1#21 was violently crushed out in blood, but it expressed a great human cry for justice which could not permanently be denied. Hand in hand with the 3tate and its institutions, in this period as before, stood the Ahurch. Holding in the theoretical belief of almost every one the absolute power of all men)s salvation or spiritual death, monopoli>ing almost all learning and education, the Ahurch exercised in the spiritual sphere, and to no small extent in the temporal, a despotic tyranny, a tyranny employed sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. %s the only even partially democratic institution of the age it attracted to itself the most ambitious and able men of all classes. hough social and personal influence were powerful within its doors, as always in all human organi>ations, nevertheless the son of a serf for whom there was no other means of escape from his servitude might steal to the nearest monastery and there, gaining his freedom by a few months of concealment, might hope, if he proved his ability, to rise to the highest position, to become abbot, bishop or perhaps even Dope. ,ithin the Ahurch were many sincere and able men unselfishly devoting their lives to the service of their fellowsN but the moral tone of the organi>ation as a whole had suffered from its worldly prosperity and power. In its numerous secular lordships and monastic orders it had become possessor of more than half the land in 6ngland, a proportion constantly increased through the legacies left by religious&minded persons for their souls) salvationN but from its vast income, several times greater than that of the Arown, it paid no taxes, and owing allegiance only to the Dope it was in effect a foreign power, sometimes openly hostile to the national government. he monasteries, though still performing important public functions as centers of education, charity, and hospitality, had relaxed their discipline, and the lives of the

13 8

monks were often scandalous. he (ominican and <ranciscan friars, also, who had come to 6ngland in the thirteenth century, soon after the foundation of their orders in Italy, and who had been full at first of passionate >eal for the spiritual and physical welfare of the poor, had now departed widely from their early character and become selfish, luxurious, ignorant, and unprincipled. ?uch the same was true of the )secular) clergy 8those not members of monastic orders, corresponding to the entire clergy of Drotestant churches9. hen there were such unworthy charlatans as the pardoners and professional pilgrims, traveling everywhere under special privileges and fleecing the credulous of their money with fraudulent relics and preposterous stories of edifying adventure. %ll this corruption was clear enough to every intelligent person, and we shall find it an object of constant satire by the authors of the age, but it was too firmly established to be easily or "uickly rooted out.

)?andeville)s Boyage)
1ne of the earliest literary works of the period, however, was uninfluenced by these social and moral problems, being rather a very complete expression of the naive medieval delight in romantic marvels. his is the highly entertaining )Boyage and ravels of 3ir *ohn ?andeville.) his clever book was actually written at =iege, in what is now $elgium, sometime before the year 1#05, and in the <rench languageN from which, attaining enormous popularity, it was several times translated into =atin and 6nglish, and later into various other languages. <ive centuries had to pass before scholars succeeded in demonstrating that the asserted author, )3ir *ohn ?andeville,) never existed, that the real author is undiscoverable, and that this pretended account of his journeyings over all the known and imagined world is a compilation from a large number of previous works. Yet the book 8the 6nglish version along with the others9 really deserved its long&continued reputation. Its tales of the 6thiopian Drester *ohn, of diamonds that by proper care can be made to grow, of trees whose fruit is an odd sort of lambs, and a hundred other e"ually remarkable phenomena, are narrated with skilful verisimilitude and still strongly hold the reader)s interest, even if they no longer command belief. ,ith all his credulity, too, the author has some odd ends of genuine science, among others the conviction that the earth is not flat but round. In style the 6nglish versions reflect the almost universal medieval uncertainty of sentence structureN nevertheless they are straightforward and clearN and the book is notable as the first example in 6nglish after the ;orman Aon"uest of prose used not for religious edification but for amusement 8though with the purpose also of giving instruction9. )?andeville,) however, is a very minor figure when compared with his great contemporaries, especially with the chief of them, 7eoffrey Ahaucer.

he <ifteenth Aentury.
he 1+th cent. is not distinguished in 6nglish letters, due in part to the social dislocation caused by the prolonged ,ars of the .oses. 1f the many 1+th&century imitators of Ahaucer the best&known are *ohn =ydgate and homas Hoccleve. 1ther poets of the time include 3tephen Hawes and %lexander $arclay and the 3cots poets ,illiam (unbar, .obert Henryson, and 7awin (ouglas. he poetry of *ohn 3kelton, which is mostly satiric, combines medieval and .enaissance elements. ,illiam Aaxton introduced printing to 6ngland in 1'0+ and in 1'2+ printed 3ir homas ?alory)s Morte d'Arthur% his prose work, written in the twilight of chivalry, casts the %rthurian tales into coherent form and views them with awareness that they represent a vanishing way of life. he miracle play, a long cycle of short plays based upon biblical episodes, was popular throughout the ?iddle %ges in 6ngland. he morality play, an allegorical drama centering on the struggle for man)s soul, originated in the 1+th cent. he finest of the genre is 6veryman. ,ith Ahaucer)s death in 1'55 the half century of original creative literature in which he is the main figure comes to an end, and for a hundred and fifty years thereafter there is only a single author of the highest rank. <or this decline political confusion is the chief causeN first, in the renewal of the Hundred Years) ,ar, with its sordid effort to deprive another nation of its liberty, and then in the brutal and meaningless ,ar of the .oses, a mere cut&throat civil butchery of rival factions with no real principle at stake. hroughout the fifteenth century the leading poets 8of prose we will speak later9 were avowed imitators of Ahaucer, and therefore at best only second&rate writers. ?ost of them were 3cots, and best known is the 3cottish king, *ames I. <or tradition seems correct in naming this monarch as the author of a pretty poem, ) he /ing)s huair) 8) he /ing)s huire,) that is $ook9, which relates in a medieval dream allegory of fourteen hundred lines how the captive author sees and falls in love with a lady whom in the end <ortune promises to bestow upon him.

13 9

his may well be the poetic record of /ing *ames) eighteen&year captivity in 6ngland and his actual marriage to a noble 6nglish wife. In compliment to him Ahaucer)s stan>a of seven lines 8riming ababbccT, which /ing *ames employs, has received the name of )rime royal.)

he )popular) ballads.
=argely to the fifteenth century, however, belong those of the 6nglish and 3cottish )popular) ballads which the accidents of time have not succeeded in destroying. ,e have already considered the theory of the communal origin of this kind of poetry in the remote pre&historic past, and have seen that the ballads continue to flourish vigorously down to the later periods of civili>ation. he still existing 6nglish and 3cottish ballads are mostly, no doubt, the work of individual authors of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but none the less they express the little&changing mind and emotions of the great body of the common people who had been singing and repeating ballads for so many thousand years. .eally essentially )popular,) too, in spirit are the more pretentious poems of the wandering professional minstrels, which have been handed down along with the others, just as the minstrels were accustomed to recite both sorts indiscriminately. 3uch minstrel ballads are the famous ones on the battle of Ahevy Ahase, or 1tterburn. he production of genuine popular ballads began to wane in the fifteenth century when the printing press gave circulation to the output of cheap =ondon writers and substituted reading for the verbal memory by which the ballads had been transmitted, portions, as it were, of a half mysterious and almost sacred tradition. Yet the existing ballads yielded slowly, lingering on in the remote regions, and those which have been preserved were recovered during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by collectors from simple men and women living apart from the main currents of life, to whose hearts and lips they were still dear. Indeed even now the ballads and ballad&making are not altogether dead, but may still be found nourishing in such outskirts of civili>ation as the cowboy plains of exas, .ocky ?ountain mining camps, or the nooks and corners of the 3outhern %lleghenies. he true )popular) ballads have a "uality peculiarly their own, which renders them far superior to the sixteenth century imitations and which no conscious literary artist has ever successfully reproduced. =ongfellow)s )3keleton in %rmor) and ennyson)s ).evenge) are stirring artistic ballads, but they are altogether different in tone and effect from the authentic )popular) ones. 3ome of the elements which go to make this peculiar )popular) "uality can be definitely stated. 1. he )popular) ballads are the simple and spontaneous expression of the elemental emotion of the people, emotion often crude but absolutely genuine and unaffected. Dhrases are often repeated in the ballads, just as in the talk of the common man, for the sake of emphasis, but there is neither complexity of plot or characteri>ation nor attempt at decorative literary adornment&&the story and the emotion which it calls forth are all in all. It is this simple, direct fervor of feeling, the straightforward outpouring of the authors) hearts, that gives the ballads their power and entitles them to consideration among the far more finished works of conscious literature. $oth the emotion and the morals of the ballads, also, are pagan, or at least pre&AhristianN vengeance on one)s enemies is as much a virtue as loyalty to one)s friendsN the most shameful sins are cowardice and treachery in war or loveN and the love is often lawless. !. <rom first to last the treatment of the themes is objective, dramatic, and pictures"ue. 6verything is action, simple feeling, or vivid scenes, with no merely abstract morali>ing 8except in a few unusual cases9N and often much of the story or sentiment is implied rather than directly stated. his too, of course, is the natural manner of the common man, a manner perfectly effective either in animated conversation or in the chant of a minstrel, where expression and gesture can do so much of the work which the restraints of civili>ed society have transferred to words. #. o this spirit and treatment correspond the subjects of the ballads. hey are such as make appeal to the underlying human instincts&&brave exploits in individual fighting or in organi>ed war, and the romance and pathos and tragedy of love and of the other moving situations of simple life. <rom the )popular) nature of the ballads it has resulted that many of them are confined within no boundaries of race or nation, but, originating one here, one there, are spread in very varying versions throughout the whole, almost, of the world. Durely 6nglish, however, are those which deal with .obin Hood and his )merry men,) ideali>ed imaginary heroes of the 3axon common people in the dogged struggle which they maintained for centuries against their oppressive feudal lords.

14 0

'.

he characters and )properties) of the ballads of all classes are generally typical or traditional. here are the brave champion, whether noble or common man, who con"uers or falls against overwhelming oddsN the faithful lover of either sexN the woman whose constancy, proving stronger than man)s fickleness, wins back her lover to her side at lastN the traitorous old woman 8victim of the blind and cruel prejudice which after a century or two was often to send her to the stake as a witch9N the loyal little childN and some few others. +. he verbal style of the ballads, like their spirit, is vigorous and simple, generally unpolished and sometimes rough, but often powerful with its terse dramatic suggestiveness. he usual, though not the only, poetic form is the four&lined stan>a in lines alternately of four and three stresses and riming only in the second and fourth lines. $esides the refrains which are perhaps a relic of communal composition and the conventional epithets which the ballads share with epic poetry there are numerous traditional ballad expressions&&rather meaningless formulas and line&tags used only to complete the rime or meter, the common useful scrap&bag reserve of these unpretentious poets. he license of %nglo&3axon poetry in the number of the unstressed syllables still remains. $ut it is evident that the existing versions of the ballads are generally more imperfect than the original formsN they have suffered from the corruptions of generations of oral repetition, which the scholars who have recovered them have preserved with necessary accuracy, but which for appreciative reading editors should so far as possible revise away. %mong the best or most representative single ballads are: he Hunting of the Aheviot 8otherwise called he %ncient $allad of Ahevy Ahase&&clearly of minstrel authorship9N 3ir Datrick 3pensN .obin Hood and 7uy of 7isborneN %dam $ell, Alym of the Alough, and ,illiam of AloudesleeN Aaptain Aar, or 6dom o) 7ordonN /ing 6stmere 8though this has been somewhat altered by $ishop Dercy, who had and destroyed the only surviving copy of it9N 6dward, 6dwardN Young ,atersN 3weet ,illiam)s 7hostN =ord homas and <air %nnet. /inmont ,illie is very fine, but seems to be largely the work of 3ir ,alter 3cott and therefore not truly )popular.)

3ir homas ?alory and his )?orte (arthur.)


he one fifteenth century author of the first rank, above referred to, is 3ir homas ?alory 8the a is pronounced as in tallyT. He is probably to be identified with the 3ir homas ?alory who during the wars in <rance and the civil strife of the .oses that followed was an adherent of the 6arls of ,arwick and who died in 1'01 under sentence of outlawry by the victorious 6dward IB. %nd some passing observations, at least, in his book seem to indicate that if he knew and had shared all the splendor and inspiration of the last years of medieval chivalry, he had experienced also the disappointment and bitterness of defeat and prolonged captivity. <urther than this we know of him only that he wrote )=e ?orte (arthur) and had finished it by 1'-0. ?alory)s purpose was to collect in a single work the great body of important %rthurian romance and to arrange it in the form of a continuous history of /ing %rthur and his knights. He called his book )=e ?orte (arthur,) he (eath of %rthur, from the title of several popular %rthurian romances to which, since they dealt only with %rthur)s later years and death, it was properly enough applied, and from which it seems to have passed into general currency as a name for the entire story of %rthur)s life. F<ootnote: 3ince the <rench word )?orte) is feminine, the preceding article was originally )=a,) but the whole name had come to be thought of as a compound phrase and hence as masculine or neuter in gender.G %ctually to get together all the %rthurian romances was not possible for any man in ?alory)s day, or in any other, but he gathered up a goodly number, most of them, at least, written in <rench, and combined them, on the whole with unusual skill, into a work of about one&tenth their original bulk, which still ranks, with all "ualifications, as one of the masterpieces of 6nglish literature. (ealing with such miscellaneous material, he could not wholly avoid inconsistencies, so that, for example, he sometimes introduces in full health in a later book a knight whom a hundred pages earlier he had killed and regularly buriedN but this need not cause the reader anything worse than mild amusement. ;ot ?alory but his age, also, is to blame for his sometimes ha>y and pu>>led treatment of the supernatural element in his material. In the remote earliest form of the stories, as Aeltic myths, this supernatural element was no doubt frank and very large, but ?alory)s authorities, the more skeptical <rench romancers, adapting it to their own age, had often more or less fully rationali>ed itN transforming, for instance, the black river of (eath which the original heroes often had to cross on journeys to the Aeltic 1ther ,orld into a rude and forbidding moat about the hostile castle into which the romancers degraded the 1ther ,orld itself. Aountless magic details, however, still remained recalcitrant to such treatmentN and they evidently

14 1

troubled ?alory, whose devotion to his story was earnest and sincere. 3ome of them he omits, doubtless as incredible, but others he retains, often in a form where the impossible is merely garbled into the unintelligible. <or a single instance, in his seventh book he does not satisfactorily explain why the valiant 7areth on his arrival at %rthur)s court asks at first only for a year)s food and drink. In the original story, we can see to&day, 7areth must have been under a witch)s spell which compelled him to a season of distasteful servitudeN but this motivating bit of superstition ?alory discards, or rather, in this case, it had been lost from the story at a much earlier stage. It results, therefore, that ?alory)s supernatural incidents are often far from clear and satisfactoryN yet the reader is little troubled by this difficulty either in so thoroughly romantic a work. 1ther technical faults may easily be pointed out in ?alory)s book. horough unity, either in the whole or in the separate stories so loosely woven together, could not be expectedN in continual reading the long succession of similar combat after combat and the constant repetition of stereotyped phrases become monotonous for a present&day readerN and it must be confessed that ?alory has little of the modern literary craftsman)s power of close&knit style or proportion and emphasis in details. $ut these faults also may be overlooked, and the work is truly great, partly because it is an idealist)s dream of chivalry, as chivalry might have been, a chivalry of faithful knights who went about redressing human wrongs and were loyal lovers and >ealous servants of Holy AhurchN great also because ?alory)s heart is in his stories, so that he tells them in the main well, and invests them with a delightful atmosphere of romance which can never lose its fascination. he style, also, in the narrower sense, is strong and good, and does its part to make the book, except for the ,iclif $ible, un"uestionably the greatest monument of 6nglish prose of the entire period before the sixteenth century. here is no affectation of elegance, but rather knightly straightforwardness which has power without lack of ease. he sentences are often long, but always )loose) and clearN and short ones are often used with the instinctive skill of sincerity. 6verything is pictures"ue and dramatic and everywhere there is chivalrous feeling and genuine human sympathy.

,illiam Aaxton and the introduction of printing to 6ngland, 1 GID


?alory)s book is the first great 6nglish classic which was given to the world in print instead of written manuscriptN for it was shortly after ?alory)s death that the printing press was brought to 6ngland by ,illiam Aaxton. he invention of printing, perhaps the most important event of modern times, took place in 7ermany not long after the middle of the fifteenth century, and the development of the art was rapid. Aaxton, a shrewd and enterprising /entishman, was by first profession a cloth merchant, and having taken up his residence across the Ahannel, was appointed by the king to the important post of 7overnor of the 6nglish ?erchants in <landers. 6mployed later in the service of the (uchess of $urgundy 8sister of 6dward IB9, his ardent delight in romances led him to translate into 6nglish a <rench ).ecueil des Histoires de roye) 8Aollection of the roy 3tories9. o supply the large demand for copies he investigated and mastered the new art by which they might be so wonderfully multiplied and about 1'0+, at fifty years of age, set up a press at $ruges in the modern $elgium, where he issued his ).ecueil,) which was thus the first 6nglish book ever put into print. (uring the next year, 1'0-, just a century before the first theater was to be built in =ondon, Aaxton returned to 6ngland and established his shop in ,estminster, then a =ondon suburb. (uring the fifteen remaining years of his life he labored diligently, printing an aggregate of more than a hundred books, which together comprised over fourteen thousand pages. %side from ?alory)s romance, which he put out in 1'2+, the most important of his publications was an edition of Ahaucer)s )Aanterbury ales.) ,hile laboring as a publisher Aaxton himself continued to make translations, and in spite of many difficulties he, together with his assistants, turned into 6nglish from <rench no fewer than twenty&one distinct works. <rom every point of view Aaxton)s services were great. %s translator and editor his style is careless and uncertain, but like ?alory)s it is sincere and manly, and vital with energy and enthusiasm. %s printer, in a time of rapid changes in the language, when through the wars in <rance and her growing influence the second great infusion of =atin&<rench words was coming into the 6nglish language, he did what could be done for consistency in forms and spelling. Dartly medieval and partly modern in spirit, he may fittingly stand at the close, or nearly at the close, of our study of the medieval period.

he ?edieval (rama
14 2

<or the sake of clearness we have reserved for a separate chapter the discussion of the drama of the whole medieval period, which, though it did not reach a very high literary level, was one of the most characteristic expressions of the age. It should be emphasi>ed that to no other form does what we have said of the similarity of medieval literature throughout ,estern 6urope apply more closely, so that what we find true of the drama in 6ngland would for the most part hold good for the other countries as well.

+ugglers, 3olk )lays, )ageants%


%t the fall of the .oman 6mpire, which marks the beginning of the ?iddle %ges, the corrupt .oman drama, proscribed by the Ahurch, had come to an unhonored end, and the actors had been merged into the great body of disreputable jugglers and inferior minstrels who wandered over all Ahristendom. he performances of these social outcasts, crude and immoral as they were, continued for centuries unsuppressed, because they responded to the demand for dramatic spectacle which is one of the deepest though not least troublesome instincts in human nature. he same demand was partly satisfied also by the rude country folk&plays, survivals of primitive heathen ceremonials, performed at such festival occasions as the harvest season, which in all lands continue to flourish among the country people long after their original meaning has been forgotten. In 6ngland the folk&plays, throughout the ?iddle %ges and in remote spots down almost to the present time, sometimes took the form of energetic dances 8?orris dances, they came to be called, through confusion with ?oorish performances of the same general nature9. 1thers of them, however, exhibited in the midst of much rough&and&tumble fighting and buffoonery, a slight thread of dramatic action. heir characters gradually came to be a conventional set, partly famous figures of popular tradition, such as 3t. 7eorge, .obin Hood, ?aid ?arian, and the 7reen (ragon. 1ther offshoots of the folk&play were the )mummings) and )disguisings,) collective names for many forms of processions, shows, and other entertainments, such as, among the upper classes, that precursor of the 6li>abethan ?ask in which a group of persons in disguise, invited or uninvited, attended a formal dancing party. In the later part of the ?iddle %ges, also, there were the secular pageants, spectacular displays 8rather different from those of the twentieth century9 given on such occasions as when a king or other person of high rank made formal entry into a town. hey consisted of an elaborate scenic background set up near the city gate or on the street, with figures from allegorical or traditional history who engaged in some pantomime or declamation, but with very little dramatic dialog, or none.

Tropes, $iturgical )lays, "nd M ster

.l" s/

$ut all these forms, though they were not altogether without later influence, were very minor affairs, and the real drama of the ?iddle %ges grew up, without design and by the mere nature of things, from the regular services of the Ahurch. ,e must try in the first place to reali>e clearly the conditions under which the church service, the mass, was conducted during all the medieval centuries. ,e should picture to ourselves congregations of persons for the most part grossly ignorant, of un"uestioning though very superficial faith, and of emotions easily aroused to fever heat. 1f the =atin words of the service they understood nothingN and of the $ible story they had only a very general impression. It was necessary, therefore, that the service should be given a strongly spectacular and emotional character, and to this end no effort was spared. he great cathedrals and churches were much the finest buildings of the time, spacious with lofty pillars and shadowy recesses, rich in sculptured stone and in painted windows that cast on the walls and pavements soft and glowing patterns of many colors and shifting forms. he service itself was in great part musical, the confident notes of the full choir joining with the resonant organ&tonesN and after all the rest the richly robed priests and ministrants passed along the aisles in stately processions enveloped in fragrant clouds of incense. hat the eye if not the ear of the spectator, also, might catch some definite knowledge, the priests as they read the $ible stories sometimes displayed painted rolls which vividly pictured the principal events of the day)s lesson. 3till, however, a lack was strongly felt, and at last, accidentally and slowly, began the process of dramati>ing the services. <irst, inevitably, to be so treated was the central incident of Ahristian faith, the story of Ahrist)s resurrection. he earliest steps were very simple. <irst, during the ceremonies on 7ood <riday, the day when Ahrist was crucified, the cross which stood all the year above the altar, bearing the 3avior)s figure, was taken down and laid beneath the altar, a dramatic symbol of the (eath and $urialN and two days later, on )the third day) of the $ible phraseology,

14 3

that is on 6aster 3unday, as the story of the .esurrection was chanted by the choir, the cross was uncovered and replaced, amid the rejoicings of the congregation. ;ext, and before the ;orman Aon"uest, the 7ospel dialog between the angel and the three ?arys at the tomb of Ahrist came sometimes to be chanted by the choir in those responses which are called )tropes): ),hom seek ye in the sepulcher, 1 Ahristians E) )*esus of ;a>areth the crucified, 1 angel.) )He is not hereN he has arisen as he said. 7o, announce that he has risen from the sepulcher.) %fter this a little dramatic action was introduced almost as a matter of course. 1ne priest dressed in white robes sat, to represent the angel, by one of the s"uare&built tombs near the junction of nave and transept, and three others, personating the ?arys, advanced slowly toward him while they chanted their portion of the same dialog. %s the last momentous words of the angel died away a jubilant ) e (eum) burst from, organ and choir, and every member of the congregation exulted, often with sobs, in the great triumph which brought salvation to every Ahristian soul. =ittle by little, probably, as time passed, this 6aster scene was further enlarged, in part by additions from the closing incidents of the 3avior)s life. % similar treatment, too, was being given to the Ahristmas scene, still more humanly beautiful, of his birth in the manger, and occasionally the two scenes might be taken from their regular places in the service, combined, and presented at any season of the year. 1ther $iblical scenes, as well, came to be enacted, and, further, there were added stories from Ahristian tradition, such as that of %ntichrist, and, on their particular days, the lives of Ahristian saints. hus far these compositions are called =iturgical Dlays, because they formed, in general, a part of the church service 8liturgy9. $ut as some of them were united into extended groups and as the interest of the congregation deepened, the churches began to seem too small and inconvenient, the excited audiences forgot the proper reverence, and the performances were transferred to the churchyard, and then, when the gravestones proved troublesome, to the market place, the village&green, or any convenient field. $y this time the people had ceased to be patient with the unintelligible =atin, and it was replaced at first, perhaps, and in part, by <rench, but finally by 6nglishN though probably verse was always retained as more appropriate than prose to the sacred subjects. hen, the religious spirit yielding inevitably in part to that of merrymaking, minstrels and mountebanks began to flock to the celebrationsN and regular fairs, even, grew up about them. 7radually, too, the priests lost their hold even on the plays themselvesN skilful actors from among the laymen began to take many of the partsN and at last in some towns the trade&guilds, or unions of the various handicrafts, which had secured control of the town governments, assumed entire charge. hese changes, very slowly creeping in, one by one, had come about in most places by the beginning of the fourteenth century. In 1#11 a new impetus was given to the whole ceremony by the establishment of the late spring festival of Aorpus Ahristi, a celebration of the doctrine of transubstantiation. 1n this occasion, or sometimes on some other festival, it became customary for the guilds to present an extended series of the plays, a series which together contained the essential substance of the Ahristian story, and therefore of the Ahristian faith. he Ahurch generally still encouraged attendance, and not only did all the townspeople join wholeheartedly, but from all the country round the peasants flocked in. 1n one occasion the Dope promised the remission of a thousand days of purgatory to all persons who should be present at the Ahester plays, and to this exemption the bishop of Ahester added sixty days more. he list of plays thus presented commonly included: he <all of =uciferN the Areation of the ,orld and the <all of %damN ;oah and the <loodN %braham and Isaac and the promise of Ahrist)s comingN a Drocession of the Drophets, also foretelling AhristN the main events of the 7ospel story, with some additions from Ahristian traditionN and the (ay of *udgment. he longest cycle now known, that at York, contained, when fully developed, fifty plays, or perhaps even more. 7enerally each play was presented by a single guild 8though sometimes two or three guilds or two or three plays might be combined9, and sometimes, though not always, there was a special fitness in the assignment, as when the watermen gave the play of ;oah)s %rk or the bakers that of the =ast 3upper. In this connected form the plays are called the ?ystery or ?iracle Aycles. F<ootnote: )?iracle) was the medieval word in 6nglandN )?ystery) has been taken by recent scholars from the medieval <rench usage. It is not connected with our usual word )mystery,) but possibly is derived from the =atin )ministerium,) )function,) which was the name applied to the trade&guild as an organi>ation and from which our title )?r.) also comes.G In many places, however, detached plays, or groups of plays smaller than the full cycles, continued to be presented at one season or another.

14 4

6ach cycle as a whole, it will be seen, has a natural epic unity, centering about the majestic theme of the spiritual history and the final judgment of all ?ankind. $ut unity both of material and of atmosphere suffers not only from the diversity among the separate plays but also from the violent intrusion of the comedy and the farce which the coarse taste of the audience demanded. 3ometimes, in the later period, altogether original and very realistic scenes from actual 6nglish life were added, like the very clever but very coarse parody on the ;ativity play in the ) owneley) cycle. ?ore often comic treatment was given to the $ible scenes and characters themselves. ;oah)s wife, for example, came regularly to be presented as a shrew, who would not enter the ark until she had been beaten into submissionN and Herod always appears as a blustering tyrant, whose fame still survives in a proverb of 3hakespeare)s coinage&&)to out&Herod Herod.) he manner of presentation of the cycles varied much in different towns. 3ometimes the entire cycle was still given, like the detached plays, at a single spot, the market&place or some other central s"uareN but often, to accommodate the great crowds, there were several )stations) at convenient intervals. In the latter case each play might remain all day at a particular station and be continuously repeated as the crowd moved slowly byN but more often it was the, spectators who remained, and the plays, mounted on movable stages, the )pageant)&wagons, were drawn in turn by the guild&apprentices from one station to another. ,hen the audience was stationary, the common people stood in the s"uare on all sides of the stage, while persons of higher rank or greater means were seated on temporary wooden scaffolds or looked down from the windows of the adjacent houses. In the construction of the )pageant) all the little that was possible was done to meet the needs of the presentation. $elow the main floor, or stage, was the curtained dressing& room of the actorsN and when the play re"uired, on one side was attached )Hell&?outh,) a great and horrible human head, whence issued flames and fiendish cries, often the fiends themselves, and into which lost sinners were violently hurled. 1n the stage the scenery was necessarily very simple. % small raised platform or pyramid might represent Heaven, where 7od the <ather was seated, and from which as the action re"uired the angels came downN a single tree might indicate the 7arden of 6denN and a doorway an entire house. In partial compensation the costumes were often elaborate, with all the finery of the church wardrobe and much of those of the wealthy citi>ens. he expense accounts of the guilds, sometimes luckily preserved, furnish many pictures"ue and amusing items, such as these: )<our pair of angels) wings, ! shillings and 2 pence.) )<or mending of hell head, - pence.) )Item, link for setting the world on fire.) %pparently women never actedN men and boys took the women)s parts. %ll the plays of the cycle were commonly performed in a single day, beginning, at the first station, perhaps as early as five o)clock in the morningN but sometimes three days or even more were employed. o the guilds the giving of the plays was a very serious matter. 1ften each guild had a )pageant&house) where it stored its )properties,) and a pageant&master who trained the actors and imposed substantial fines on members remiss in cooperation. ,e have said that the plays were always composed in verse. he stan>a forms employed differ widely even within the same cycle, since the single plays were very diverse in both authorship and dates. he "uality of the verse, generally mediocre at the outset, has often suffered much in transmission from generation to generation. In other respects also there are great contrastsN sometimes the feeling and power of a scene are admirable, revealing an author of real ability, sometimes there is only crude and wooden amateurishness. he medieval lack of historic sense gives to all the plays the setting of the authors) own timesN .oman officers appear as feudal knightsN and all the heathens 8including the *ews9 are 3aracens, worshippers of )?ahound) and ) ermagaunt)N while the good characters, however long they may really have lived before the Ahristian era, swear stoutly by 3t. *ohn and 3t. Daul and the other medieval Ahristian divinities. he frank coarseness of the plays is often merely disgusting, and suggests how superficial, in most cases, was the medieval religious sense. ,ith no thought of incongruity, too, these writers brought 7od the <ather onto the stage in bodily form, and then, attempting in all sincerity to show him reverence, gilded his face and put into his mouth long speeches of exceedingly tedious declamation. he whole emphasis, as generally in the religion of the times, was on the fear of hell rather than on the love of righteousness. Yet in spite of everything grotes"ue and inconsistent, the plays no doubt largely fulfilled their religious purpose and exercised on the whole an elevating influence. he humble submission of the boy Isaac to the will of 7od and of his earthly father, the yearning devotion of ?ary the mother of *esus, and the infinite love and pity of the tortured Ahrist himself, must have struck into even callous hearts for at least a little time some genuine consciousness of the beauty and power of the finer and higher life. % literary form which supplied much of the religious and artistic nourishment of half a continent for half a thousand years cannot be lightly regarded or dismissed.

14 5

The Morality )lays%


he ?ystery Dlays seem to have reached their greatest popularity in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the dawning light of the .enaissance and the modern spirit they gradually waned, though in exceptional places and in special revivals they did not altogether cease to be given until the seventeenth century. 1n the Aontinent of 6urope, indeed, they still survive, after a fashion, in a single somewhat moderni>ed form, the celebrated Dassion Dlay of 1berammergau. In 6ngland by the end of the fifteenth century they had been for the most part replaced by a kindred species which had long been growing up beside them, namely the ?orality Dlays. he ?orality Dlay probably arose in part from the desire of religious writers to teach the principles of Ahristian living in a more direct and compact fashion than was possible through the $ible stories of the ?ysteries. In its strict form the ?orality Dlay was a dramati>ed moral allegory. It was in part an offshoot from the ?ysteries, in some of which there had appeared among the actors abstract allegorical figures, either good or bad, such as he 3even (eadly 3ins, Aontemplation, and .aise& 3lander. In the ?oralities the majority of the characters are of this sort&&though not to the exclusion of supernatural persons such as 7od and the (evil&&and the hero is generally a type& figure standing for all ?ankind. <or the control of the hero the two definitely opposing groups of Birtues and Bices contendN the commonest type of ?orality presents in brief glimpses the entire story of the hero)s life, that is of the life of every man. It shows how he yields to temptation and lives for the most part in reckless sin, but at last in spite of all his flippancy and folly is saved by Derseverance and .epentance, pardoned through 7od)s mercy, and assured of salvation. %s compared with the usual type of ?ystery plays the ?oralities had for the writers this advantage, that they allowed some independence in the invention of the storyN and how powerful they might be made in the hands of a really gifted author has been finely demonstrated in our own time by the stage&revival of the best of them, )6veryman) 8which is probably a translation from a (utch original9. In most cases, however, the spirit of medieval allegory proved fatal, the genuinely abstract characters are mostly shadowy and unreal, and the speeches of the Birtues are extreme examples of intolerable sanctimonious declamation. %gainst this tendency, on the other hand, the persistent instinct for realism provided a partial antidoteN the Bices are often very lifelike rascals, abstract only in name. In these cases the whole plays become vivid studies in contemporary low life, largely human and interesting except for their prolixity and the coarseness which they inherited from the ?ysteries and multiplied on their own account. (uring the .eformation period, in the early sixteenth century, the character of the ?oralities, more strictly so called, underwent something of a change, and they were&&sometimes made the vehicle for religious argument, especially by Drotestants.

#he 0nterludes/
6arly in the sixteenth century, the ?orality in its turn was largely superseded by another sort of play called the Interlude. $ut just as in the case of the ?ystery and the ?orality, the Interlude developed out of the ?orality, and the two cannot always be distinguished, some single plays being distinctly described by the authors as )?oral Interludes.) In the Interludes the realism of the ?oralities became still more pronounced, so that the typical Interlude is nothing more than a coarse farce, with no pretense at religious or ethical meaning. he name Interlude denotes literally )a play between,) but the meaning intended between whom or what9 is uncertain. he plays were given sometimes in the halls of nobles and gentlemen, either when ban"uets were in progress or on other festival occasionsN sometimes before less select audiences in the town halls or on village greens. he actors were sometimes strolling companies of players, who might be minstrels )or rustics, and were sometimes also retainers of the great nobles, allowed to practice their dramatic ability on tours about the country when they were not needed for their masters) entertainment. In the Interlude&?oralities and Interludes first appears The Bice, a rogue who sums up in himself all the Bices of the older ?oralities and serves as the buffoon. 1ne of his most popular exploits was to belabor the (evil about the stage with a wooden dagger, a habit which took a great hold on the popular imagination, as numerous references in later literature testify. ransformed by time, the Bice appears in the 6li>abethan drama, and thereafter, as the clown.

#he l"ter influen'e of the Medie%"l &r"m"/


he various dramatic forms from the tenth century to the middle of the sixteenth at which we have thus hastily glanced&&folk&plays, mummings and disguisings, secular pageants, ?ystery plays,

14 6

?oralities, and Interludes&&have little but a historical importance. $ut besides demonstrating the persistence of the popular demand for drama, they exerted a permanent influence in that they formed certain stage traditions which were to modify or largely control the great drama of the 6li>abethan period and to some extent of later times. %mong these traditions were the disregard for unity, partly of action, but especially of time and placeN the mingling of comedy with even the intensest scenes of tragedyN the nearly complete lack of stage scenery, with a resultant willingness in the audience to make the largest possible imaginative assumptionsN the presence of certain stock figures, such as the clownN and the presentation of women)s parts by men and boys. he plays, therefore, must be reckoned with in dramatic history.

he 3ixteenth Aentury. he .enaissance and the .eign of 6li>abeth


he .enaissance
he fifteenth and sixteenth centuries are the period of the 6uropean .enaissance or ;ew $irth, one of the three or four great transforming movements of 6uropean history. his impulse by which the medieval society of scholasticism, feudalism, and chivalry was to be made over into what we call the modern world came first from Italy. Italy, like the rest of the .oman 6mpire, had been overrun and con"uered in the fifth century by the barbarian eutonic tribes, but the devastation had been less complete there than in the more northern lands, and there, even more, perhaps, than in <rance, the bulk of the people remained =atin in blood and in character. Hence it resulted that though the ?iddle %ges were in Italy a period of terrible political anarchy, yet Italian culture recovered far more rapidly than that of the northern nations, whom the Italians continued down to the modern period to regard contemptuously as still mere barbarians. $y the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, further, the Italians had become intellectually one of the keenest races whom the world has ever known, though in morals they were sinking to almost incredible corruption. %lready in fourteenth century Italy, therefore, the movement for a much fuller and freer intellectual life had begun, and we have seen that by Detrarch and $occaccio something of this spirit was transmitted to Ahaucer. In 6ngland Ahaucer was followed by the medievali>ing fifteenth century, but in Italy there was no such interruption. he .enaissance movement first received definite direction from the rediscovery and study of 7reek literature, which clearly revealed the unbounded possibilities of life to men who had been groping dissatisfied within the now narrow limits of medieval thought. $efore Ahaucer was dead the study of 7reek, almost forgotten in ,estern 6urope during the ?iddle %ges, had been renewed in Italy, and it received a still further impulse when at the taking of Aonstantinople by the urks in 1'+# 7reek scholars and manuscripts were scattered to the ,est. It is hard for us to&day to reali>e the meaning for the men of the fifteenth century of this revived knowledge of the life and thought of the 7reek race. he medieval Ahurch, at first merely from the brutal necessities of a period of anarchy, had for the most part frowned on the joy and beauty of life, permitting pleasure, indeed, to the laity, but as a thing half dangerous, and declaring that there was perfect safety only within the walls of the nominally ascetic Ahurch itself. he intellectual life, also, nearly restricted to priests and monks, had been formali>ed and conventionali>ed, until in spite of the keenness of its methods and the brilliancy of many of its scholars, it had become largely barren and unprofitable. he whole sphere of knowledge had been subjected to the mere authority of the $ible and of a few great minds of the past, such as %ristotle. %ll "uestions were argued and decided on the basis of their assertions, which had often become wholly inade"uate and were often warped into grotes"uely impossible interpretations and applications. 3cientific investigation was almost entirely stifled, and progress was impossible. he whole field of religion and knowledge had become largely stagnant under an arbitrary despotism. o the minds which were being paraly>ed under this system, 7reek literature brought the inspiration for which they longed. <or it was the literature of a great and brilliant people who, far from attempting to make a divorce within man)s nature, had aimed to )see life steadily and see it whole,) who, giving free play to all their powers, had found in pleasure and beauty some of the most essential constructive forces, and had embodied beauty in works of literature and art where the significance of the whole spiritual life was more splendidly suggested than in the achievements of any, or almost any, other period. he enthusiasm, therefore, with which the Italians turned to the study of 7reek literature and 7reek life was boundless, and it constantly found fresh

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nourishment. 6very year restored from forgotten recesses of libraries or from the ruins of .oman villas another 7reek author or volume or work of art, and those which had never been lost were reinterpreted with much deeper insight. %ristotle was again vitali>ed, and Dlato)s noble idealistic philosophy was once more appreciatively studied and understood. In the light of this new revelation =atin literature, also, which had never ceased to be almost superstitiously studied, took on a far greater human significance. Bergil and Aicero were regarded no longer as mysterious prophets from a dimly imagined past, but as real men of flesh and blood, speaking out of experiences remote in time from the present but no less humanly real. he word )human,) indeed, became the chosen motto of the .enaissance scholarsN )humanists) was the title which they applied to themselves as to men for whom )nothing human was without appeal.) ;ew creative enthusiasm, also, and magnificent actual new creation, followed the discovery of the old treasures, creation in literature and all the artsN culminating particularly in the early sixteenth century in the greatest group of painters whom any country has ever seen, =ionardo da Binci, .aphael, and ?ichelangelo. In Italy, to be sure, the light of the .enaissance had its palpable shadowN in breaking away from the medieval bondage into the unhesitating enjoyment of all pleasure, the humanists too often overleaped all restraints and plunged into wild excess, often into mere sensuality. Hence the Italian .enaissance is commonly called Dagan, and hence when young 6nglish nobles began to travel to Italy to drink at the fountain head of the new inspiration moralists at home protested with much reason against the ideas and habits which many of them brought back with their new clothes and flaunted as evidences of intellectual emancipation. History, however, shows no great progressive movement unaccompanied by exaggerations and extravagances. he .enaissance, penetrating northward, past first from Italy to <rance, but as early as the middle of the fifteenth century 6nglish students were fre"uenting the Italian universities. 3oon the study of 7reek was introduced into 6ngland, also, first at 1xfordN and it was cultivated with such good results that when, early in the sixteenth century, the great (utch student and reformer, 6rasmus, unable through poverty to reach Italy, came to 1xford instead, he found there a group of accomplished scholars and gentlemen whose instruction and hospitable companionship aroused his unbounded delight. 1ne member of this group was the fine&spirited *ohn Aolet, later (ean of 3t. Daul)s Aathedral in =ondon, who was to bring new life into the secondary education of 6nglish boys by the establishment of 3t. Daul)s 7rammar 3chool, based on the principle of kindness in place of the merciless severity of the traditional 6nglish system. 7reat as was the stimulus of literary culture, it was only one of several influences that made up the .enaissance. ,hile 7reek was speaking so powerfully to the cultivated class, other forces were contributing to revolutioni>e life as a whole and all men)s outlook upon it. he invention of printing, multiplying books in unlimited "uantities where before there had been only a few manuscripts laboriously copied page by page, absolutely transformed all the processes of knowledge and almost of thought. ;ot much later began the vast expansion of the physical world through geographical exploration. oward the end of the fifteenth century the Dortuguese sailor, Basco da 7ama, finishing the work of (ia>, discovered the sea route to India around the Aape of 7ood Hope. % few years earlier Aolumbus had revealed the ;ew ,orld and virtually proved that the earth is round, a proof scientifically completed a generation after him when ?agellan)s ship actually circled the globe. <ollowing close after Aolumbus, the Aabots, Italian&born, but naturali>ed 6nglishmen, discovered ;orth %merica, and for a hundred years the rival ships of 3pain, 6ngland, and Dortugal filled the waters of the new ,est and the new 6ast. In %merica handfuls of 3panish adventurers con"uered great empires and despatched home annual treasure fleets of gold and silver, which the audacious 6nglish sea&captains, half explorers and half pirates, soon learned to intercept and plunder. he marvels which were constantly being revealed as actual facts seemed no less wonderful than the extravagances of medieval romanceN and it was scarcely more than a matter of course that men should search in the new strange lands for the fountain of perpetual youth and the philosopher)s stone. he supernatural beings and events of 3penser)s )<aerie hueene) could scarcely seem incredible to an age where incredulity was almost unknown because it was impossible to set a bound how far any one might reasonably believe. $ut the hori>on of man)s expanded knowledge was not to be limited even to his own earth. %bout the year 1+'5, the Dolish Aopernicus opened a still grander realm of speculation 8not to be ade"uately possessed for several centuries9 by the announcement that our world is not the center of the universe, but merely one of the satellites of its far&superior sun. he whole of 6ngland was profoundly stirred by the .enaissance to a new and most energetic life, but not least was this true of the Aourt, where for a time literature was very largely to center. 3ince the old nobility had mostly perished in the wars, both Henry BII, the founder of the udor line, and his son, Henry BIII, adopted the policy of replacing it with able and wealthy men of the

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middle class, who would be strongly devoted to themselves. he court therefore became a brilliant and crowded circle of unscrupulous but unusually adroit statesmen, and a center of lavish entertainments and display. :nder this new aristocracy the rigidity of the feudal system was relaxed, and life became somewhat easier for all the dependent classes. ?odern comforts, too, were largely introduced, and with them the Italian artsN udor architecture, in particular, exhibited the originality and splendor of an energetic and self&confident age. <urther, both Henries, though perhaps as essentially selfish and tyrannical as almost any of their predecessors, were politic and far&sighted, and they took a genuine pride in the prosperity of their kingdom. hey encouraged tradeN and in the peace which was their best gift the well&being of the nation as a whole increased by leaps and bounds.

he .eformation
=astly, the literature of the sixteenth century and later was profoundly influenced by that religious result of the .enaissance which we know as the .eformation. ,hile in Italy the new impulses were chiefly turned into secular and often corrupt channels, in the eutonic lands they deeply stirred the eutonic conscience. In 1+10 ?artin =uther, protesting against the unprincipled and flippant practices that were disgracing religion, began the breach between Aatholicism, with its insistence on the supremacy of the Ahurch, and Drotestantism, asserting the independence of the individual judgment. In 6ngland =uther)s action revived the spirit of =ollardism, which had nearly been crushed out, and in spite of a minority devoted to the older system, the nation as a whole began to move rapidly toward change. %dvocates of radical revolution thrust themselves forward in large numbers, while cultured and thoughtful men, including the 1xford group, indulged the too ideal hope of a gradual and peaceful reform. he actual course of the religious movement was determined largely by the personal and political projects of Henry BIII. Aonservative at the outset, Henry even attacked =uther in a pamphlet, which won from the Dope for himself and his successors the title )(efender of the <aith.) $ut when the Dope finally refused Henry)s demand for the divorce from /atharine of 3pain, which would make possible a marriage with %nne $oleyn, Henry angrily threw off the papal authority and declared himself the 3upreme Head of the Ahurch in 6ngland, thus establishing the separate 6nglish 8%nglican, 6piscopal9 church. In the brief reign of Henry)s son, 6dward BI, the separation was made more decisiveN under 6dward)s sister, ?ary, Aatholicism was restoredN but the last of Henry)s children, 6li>abeth, coming to the throne in 1++2, gave the final victory to the 6nglish communion. :nder all these sovereigns 8to complete our summary of the movement9 the more radical Drotestants, Duritans as they came to be called, were active in agitation, undeterred by fre"uent cruel persecution and largely influenced by the corresponding sects in 7ermany and by the Dresbyterianism established by Aalvin in 7eneva and later by *ohn /nox in 3cotland. 6li>abeth)s skilful management long kept the majority of the Duritans within the 6nglish Ahurch, where they formed an important element, working for simpler practices and introducing them in congregations which they controlled. $ut toward the end of the century and of 6li>abeth)s reign, feeling grew tenser, and groups of the Duritans, sometimes under persecution, definitely separated themselves from the 3tate Ahurch and established various sectarian bodies. 3hortly after 1-55, in particular, the Independents, or Aongregationalists, founded in Holland the church which was soon to coloni>e ;ew 6ngland. %t home, under *ames I, the breach widened, until the nation was divided into two hostile camps, with results most radically decisive for literature. $ut for the present we must return to the early part of the sixteenth century.

3ir homas ?ore and his ):topia)


1ut of the confused and bitter strife of churches and parties, while the outcome was still uncertain, issued a great mass of controversial writing which does not belong to literature. % few works, however, more or less directly connected with the religious agitation, cannot be passed by. 1ne of the most attractive and finest spirits of the reign of Henry BIII was 3ir homas ?ore. % member of the 1xford group in its second generation, a close friend of 6rasmus, his house a center of humanism, he became even more conspicuous in public life. % highly successful lawyer, he was rapidly advanced by Henry BIII in court and in national affairs, until on the fall of Aardinal ,olsey in 1+!4 he was appointed, much against his will, to the highest office open to a subject, that of =ord Ahancellor 8head of the judicial system9. % devoted Aatholic, he took a part which must have been revolting to himself in the torturing and burning of DrotestantsN but his absolute

14 9

loyalty to conscience showed itself to better purpose when in the almost inevitable reverse of fortune he chose harsh imprisonment and death rather than to take the formal oath of allegiance to the king in opposition to the Dope. His "uiet jests on the scaffold suggest the never&failing sense of humor which was one sign of the completeness and perfect poise of his characterN while the hair&shirt which he wore throughout his life and the severe penances to which he subjected himself reveal strikingly how the expression of the deepest convictions of the best natures may be determined by inherited and outworn modes of thought. ?ore)s most important work was his ):topia,) published in 1+1-. he name, which is 7reek, means ;o&Dlace, and the book is one of the most famous of that series of attempts to outline an imaginary ideal condition of society which begins with Dlato)s ).epublic) and has continued to our own time. ):topia,) broadly considered, deals primarily with the "uestion which is common to most of these books and in which both ancient 7reece and 6urope of the .enaissance took a special interest, namely the "uestion of the relation of the 3tate and the individual. It consists of two parts. In the first there is a vivid picture of the terrible evils which 6ngland was suffering through war, lawlessness, the wholesale and foolish application of the death penalty, the misery of the peasants, the absorption of the land by the rich, and the other distressing corruptions in Ahurch and 3tate. In the second part, in contrast to all this, a certain imaginary .aphael Hythlodaye describes the customs of :topia, a remote island in the ;ew ,orld, to which chance has carried him. o some of the ideals thus set forth ?ore can scarcely have expected the world ever to attainN and some of them will hardly appeal to the majority of readers of any periodN but in the main he lays down an admirable program for human progress, no small part of which has been actually reali>ed in the four centuries which have since elapsed. he controlling purpose in the life of the :topians is to secure both the welfare of the 3tate and the full development of the individual under the ascendancy of his higher faculties. he 3tate is democratic, socialistic, and communistic, and the will of the individual is subordinated to the advantage of all, but the real interests of each and all are recogni>ed as identical. 6very one is obliged to work, but not to overworkN six hours a day make the allotted periodN and the rest of the time is free, but with plentiful provision of lectures and other aids for the education of mind and spirit. %ll the citi>ens are taught the fundamental art, that of agriculture, and in addition each has a particular trade or profession of his own. here is no surfeit, excess, or ostentation. Alothing is made for durability, and every one)s garments are precisely like those of every one else, except that there is a difference between those of men and women and those of married and unmarried persons. he sick are carefully tended, but the victims of hopeless or painful disease are mercifully put to death if they so desire. Arime is naturally at a minimum, but those who persist in it are made slaves 8not executed, for why should the 3tate be deprived of their servicesE9. (etesting war, the :topians make a practice of hiring certain barbarians who, conveniently, are their neighbors, to do whatever fighting is necessary for their defense, and they win if possible, not by the revolting slaughter of pitched battles, but by the assassination of their enemies) generals. In especial, there is complete religious toleration, except for atheism, and except for those who urge their opinions with offensive violence. ):topia) was written and published in =atinN among the multitude of translations into many languages the earliest in 6nglish, in which it is often reprinted, is that of .alph .obinson, made in 1++1.

he 6nglish $ible and $ooks of (evotion.


o this century of religious change belongs the greater part of the literary history of the 6nglish $ible and of the ritual books of the 6nglish Ahurch. 3ince the suppression of the ,iclifite movement the circulation of the $ible in 6nglish had been forbidden, but growing Drotestantism insistently revived the demand for it. he attitude of Henry BIII and his ministers was inconsistent and uncertain, reflecting their own changing points of view. In 1+!- ,illiam yndale, a >ealous Drotestant controversialist then in exile in 7ermany, published an excellent 6nglish translation of the ;ew estament. $ased on the proper authority, the 7reek original, though with influence from ,iclif and from the =atin and 7erman 8=uther)s9 version, this has been directly or indirectly the starting&point for all subse"uent 6nglish translations except those of the Aatholics. en years later yndale suffered martyrdom, but in 1+#+ ?iles Aoverdale, later bishop of 6xeter, issued in 7ermany a translation of the whole $ible in a more gracious style than yndale)s, and to this the king and the established clergy were now ready to give license and favor. 3till two years

15 0

later appeared a version compounded of those of yndale and Aoverdale and called, from the fictitious name of its editor, the )?atthew) $ible. In 1+#4, under the direction of %rchbishop Aranmer, Aoverdale issued a revised edition, officially authori>ed for use in churchesN its version of the Dsalms still stands as the Dsalter of the 6nglish Ahurch. In 1+-5 6nglish Duritan refugees at 7eneva put forth the )7eneva $ible,) especially accurate as a translation, which long continued the accepted version for private use among all parties and for all purposes among the Duritans, in both 1ld and ;ew 6ngland. 6ight years later, under %rchbishop Darker, there was issued in large volume form and for use in churches the )$ishops) $ible,) so named because the majority of its thirteen editors were bishops. his completes the list of important translations down to those of 1-11 and 1221, of which we shall speak in the proper place. he $ook of Aommon Drayer, now used in the 6nglish Ahurch coordinately with $ible and Dsalter, took shape out of previous primers of private devotion, litanies, and hymns, mainly as the work of %rchbishop Aranmer during the reign of 6dward BI. 1f the influence of these translations of the $ible on 6nglish literature it is impossible to speak too strongly. hey rendered the whole nation familiar for centuries with one of the grandest and most varied of all collections of books, which was adopted with ardent patriotic enthusiasm as one of the chief national possessions, and which has served as an unfailing storehouse of poetic and dramatic allusions for all later writers. ?odern 6nglish literature as a whole is permeated and enriched to an incalculable degree with the substance and spirit of the 6nglish $ible.

,yatt and 3urrey and the new poetry.


In the literature of fine art also the new beginning was made during the reign of Henry BIII. his was through the introduction by 3ir homas ,yatt of the Italian fashion of lyric poetry. ,yatt, a man of gentle birth, entered Aambridge at the age of twelve and received his degree of ?. %. seven years later. His mature life was that of a courtier to whom the king)s favor brought high appointments, with such vicissitudes of fortune, including occasional imprisonments, as formed at that time a common part of the courtier)s lot. ,yatt, however, was not a merely worldly person, but a Drotestant seemingly of high and somewhat severe moral character. He died in 1+'! at the age of thirty&nine of a fever caught as he was hastening, at the king)s command, to meet and welcome the 3panish ambassador. 1n one of his missions to the Aontinent, ,yatt, like Ahaucer, had visited Italy. Impressed with the beauty of Italian verse and the contrasting rudeness of that of contemporary 6ngland, he determined to remodel the latter in the style of the former. Here a brief historical retrospect is necessary. he Italian poetry of the sixteenth century had itself been originally an imitation, namely of the poetry of Drovence in 3outhern <rance. here, in the twelfth century, under a delightful climate and in a region of enchanting beauty, had arisen a luxurious civili>ation whose poets, the troubadours, many of them men of noble birth, had carried to the furthest extreme the woman&worship of medieval chivalry and had enshrined it in lyric poetry of superb and varied sweetness and beauty. In this highly conventionali>ed poetry the lover is forever sighing for his lady, a correspondingly obdurate being whose favor is to be won only by years of the most un"ualified and unreasoning devotion. <rom Drovence, Italy had taken up the style, and among the other forms for its expression, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, had devised the poem of a single fourteen&line stan>a which we call the sonnet. he whole movement had found its great master in Detrarch, who, in hundreds of poems, mostly sonnets, of perfect beauty, had sung the praises and cruelty of his nearly imaginary =aura. It was this highly artificial but very beautiful poetic fashion which ,yatt deliberately set about to introduce into 6ngland. he nature and success of his innovation can be summari>ed in a few definite statements. 1. Imitating Detrarch, ,yatt nearly limits himself as regards substance to the treatment of the artificial love&theme, lamenting the unkindness of ladies who very probably never existed and whose favor in any case he probably regarded very lightlyN yet even so, he often strikes a manly 6nglish note of independence, declaring that if the lady continues obstinate he will not die for her love. !. Historically much the most important feature of ,yatt)s experiment was the introduction of the sonnet, a very substantial service indeedN for not only did this form, like the love& theme, become by far the most popular one among 6nglish lyric poets of the next two generations, setting a fashion which was carried to an astonishing excessN but it is the only

15 1

artificial form of foreign origin which has ever been really adopted and naturali>ed in 6nglish, and it still remains the best instrument for the terse expression of a single poetic thought. ,yatt, it should be observed, generally departs from the Detrarchan rime&scheme, on the whole unfortunately, by substituting a third "uatrain for the first four lines of the sestet. hat is, while Detrarch)s rime&arrangement is either a b b a a b b a c d c d c d or a b b a a b b a c d e c d e 'yatt's is usually a b b a a b b a c d d c e e% #. In his attempted reformation of 6nglish metrical irregularity ,yatt, in his sonnets, shows only the uncertain hand of a beginner. He generally secures an e"ual number of syllables in each line, but he often merely counts them off on his fingers, wrenching the accents all awry, and often violently forcing the rimes as well. In his songs, however, which are much more numerous than the sonnets, he attains delightful fluency and melody. His )?y =ute, %wake,) and )<orget ;ot Yet) are still counted among the notable 6nglish lyrics. '. % particular and characteristic part of the conventional Italian lyric apparatus which ,yatt transplanted was the )conceit.) % conceit may be defined as an exaggerated figure of speech or play on words in which intellectual cleverness figures at least as largely as real emotion and which is often dragged out to extremely complicated lengths of literal application. %n example is ,yatt)s declaration 8after Detrarch9 that his love, living in his heart, advances to his face and there encamps, displaying his banner 8which merely means that the lover blushes with his emotion9. In introducing the conceit ,yatt fathered the most conspicuous of the superficial general features which were to dominate 6nglish poetry for a century to come. +. 3till another, minor, innovation of ,yatt was the introduction into 6nglish verse of the Horatian )satire) 8moral poem, reflecting on current follies9 in the form of three metrical letters to friends. In these the meter is the ter>a rima of (ante. ,yatt)s work was continued by his poetical disciple and successor, Henry Howard, who, as son of the (uke of ;orfolk, held the courtesy title of 6arl of 3urrey. % brilliant though wilful representative of udor chivalry, and distinguished in war, 3urrey seems to have occupied at Aourt almost the same commanding position as 3ir Dhilip 3idney in the following generation. His career was cut short in tragically ironical fashion at the age of thirty by the plots of his enemies and the dying bloodthirstiness of /ing Henry, which together led to his execution on a trumped&up charge of treason. It was only one of countless brutal court crimes, but it seems the more hateful because if the king had died a single day earlier 3urrey could have been saved. 3urrey)s services to poetry were two: 1. He improved on the versification of ,yatt)s sonnets, securing fluency and smoothness. !. In a translation of two books of Bergil)s )%neid) he introduced, from the Italian, pentameter blank verse, which was destined thenceforth to be the meter of 6nglish poetic drama and of much of the greatest 6nglish non&dramatic poetry. <urther, though his poems are less numerous than those of ,yatt, his range of subjects is somewhat broader, including some appreciative treatment of external ;ature. He seems, however, somewhat less sincere than his teacher. In his sonnets he abandoned the form followed by ,yatt and adopted 8still from the Italian9 the one which was subse"uently used by 3hakespeare, consisting of three independent "uatrains followed, as with ,yatt, by a couplet which sums up the thought with epigrammatic force, thus: a b a b c d c d e f e f g g. ,yatt and 3urrey set a fashion at AourtN for some years it seems to have been an almost necessary accomplishment for every young noble to turn off love poems after Italian and <rench modelsN for <rance too had now taken up the fashion. hese poems were generally and naturally regarded as the property of the Aourt and of the gentry, and circulated at first only in manuscript among the author)s friendsN but the general public became curious about them, and in 1++0 one of the publishers of the day, .ichard ottel, securing a number of those of ,yatt, 3urrey, and a few other noble or gentle authors, published them in a little volume, which is known as ) ottel)s ?iscellany.) Aoming as it does in the year before the accession of hueen 6li>abeth, at the end of the comparatively barren reigns of 6dward and ?ary, this book is taken by common consent as marking the beginning of the literature of the 6li>abethan period. It was the premature predecessor, also, of a number of such anthologies which were published during the latter half of 6li>abeth)s reign.

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he 6li>abethan Deriod
he earlier half of 6li>abeth)s reign, also, though not lacking in literary effort, produced no work of permanent importance. %fter the religious convulsions of half a century time was re"uired for the development of the internal "uiet and confidence from which a great literature could spring. %t length, however, the hour grew ripe and there came the greatest outburst of creative energy in the whole history of 6nglish literature. :nder 6li>abeth)s wise guidance the prosperity and enthusiasm of the nation had risen to the highest pitch, and =ondon in particular was overflowing with vigorous life. % special stimulus of the most intense kind came from the struggle with 3pain. %fter a generation of half&piratical depredations by the 6nglish seadogs against the 3panish treasure fleets and the 3panish settlements in %merica, /ing Dhilip, exasperated beyond all patience and urged on by a bigot)s >eal for the Aatholic Ahurch, began deliberately to prepare the 7reat %rmada, which was to crush at one blow the insolence, the independence, and the religion of 6ngland. here followed several long years of breathless suspenseN then in 1+22 the %rmada sailed and was utterly overwhelmed in one of the most complete disasters of the world)s history. hereupon the released energy of 6ngland broke out exultantly into still more impetuous achievement in almost every line of activity. he great literary period is taken by common consent to begin with the publication of 3penser)s )3hepherd)s Aalendar) in 1+04, and to end in some sense at the death of 6li>abeth in 1-5#, though in the drama, at least, it really continues many years longer. 3everal general characteristics of 6li>abethan literature and writers should be indicated at the outset. 1. !. #. '. +. he period has the great variety of almost unlimited creative forceN it includes works of many kinds in both verse and prose, and ranges in spirit from the loftiest Dlatonic idealism or the most delightful romance to the level of very repulsive realism. It was mainly dominated, however, by the spirit of romance. It was full also of the spirit of dramatic action, as befitted an age whose restless enterprise was eagerly extending itself to every "uarter of the globe. In style it often exhibits romantic luxuriance, which sometimes takes the form of elaborate affectations of which the favorite )conceit) is only the most apparent. It was in part a period of experimentation, when the proper material and limits of literary forms were being determined, oftentimes by means of false starts and grandiose failures. In particular, many efforts were made to give prolonged poetical treatment to many subjects essentially prosaic, for example to systems of theological or scientific thought, or to the geography of all 6ngland. It continued to be largely influenced by the literature of Italy, and to a less degree by those of <rance and 3pain. he literary spirit was all&pervasive, and the authors were men 8not yet women9 of almost every class, from distinguished courtiers, like .alegh and 3idney, to the company of hack writers, who starved in garrets and hung about the outskirts of the bustling taverns.

-. 0.

Drose fiction
he period saw the beginning, among other things, of 6nglish prose fiction of something like the later modern type. <irst appeared a series of collections of short tales chiefly translated from Italian authors, to which tales the Italian name )novella) 8novel9 was applied. ?ost of the separate tales are crude or amateurish and have only historical interest, though as a class they furnished the plots for many 6li>abethan dramas, including several of 3hakespeare)s. he most important collection was Dainter)s )Dalace of Dleasure,) in 1+--. he earliest original, or partly original, 6nglish prose fictions to appear were handbooks of morals and manners in story form, and here the beginning was made by *ohn =yly, who is also of some importance in the history of the 6li>abethan drama. In 1+02 =yly, at the age of twenty&five, came from 1xford to =ondon, full of the enthusiasm of .enaissance learning, and evidently determined to fix himself as a new and da>>ling star in the literary sky. In this ambition he achieved a remarkable and immediate success, by the publication of a little book entitled )6uphues and His %natomie of ,it.) )6uphues) means )the well&bred man,) and though there is a slight action, the work is mainly a series of morali>ing dis"uisitions 8mostly rearranged from 3ir homas ;orth)s translation of ) he (ial of Drinces) of the 3paniard 7uevara9 on love, religion, and conduct. ?ost influential, however, for the time&being, was =yly)s style, which is the most conspicuous 6nglish example of the later .enaissance cra>e,

15 3

then rampant throughout ,estern 6urope, for refining and beautifying the art of prose expression in a mincingly affected fashion. ,itty, clever, and sparkling at all costs, =yly takes especial pains to balance his sentences and clauses antithetically, phrase against phrase and often word against word, sometimes emphasi>ing the balance also by an exaggerated use of alliteration and assonance. % representative sentence is this: )%lthough there be none so ignorant that doth not know, neither any so impudent that will not confesse, friendship to be the jewell of humaine joyeN yet whosoever shall see this amitie grounded upon a little affection, will soone conjecture that it shall be dissolved upon a light occasion.) 1thers of =yly)s affectations are rhetorical "uestions, hosts of allusions to classical history, and literature, and an unfailing succession of similes from all the recondite knowledge that he can command, especially from the fantastic collection of fables which, coming down through the ?iddle %ges from the .oman writer Dliny, went at that time by the name of natural history and which we have already encountered in the medieval $estiaries. Dreposterous by any reasonable standard, =yly)s style, )6uphuism,) precisely hit the Aourt taste of his age and became for a decade its most approved conversational dialect. In literature the imitations of )6uphues) which flourished for a while gave way to a series of romances inaugurated by the )%rcadia) of 3ir Dhilip 3idney. 3idney)s brilliant position for a few years as the noblest representative of chivalrous ideals in the intriguing Aourt of 6li>abeth is a matter of common fame, as is his death in 1+2- at the age of thirty&two during the siege of \utphen in Holland. He wrote )%rcadia) for the amusement of his sister, the Aountess of Dembroke, during a period of enforced retirement beginning in 1+25, but the book was not published until ten years later. It is a pastoral romance, in the general style of Italian and 3panish romances of the earlier part of the century. he pastoral is the most artificial literary form in modern fiction. It may be said to have begun in the third century $. A. with the perfectly sincere poems of the 7reek heocritus, who gives genuine expression to the life of actual 3icilian shepherds. $ut with successive =atin, ?edieval, and .enaissance writers in verse and prose the country characters and setting had become mere disguises, sometimes allegorical, for the expression of the very far from simple sentiments of the upper classes, and sometimes for their partly genuine longing, the outgrowth of sophisticated weariness and ennui, for rural naturalness. 3idney)s very complicated tale of adventures in love and war, much longer than any of its successors, is by no means free from artificiality, but it finely mirrors his own knightly spirit and remains a permanent 6nglish classic. %mong his followers were some of the better hack&writers of the time, who were also among the minor dramatists and poets, especially .obert 7reene and homas =odge. =odge)s ).osalynde,) also much influenced by =yly, is in itself a pretty story and is noteworthy as the original of 3hakespeare)s )%s You =ike It.) =astly, in the concluding decade of the sixteenth century, came a series of realistic stories depicting chiefly, in more or less farcical spirit, the life of the poorer classes. hey belonged mostly to that class of realistic fiction which is called picares"ue, from the 3panish word )picaro,) a rogue, because it began in 3pain with the )=a>arillo de ormes) of (iego de ?endo>a, in 1++#, and because its heroes are knavish serving&boys or similar characters whose unprincipled tricks and exploits formed the substance of the stories. In 6li>abethan 6ngland it produced nothing of individual note.

6dmund 3penser, 1++!&1+44.


he first really commanding figure in the 6li>abethan period, and one of the chief of all 6nglish poets, is 6dmund 3penser. F<ootnote: His name should never be spelled with a c. G $orn in =ondon in 1++!, the son of a clothmaker, 3penser past from the newly established ?erchant aylors) school to Dembroke Hall, Aambridge, as a si>ar, or poor student, and during the customary seven years of residence took the degrees of $. %. and, in 1+0-, of ?. %. %t Aambridge he assimilated two of the controlling forces of his life, the moderate Duritanism of his college and Dlatonic idealism. ;ext, after a year or two with his kinspeople in =ancashire, in the ;orth of 6ngland, he came to =ondon, hoping through literature to win high political place, and attached himself to the household of .obert (udley, 6arl of =eicester, hueen 6li>abeth)s worthless favorite. ogether with 3idney, who was =eicester)s nephew, he was for a while a member of a little group of students who called themselves ) he %reopagus) and who, like occasional other experimenters of the later .enaissance period, attempted to make over 6nglish versification by substituting for rime and accentual meter the 7reek and =atin system based on exact "uantity of syllables. 3penser, however, soon outgrew this folly and in 1+04 published the collection of poems which, as we have already said, is commonly taken as marking the beginning of the great 6li>abethan literary period, namely ) he 3hepherd)s Aalendar.) his is a series of pastoral pieces 8eclogues, 3penser calls

15 4

them, by the classical name9 twelve in number, artificially assigned one to each month in the year. he subjects are various&&the conventionali>ed love of the poet for a certain .osalindN current religious controversies in allegoryN moral "uestionsN the state of poetry in 6nglandN and the praises of hueen 6li>abeth, whose almost incredible vanity exacted the most fulsome flattery from every writer who hoped to win a name at her court. he significance of ) he 3hepherd)s Aalendar) lies partly in its genuine feeling for external ;ature, which contrasts strongly with the hollow conventional phrases of the poetry of the previous decade, and especially in the vigor, the originality, and, in some of the eclogues, the beauty, of the language and of the varied verse. It was at once evident that here a real poet had appeared. %n interesting innovation, diversely judged at the time and since, was 3penser)s deliberate employment of rustic and archaic words, especially of the ;orthern dialect, which he introduced partly because of their appropriateness to the imaginary characters, partly for the sake of freshness of expression. hey, like other features of the work, point forward to ) he <aerie hueene.) In the uncertainties of court intrigue literary success did not gain for 3penser the political rewards which he was seeking, and he was obliged to content himself, the next year, with an appointment, which he viewed as substantially a sentence of exile, as secretary to =ord 7rey, the governor of Ireland. In Ireland, therefore, the remaining twenty years of 3penser)s short life were for the most part spent, amid distressing scenes of 6nglish oppression and chronic insurrection among the native Irish. %fter various activities during several years 3penser secured a permanent home in /ilcolman, a fortified tower and estate in the southern part of the island, where the romantic scenery furnished fit environment for a poet)s imagination. %nd 3penser, able all his life to take refuge in his art from the crass realities of life, now produced many poems, some of them short, but among the others the immortal )<aerie hueene.) he first three books of this, his crowning achievement, 3penser, under enthusiastic encouragement from .alegh, brought to =ondon and published in 1+45. he dedication is to hueen 6li>abeth, to whom, indeed, as its heroine, the poem pays perhaps the most splendid compliment ever offered to any human being in verse. 3he responded with an uncertain pension of =+5 8e"uivalent to perhaps o1+55 at the present time9, but not with the gift of political preferment which was still 3penser)s hopeN and in some bitterness of spirit he retired to Ireland, where in satirical poems he proceeded to attack the vanity of the world and the fickleness of men. His courtship and, in 1+4', his marriage produced his sonnet se"uence, called )%moretti) 8Italian for )=ove&poems)9, and his )6pithalamium,) the most magnificent of marriage hymns in 6nglish and probably in world&literatureN though his )Drothalamium,) in honor of the marriage of two noble sisters, is a near rival to it. 3penser, a >ealous Drotestant as well as a fine&spirited idealist, was in entire sympathy with =ord 7rey)s policy of stern repression of the Aatholic Irish, to whom, therefore, he must have appeared merely as one of the hated crew of their pitiless tyrants. In 1+42 he was appointed sheriff of the county of AorkN but a rebellion which broke out proved too strong for him, and he and his family barely escaped from the sack and destruction of his tower. He was sent with despatches to the 6nglish Aourt and died in =ondon in *anuary, 1+44, no doubt in part as a result of the hardships that he had suffered. He was buried in ,estminster %bbey. 3penser)s )<aerie hueene) is not only one of the longest but one of the greatest of 6nglish poemsN it is also very characteristically 6li>abethan. o deal with so delicate a thing by the method of mechanical analysis seems scarcely less than profanation, but accurate criticism can proceed in no other way. 1. 3ources and Dlan. <ew poems more clearly illustrate the variety of influences from which most great literary works result. In many respects the most direct source was the body of Italian romances of chivalry, especially the )1rlando <urioso) of %riosto, which was written in the early part of the sixteenth century. hese romances, in turn, combine the personages of the medieval <rench epics of Aharlemagne with something of the spirit of %rthurian romance and with a .enaissance atmosphere of magic and of rich fantastic beauty. 3penser borrows and absorbs all these things and moreover he imitates %riosto closely, often merely translating whole passages from his work. $ut this use of the Italian romances, further, carries with it a large employment of characters, incidents, and imagery from classical mythology and literature, among other things the elaborated similes of the classical epics. 3penser himself is directly influenced, also, by the medieval romances. ?ost important of all, all these elements are shaped to the purpose of the poem by 3penser)s high moral aim, which in turn springs largely from his Dlatonic idealism.

15 5

,hat the plan of the poem is 3penser explains in a prefatory letter to 3ir ,alter .alegh. he whole is a vast epic allegory, aiming, in the first place, to portray the virtues which make up the character of a perfect knightN an ideal embodiment, seen through .enaissance conceptions, of the best in the chivalrous system which in 3penser)s time had passed away, but to which some choice spirits still looked back with regretful admiration. %s 3penser intended, twelve moral virtues of the individual character, such as Holiness and emperance, were to be presented, each personified in the hero of one of twelve $ooksN and the crowning virtue, which 3penser, in .enaissance terms, called ?agnificence, and which may be interpreted as ?agnanimity, was to figure as Drince 8/ing9 %rthur, nominally the central hero of the whole poem, appearing and disappearing at fre"uent intervals. 3penser states in his prefatory letter that if he shall carry this first projected labor to a successful end he may continue it in still twelve other $ooks, similarly allegori>ing twelve political virtues. he allegorical form, we should hardly need to be reminded, is another heritage from medieval literature, but the effort to shape a perfect character, completely e"uipped to serve the 3tate, was characteristically of the Dlatoni>ing .enaissance. hat the reader may never be in danger of forgetting his moral aim, 3penser fills the poem with moral observations, fre"uently setting them as guides at the beginning of the cantos. !. he %llegory. =ack of :nity. 3o complex and vast a plan could scarcely have been worked out by any human genius in a perfect and clear unity, and besides this, 3penser, with all his high endowments, was decidedly weak in constructive skill. he allegory, at the outset, even in 3penser)s own statement, is confused and ha>y. <or beyond the primary moral interpretation, 3penser applies it in various secondary or parallel ways. In the widest sense, the entire struggle between the good and evil characters is to be taken as figuring forth the warfare both in the individual soul and in the world at large between .ighteousness and 3inN and in somewhat narrower senses, between Drotestantism and Aatholicism, and between 6ngland and 3pain. In some places, also, it represents other events and aspects of 6uropean politics. ?any of the single persons of the story, entering into each of these overlapping interpretations, bear double or triple roles. 7loriana, the <airy hueen, is abstractly 7lory, but humanly she is hueen 6li>abethN and from other points of view 6li>abeth is identified with several of the lesser heroines. 3o likewise the witch (uessa is both Dapal <alsehood and ?ary hueen of 3cotsN Drince %rthur both ?agnificence and 8with sorry inappropriateness9 the 6arl of =eicesterN and others of the characters stand with more or less consistency for such actual persons as Dhilip II of 3pain, Henry IB of <rance, and 3penser)s chief, =ord 7rey. In fact, in .enaissance spirit, and following 3idney)s )(efense of Doesie,) 3penser attempts to harmoni>e history, philosophy, ethics, and politics, subordinating them all to the art of poetry. he plan is grand but impracticable, and except for the original moral interpretation, to which in the earlier books the incidents are skilfully adapted, it is fruitless as one reads to undertake to follow the allegories. ?any readers are able, no doubt, merely to disregard them, but there are others, like =owell, to whom the moral, )when they come suddenly upon it, gives a shock of unpleasant surprise, as when in eating strawberries one)s teeth encounter grit.) he same lack of unity pervades the external story. he first $ook begins abruptly, in the middleN and for clearness) sake 3penser had been obliged to explain in his prefatory letter that the real commencement must be supposed to be a scene like those of %rthurian romance, at the court and annual feast of the <airy hueen, where twelve adventures had been assigned to as many knights. 3penser strangely planned to narrate this beginning of the whole in his final $ook, but even if it had been properly placed at the outset it would have served only as a loose enveloping action for a series of stories essentially as distinct as those in ?alory. ?ore serious, perhaps, is the lack of unity within the single books. 3penser)s genius was never for strongly condensed narrative, and following his Italian originals, though with less firmness, he wove his story as a tangled web of intermingled adventures, with almost endless elaboration and digression. Incident after incident is broken off and later resumed and episode after episode is introduced, until the reader almost abandons any effort to trace the main design. % part of the confusion is due to the mechanical plan. 6ach $ook consists of twelve cantos 8of from forty to ninety stan>as each9 and oftentimes 3penser has difficulty in filling out the scheme. ;o one, certainly, can regret that he actually completed only a "uarter of his projected work. In the six existing $ooks he has given almost exhaustive expression to a richly creative imagination, and additional prolongation would have done little but to repeat. 3till further, the characteristic .enaissance lack of certainty as to the proper materials for poetry is sometimes responsible for a rudely inharmonious element in the otherwise delightful romantic atmosphere. <or a single illustration, the description of the House of %lma in $ook II, Aanto ;ine, is a tediously literal medieval allegory of the 3oul and $odyN and occasional realistic details here and there in the poem at large are merely repellent to more modern taste.

15 6

#. he =ack of (ramatic .eality. % romantic allegory like ) he <aerie hueene) does not aim at intense lifelikeness&&a certain remoteness from the actual is one of its chief attractions. $ut sometimes in 3penser)s poem the reader feels too wide a divorce from reality. Dart of this fault is ascribable to the use of magic, to which there is repeated but inconsistent resort, especially, as in the medieval romances, for the protection of the good characters. 1ftentimes, indeed, by the persistent loading of the dice against the villains and scapegoats, the reader)s sympathy is half aroused in their behalf. hus in the fight of the .ed Aross /night with his special enemy, the dragon, where, of course, the /night must be victorious, it is evident that without the author)s help the dragon is incomparably the stronger. 1nce, swooping down on the /night, he sei>es him in his talons 8whose least touch was elsewhere said to be fatal9 and bears him aloft into the air. he valor of the /night compels him to relax his hold, but instead of merely dropping the /night to certain death, he carefully flies back to earth and sets him down in safety. ?ore definite regard to the actual laws of life would have given the poem greater firmness without the sacrifice of any of its charm. '. he .omantic $eauty. 7eneral %tmosphere and (escription. Aritical sincerity has re"uired us to dwell thus long on the defects of the poemN but once recogni>ed we should dismiss them altogether from mind and turn attention to the far more important beauties. he great "ualities of ) he <aerie hueene) are suggested by the title, ) he Doets) Doet,) which Aharles =amb, with happy inspiration, applied to 3penser. ?ost of all are we indebted to 3penser)s high idealism. ;o poem in the world is nobler than ) he <aerie hueene) in atmosphere and entire effect. 3penser himself is always the perfect gentleman of his own imagination, and in his company we are secure from the intrusion of anything morally base or mean. $ut in him, also, moral beauty is in full harmony with the beauty of art and the senses. 3penser was a Duritan, but a Duritan of the earlier 6nglish .enaissance, to whom the foes of righteousness were also the foes of external loveliness. 1f the three fierce 3aracen brother&knights who repeatedly appear in the service of 6vil, two are 3ansloy, the enemy of law, and 3ansfoy, the enemy of religion, but the third is 3ansjoy, enemy of pleasure. %nd of external beauty there has never been a more gifted lover than 3penser. ,e often feel, with =owell, that )he is the pure sense of the beautiful incarnated.) he poem is a romantically luxuriant wilderness of dreamily or languorously delightful visions, often rich with all the harmonies of form and motion and color and sound. %s =owell says, ) he true use of 3penser is as a gallery of pictures which we visit as the mood takes us, and where we spend an hour or two, long enough to sweeten our perceptions, not so long as to cloy them.) His landscapes, to speak of one particular feature, are usually of a rather vague, often of a vast nature, as suits the unreality of his poetic world, and usually, since 3penser was not a minute observer, follow the conventions of .enaissance literature. hey are commonly great plains, wide and gloomy forests 8where the trees of many climates often grow together in impossible harmony9, cool caves&&in general, lonely, "uiet, or soothing scenes, but all un"uestionable portions of a delightful fairyland. o him, it should be added, as to most men before modern 3cience had subdued the world to human uses, the sublime aspects of ;ature were mainly dreadfulN the ocean, for example, seemed to him a raging )waste of waters, wide and deep,) a mysterious and insatiate devourer of the lives of men. o the beauty of 3penser)s imagination, ideal and sensuous, corresponds his magnificent command of rhythm and of sound. %s a verbal melodist, especially a melodist of sweetness and of stately grace, and as a harmonist of prolonged and complex cadences, he is unsurpassable. $ut he has full command of his rhythm according to the subject, and can range from the most delicate suggestion of airy beauty to the roar of the tempest or the strident energy of battle. In vocabulary and phraseology his fluency appears inexhaustible. Here, as in ) he 3hepherd)s Aalendar,) he deliberately introduces, especially from Ahaucer, obsolete words and forms, such as the inflectional ending in &en which distinctly contribute to his romantic effect. His constant use of alliteration is very skilfulN the fre"uency of the alliteration on w is conspicuous but apparently accidental. +. he 3penserian 3tan>a. <or the external medium of all this beauty 3penser, modifying the ottava rima of %riosto 8a stan>a which rimes abababcc9, invented the stan>a which bears his own name and which is the only artificial stan>a of 6nglish origin that has ever passed into currency. F<ootnote: ;ote that this is not inconsistent with what is said above, of the sonnet.G he rime& scheme is ababbcbcc and in the last line the iambic pentameter gives place to an %lexandrine 8an iambic hexameter9. ,hether or not any stan>a form is as well adapted as blank verse or the rimed couplet for prolonged narrative is an interesting "uestion, but there can be no doubt that 3penser)s stan>a, firmly unified, in spite of its length, by its central couplet and by the finality of the last line, is a discovery of genius, and that the %lexandrine, )forever feeling for the next stan>a,) does much to bind the stan>as together. It has been adopted in no small number of the

15 7

greatest subse"uent 6nglish poems, including such various ones as $urns) )Aotter)s 3aturday ;ight,) $yron)s )Ahilde Harold,) /eats) )6ve of 3t. %gnes,) and 3helley)s )%donais.) In general style and spirit, it should be added, 3penser has been one of the most powerful influences on all succeeding 6nglish romantic poetry. wo further sentences of =owell well summari>e his whole general achievement: )His great merit is in the ideal treatment with which he glorified common things and gilded them with a ray of enthusiasm. He is a standing protest against the tyranny of the Aommonplace, and sows the seeds of a noble discontent with prosaic views of life and the dull uses to which it may be put.)

6li>abethan lyric poetry


) he <aerie hueene) is the only long 6li>abethan poem of the very highest rank, but 3penser, as we have seen, is almost e"ually conspicuous as a lyric poet. In that respect he was one among a throng of melodists who made the 6li>abethan age in many respects the greatest lyric period in the history of 6nglish or perhaps of any literature. 3till grander, to be sure, by the nature of the two forms, was the 6li>abethan achievement in the drama, which we shall consider in the next chapterN but the lyrics have the advantage in sheer delightfulness and, of course, in rapid and direct appeal. he >est for lyric poetry somewhat artificially inaugurated at Aourt by ,yatt and 3urrey seems to have largely subsided, like any other fad, after some years, but it vigorously revived, in much more genuine fashion, with the taste for other imaginative forms of literature, in the last two decades of 6li>abeth)s reign. It revived, too, not only among the courtiers but among all classesN in no other form of literature was the diversity of authors so markedN almost every writer of the period who was not purely a man of prose seems to have been gifted with the lyric power. he "ualities which especially distinguish the 6li>abethan lyrics are fluency, sweetness, melody, and an enthusiastic joy in life, all spontaneous, direct, and ex"uisite. :niting the genuineness of the popular ballad with the finer sense of conscious artistic poetry, these poems possess a charm different, though in an only half definable way, from that of any other lyrics. In subjects they display the usual lyric variety. here are songs of delight in ;atureN a multitude of love poems of all moodsN many pastorals, in which, generally, the pastoral conventions sit lightly on the genuine poetical feelingN occasional patriotic outburstsN and some reflective and religious poems. In stan>a structure the number of forms is unusually great, but in most cases stan>as are internally varied and have a large admixture of short, ringing or musing, lines. he lyrics were published sometimes in collections by single authors, sometimes in the series of anthologies which succeeded to ottel)s )?iscellany.) 3ome of these anthologies were books of songs with the accompanying musicN for music, brought with all the other cultural influences from Italy and <rance, was now enthusiastically cultivated, and the soft melody of many of the best 6li>abethan lyrics is that of accomplished composers. ?any of the lyrics, again, are included as songs in the dramas of the timeN and 3hakespeare)s comedies show him nearly as preeminent among the lyric poets as among the playwrights. 3ome of the finest of the lyrics are anonymous. %mong the best of the known poets are these: 7eorge 7ascoigne 8about 1+#5&1+009, a courtier and soldier, who bridges the gap between 3urrey and 3idneyN 3ir 6dward (yer 8about 1+'+&1-509, a scholar and statesman, author of one perfect lyric, )?y mind to me a kingdom is)N *ohn =yly 81++#&1-5-9, the 6uphuist and dramatistN ;icholas $reton 8about 1+'+ to about 1-!-9, a prolific writer in verse and prose and one of the most successful poets of the pastoral styleN .obert 3outhwell 8about 1+-!&1+4+9, a *esuit intriguer of ardent piety, finally imprisoned, tortured, and executed as a traitorN 7eorge Deele 81++2 to about 1+429, the dramatistN homas =odge 8about 1++2&1-!+9, poet, novelist, and physicianN Ahristopher ?arlowe 81+-'&1+4#9, the dramatistN homas ;ash 81+-0&1-519, one of the most prolific 6li>abethan hack writersN 3amuel (aniel 81+-!&1-149, scholar and critic, member in his later years of the royal household of *ames IN $arnabe $arnes 8about 1+-4&1-549N .ichard $arnfield 81+0'& 1-!09N 3ir ,alter .alegh 81++!&1-129, courtier, statesman, explorer, and scholarN *oshua 3ylvester 81+-#&1-129, linguist and merchant, known for his translation of the long religious poems of the <renchman (u $artas, through which he exercised an influence on ?iltonN <rancis (avison 8about 1+0+ to about 1-149, son of a counsellor of hueen 6li>abeth, a lawyerN and homas (ekker 8about

15 8

1+05 to about 1-'59, a ne)er&do&weel dramatist and hack&writer of irrepressible and delightful good spirits.

he sonnets
In the last decade, especially, of the century, no other lyric form compared in popularity with the sonnet. Here 6ngland was still following in the footsteps of Italy and <ranceN it has been estimated that in the course of the century over three hundred thousand sonnets were written in ,estern 6urope. In 6ngland as elsewhere most of these poems were inevitably of mediocre "uality and imitative in substance, ringing the changes with wearisome iteration on a minimum of ideas, often with the most extravagant use of conceits. Detrarch)s example was still commonly followedN the sonnets were generally composed in se"uences 8cycles9 of a hundred or more, addressed to the poet)s more or less imaginary cruel lady, though the note of manly independence introduced by ,yatt is fre"uent. <irst of the important 6nglish se"uences is the )%strophel and 3tella) of 3ir Dhilip 3idney, written about 1+25, published in 1+41. )%strophel) is a fanciful half&7reek anagram for the poet)s own name, and 3tella 83tar9 designates =ady Denelope (evereux, who at about this time married =ord .ich. he se"uence may very reasonably be interpreted as an expression of Dlatonic idealism, though it is sometimes taken in a sense less consistent with 3idney)s high reputation. 1f 3penser)s )%moretti) we have already spoken. $y far the finest of all the sonnets are the best ones 8a considerable part9 of 3hakespeare)s one hundred and fifty&four, which were not published until 1-54 but may have been mostly written before 1-55. heir interpretation has long been hotly debated. It is certain, however, that they do not form a connected se"uence. 3ome of them are occupied with urging a youth of high rank, 3hakespeare)s patron, who may have been either the 6arl of 3outhampton or ,illiam Herbert, 6arl of Dembroke, to marry and perpetuate his raceN others hint the story, real or imaginary, of 3hakespeare)s infatuation for a )dark lady,) leading to bitter disillusionN and still others seem to be occasional expressions of devotion to other friends of one or the other sex. Here as elsewhere 3hakespeare)s genius, at its best, is supreme over all rivalsN the first recorded criticism speaks of the )sugared sweetness) of his sonnetsN but his genius is not always at its best.

*ohn (onne and the beginning of the )metaphysical) poetry


he last decade of the sixteenth century presents also, in the poems of *ohn (onne, a new and very strange style of verse. (onne, born in 1+0#, possessed one of the keenest and most powerful intellects of the time, but his early manhood was largely wasted in dissipation, though he studied theology and law and seems to have seen military service. It was during this period that he wrote his love poems. hen, while living with his wife and children in uncertain dependence on noble patrons, he turned to religious poetry. %t last he entered the Ahurch, became famous as one of the most elo"uent preachers of the time, and through the favor of /ing *ames was rapidly promoted until he was made (ean of 3t. Daul)s Aathedral. He died in 1-#1 after having furnished a striking instance of the fantastic morbidness of the period 8post&6li>abethan9 by having his picture painted as he stood wrapped in his shroud on a funeral urn. he distinguishing general characteristic of (onne)s poetry is the remarkable combination of an aggressive intellectuality with the lyric form and spirit. ,hether true poetry or mere intellectual cleverness is the predominant element may reasonably be "uestionedN but on many readers (onne)s verse exercises a uni"ue attraction. Its definite peculiarities are outstanding: 1. $y a process of extreme exaggeration and minute elaboration (onne carries the 6li>abethan conceits almost to the farthest possible limit, achieving what 3amuel *ohnson two centuries later described as )enormous and disgusting hyperboles.) !. In so doing he makes relentless use of the intellect and of verbally precise but actually preposterous logic, striking out astonishingly brilliant but utterly fantastic flashes of wit. #. He draws the material of his figures of speech from highly unpoetical sources&&partly from the activities of every&day life, but especially from all the sciences and school&knowledge of the time. he material is abstract, but (onne gives it full poetic concrete pictures"ueness. hus he speaks of one spirit overtaking another at death as one bullet shot out of a gun may overtake another which has lesser velocity but was earlier discharged. It was because of these last two characteristics that (r. *ohnson applied to (onne and his followers the rather clumsy name of )?etaphysical) 8Dhilosophical9 poets. )<antastic) would have been a better word. '. In vigorous reaction against the sometimes nerveless melody of most contemporary poets (onne often makes his verse as ruggedly condensed 8often as obscure9 and as harsh as possible. Its wrenched accents and slurred syllables sometimes appear absolutely unmetrical, but it seems that (onne generally followed subtle rhythmical ideas of his own. He adds to the appearance of

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irregularity by experimenting with a large number of lyric stan>a forms&&a different form, in fact, for nearly every poem. +. In his love poems, while his sentiment is often Detrarchan, he often emphasi>es also the 6nglish note of independence, taking as a favorite theme the incredible fickleness of woman. In spirit (onne belongs much less to 6li>abethan poetry than to the following period, in which nearly half his life fell. 1f his great influence on the poetry of that period we shall speak in the proper place.

he influence of classical comedy and tragedy


In Ahapter IB we left the drama at that point, toward the middle of the sixteenth century, when the ?ystery Dlays had largely declined and ?oralities and Interlude&<arces, themselves decadent, were sharing in rather confused rivalry that degree of popular interest which remained unabsorbed by the religious, political, and social ferment. here was still to be a period of thirty or forty years before the flowering of the great 6li>abethan drama, but they were to be years of new, if uncertain, beginnings. he first new formative force was the influence of the classical drama, for which, with other things classical, the .enaissance had aroused enthusiasm. his force operated mainly not through writers for popular audiences, like the authors of most ?oralities and Interludes, but through men of the schools and the universities, writing for performances in their own circles or in that of the Aourt. It had now become a not uncommon thing for boys at the large schools to act in regular dramatic fashion, at first in =atin, afterward in 6nglish translation, some of the plays of the =atin comedians which had long formed a part of the school curriculum. 3hortly after the middle of the century, probably, the head&master of ,estminister 3chool, ;icholas :dall, took the further step of writing for his boys on the classical model an original farce&comedy, the amusing ).alph .oister (oister.) his play is so close a copy of Dlautus) )?iles 7loriosus) and erence)s )6unuchus) that there is little that is really 6nglish about itN a much larger element of local realism of the traditional 6nglish sort, in a classical framework, was presented in the coarse but really skillful )7ammer 7urton)s ;eedle,) which was probably written at about the same time, apparently by the Aambridge student ,illiam 3tevenson. ?eanwhile students at the universities, also, had been acting Dlautus and erence, and further, had been writing and acting =atin tragedies, as well as comedies, of their own composition. heir chief models for tragedy were the plays of the first&century .oman 3eneca, who may or may not have been identical with the philosopher who was the tutor of the 6mperor ;ero. $oth through these university imitations and directly, 3eneca)s very faulty plays continued for many years to exercise a great influence on 6nglish tragedy. <alling far short of the noble spirit of 7reek tragedy, which they in turn attempt to copy, 3eneca)s plays do observe its mechanical conventions, especially the unities of %ction and ime, the use of the chorus to comment on the action, the avoidance of violent action and deaths on the stage, and the use of messengers to report such events. <or proper dramatic action they largely substitute ranting morali>ing declamation, with crudely exaggerated passion, and they exhibit a great vein of melodramatic horror, for instance in the fre"uent use of the motive of implacable revenge for murder and of a ghost who incites to it. In the early 6li>abethan period, however, an age when life itself was dramatically intense and tragic, when everything classic was looked on with reverence, and when standards of taste were unformed, it was natural enough that such plays should pass for masterpieces. % direct imitation of 3eneca, famous as the first tragedy in 6nglish on classical lines, was the )7orboduc, or <errex and Dorrex,) of homas ;orton and homas 3ackville, acted in 1+-!. Its story, like those of some of 3hakespeare)s plays later, goes back ultimately to the account of one of the early reigns in 7eoffrey of ?onmouth)s )History.) )7orboduc) outdoes its 3enecan models in tedious morali>ing, and is painfully wooden in all respectsN but it has real importance not only because it is the first regular 6nglish tragedy, but because it was the first play to use the iambic pentameter blank verse which 3urrey had introduced to 6nglish poetry and which was destined to be the verse&form of really great 6nglish tragedy. ,hen they wrote the play ;orton and 3ackville were law students at the Inner emple, and from other law students during the following years came other plays, which were generally acted at festival seasons, such, as Ahristmas, at the lawyers) colleges, or before the hueen, though the common people were also admitted among the audience. :nlike )7orboduc,) these other university plays were not only for the most part crude and coarse in the same manner as earlier 6nglish plays, but in accordance also with the native

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6nglish tradition and in violent defiance of the classical principle of :nity, they generally combined tragical classical stories with realistic scenes of 6nglish comedy 8somewhat later with Italian stories9. ;evertheless, and this is the main thing, the more thoughtful members of the Aourt and :niversity circles, were now learning from the study of classical plays a sense for form and the fundamental distinction between tragedy and comedy.

he chronicle&history play
%bout twenty years before the end of the century there began to appear, at first at the Aourt and the :niversities, later on the popular stage, a form of play which was to hold, along with tragedy and comedy, an important place in the great decades that were to follow, namely the Ahronicle& History Dlay. his form of play generally presented the chief events in the whole or a part of the reign of some 6nglish king. It was largely a product of the pride which was being awakened among the people in the greatness of 6ngland under 6li>abeth, and of the conse"uent desire to know something of the past history of the country, and it received a great impulse from the enthusiasm aroused by the struggle with 3pain and the defeat of the %rmada. It was not, however, altogether a new creation, for its method was similar to that of the university plays which dealt with monarchs of classical history. It partly inherited from them the formless mixture of farcical humor with historical or supposedly historical fact which it shared with other plays of the time, and sometimes also an unusually reckless disregard of unity of action, time, and place. 3ince its main serious purpose, when it had one, was to convey information, the other chief dramatic principles, such as careful presentation of a few main characters and of a universally significant human struggle, were also generally disregarded. It was only in the hands of 3hakespeare that the species was to be moulded into true dramatic form and to attain real greatnessN and after a "uarter century of popularity it was to be reabsorbed into tragedy, of which in fact it was always only a special variety.

*ohn =yly
he first 6li>abethan dramatist of permanent individual importance is the comedian *ohn =yly, of whose early success at Aourt with the artificial romance )6uphues) we have already spoken. <rom )6uphues) =yly turned to the still more promising work of writing comedies for the Aourt entertainments with which hueen 6li>abeth was extremely lavish. he character of =yly)s plays was largely determined by the light and spectacular nature of these entertainments, and further by the fact that on most occasions the players at Aourt were boys. hese were primarily the )children Fchoir&boysG of the hueen)s Ahapel,) who for some generations had been sought out from all parts of 6ngland for their good voices and were very carefully trained for singing and for dramatic performances. he choir&boys of 3t. Daul)s Aathedral, similarly trained, also often acted before the hueen. ?any of the plays given by these boys were of the ordinary sorts, but it is evident that they would be most successful in dainty comedies especially adapted to their boyish capacity. 3uch comedies =yly proceeded to write, in prose. he subjects are from classical mythology or history or 6nglish folk&lore, into which =yly sometimes weaves an allegorical presentation of court intrigue. he plots are very slight, and though the structure is decidedly better than in most previous plays, the humorous sub&actions sometimes have little connection with the main action. Aharacteri>ation is still rudimentary, and altogether the plays present not so much a picture of reality as )a faint moonlight reflection of life.) ;one the less the best of them, such as )%lexander and Aampaspe,) are delightful in their sparkling delicacy, which is produced partly by the carefully&wrought style, similar to that of )6uphues,) but less artificial, and is enhanced by the charming lyrics which are scattered through them. <or all this the elaborate scenery and costuming of the Aourt entertainments provided a very harmonious background. hese plays were to exert a strong influence on 3hakespeare)s early comedies, probably suggesting to him: the use of prose for comedyN the value of snappy and witty dialogN refinement, as well as affectation, of styleN lyric atmosphereN the characters and tone of high comedy, contrasting so favorably with the usual coarse farce of the periodN and further such details as the employment of impudent boy&pages as a source of amusement.

Deele, 7reene, %nd /yd


1f the most important early contemporaries of 3hakespeare we have already mentioned two as noteworthy in other fields of literature. 7eorge Deele)s mas"ue&like )%rraignment of Daris) helps to

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show him as more a lyric poet than a dramatist. .obert 7reene)s plays, especially )<riar $acon and <riar $ungay,) reveal, like his novels, some real, though not very elaborate, power of characteri>ation. hey are especially important in developing the theme of romantic love with real fineness of feeling and thus helping to prepare the way for 3hakespeare in a very important particular. In marked contrast to these men is homas /yd, who about the year 1+45 attained a meteoric reputation with crude )tragedies of blood,) speciali>ed descendants of 3enecan tragedy, one of which may have been the early play on Hamlet which 3hakespeare used as the groundwork for his masterpiece.

Ahristopher ?arlowe, 1+-'&1+4#


Deele and 7reene were :niversity men who wrote partly for Aourt or academic audiences, partly for the popular stage. he distinction between the two sorts of drama was still further broken down in the work of Ahristopher ?arlowe, a poet of real genius, decidedly the chief dramatist among 3hakespeare)s early contemporaries, and the one from whom 3hakespeare learned the most. ?arlowe was born in 1+-' 8the same year as 3hakespeare9, the son of a shoemaker at Aanterbury. aking his master)s degree after seven years at Aambridge, in 1+20, he followed the other )university wits) to =ondon. here, probably the same year and the next, he astonished the public with the two parts of ) amburlaine the 7reat,) a dramati>ation of the stupendous career of the bloodthirsty ?ongol fourteenth&century con"ueror. hese plays, in spite of faults now conspicuous enough, are splendidly imaginative and poetic, and were by far the most powerful that had yet been written in 6ngland. ?arlowe followed them with ) he ragical History of (r. <austus,) a treatment of the medieval story which two hundred years later was to serve 7oethe for his masterpieceN with ) he *ew of ?alta,) which was to give 3hakespeare suggestions for ) he ?erchant of Benice)N and with )6dward the 3econd,) the first really artistic Ahronicle History play. %mong the literary adventurers of the age who led wild lives in the =ondon taverns ?arlowe is said to have attained a conspicuous reputation for violence and irreligion. He was killed in 1+4# in a reckless and foolish brawl, before he had reached the age of thirty. If ?arlowe)s life was unworthy, the fault must be laid rather at the door of circumstances than of his own genuine nature. His plays show him to have been an ardent idealist and a representative of many of the "ualities that made the greatness of the .enaissance. he .enaissance learning, the apparently boundless vistas which it had opened to the human spirit, and the consciousness of his own power, evidently intoxicated ?arlowe with a vast ambition to achieve results which in his youthful inexperience he could scarcely even picture to himself. His spirit, cramped and outraged by the impassable limitations of human life and by the conventions of society, beat recklessly against them with an impatience fruitless but partly grand. his is the underlying spirit of almost all his plays, struggling in them for expression. he Drolog to ) amburlaine) makes pretentious announcement that the author will discard the usual buffoonery of the popular stage and will set a new standard of tragic majesty: 3rom 0igging #eins of rhyming mother wits, And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, 'e'll lead you to the stately tent of war, 'here you shall hear the &cythian Tamburlaine Threatening the world with high astounding terms, And scourging kingdoms with his conGuering sword% amburlaine himself as ?arlowe presents him is a titanic, almost superhuman, figure who by sheer courage and pitiless unbending will raises himself from shepherd to general and then emperor of countless peoples, and sweeps like a whirlwind over the stage of the world, carrying everywhere overwhelming slaughter and desolation. His speeches are outbursts of incredible arrogance, e"ually powerful and bombastic. Indeed his blasphemous boasts of superiority to the gods seem almost justified by his apparently irresistible success. $ut at the end he learns that the laws of life are inexorable even for himN all his indignant rage cannot redeem his son from cowardice, or save his wife from death, or delay his own end. %s has been said, F<ootnote: Drofessor $arrett ,endell, ),illiam 3hakespeare,) p. #-.G ) amburlaine) expresses with )a profound, lasting, noble sense and in grandly symbolic terms, the eternal tragedy inherent in the conflict between human aspiration and human power.)

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<or several other reasons ) amburlaine) is of high importance. It gives repeated and splendid expression to the passionate haunting .enaissance >est for the beautiful. It is rich with extravagant sensuous descriptions, notable among those which abound gorgeously in all 6li>abethan poetry. $ut finest of all is the description of beauty by its effects which ?arlowe puts into the mouth of <austus at the sight of Helen of roy: 'as this the face that launched a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of ,lium?uch of ?arlowe)s strength, again, lies in his powerful and beautiful use of blank verse. <irst among the dramatists of the popular stage he discarded rime, and taking and vitali>ing the stiff pentameter line of )7orboduc,) gave it an immediate and lasting vogue for tragedy and high comedy. ?arlowe, virtually a beginner, could not be expected to carry blank verse to that perfection which his success made possible for 3hakespeareN he did not altogether escape monotony and commonplacenessN but he gained a high degree of flexibility and beauty by avoiding a regularly end&stopped arrangement, by taking pains to secure variety of pause and accent, and by giving his language poetic condensation and suggestiveness. His workmanship thoroughly justifies the characteri>ation )?arlowe)s mighty line,) which $en *onson in his tribute to 3hakespeare bestowed on it long after ?arlowe)s death. he greatest significance of ) amburlaine,) lastly, lies in the fact that it definitely established tragedy as a distinct form on the 6nglish popular stage, and invested it with proper dignity. hese are ?arlowe)s great achievements both in ) amburlaine) and in his later more restrained plays. His limitations must also be suggested. =ike other 6li>abethans he did not fully understand the distinction between drama and other literary formsN ) amburlaine) is not so much a regularly constructed tragedy, with a struggle between nearly e"ual persons and forces, artistically complicated and resolved, as an epic poem, a succession of adventures in war 8and love9. %gain, in spite of the prolog in ) amburlaine,) ?arlowe, in almost all his plays, and following the 6li>abethan custom, does attempt scenes of humor, but he attains only to the coarse and brutal horse&play at which the 6nglish audiences had laughed for centuries in the ?ystery plays and the Interludes. 6li>abethan also 8and before that medieval9 is the lack of historical perspective which gives to ?ongol shepherds the manners and speech of 7reek classical anti"uity as ?arlowe had learned to know it at the university. ?ore serious is the lack of mature skill in characteri>ation. amburlaine the man is an exaggerated typeN most of the men about him are his faint shadows, and those who are intended to be comic are preposterous. he women, though they have some differentiating touches, are certainly not more dramatically and vitally imagined. In his later plays ?arlowe makes gains in this respect, but he never arrives at full easy mastery and trenchantly convincing lifelikeness either in characteri>ation, in presentation of action, or in fine poetic finish. It has often been remarked that at the age when ?arlowe died 3hakespeare had produced not one of the great plays on which his reputation restsN but 3hakespeare)s genius came to maturity more surely, as well as more slowly, and there is no basis for the inference sometimes drawn that if ?arlowe had lived he would ever have e"ualled or even approached 3hakespere)s supreme achievement.

heatrical conditions and the theater buildings


$efore we pass to 3hakespeare we must briefly consider those external facts which conditioned the form of the 6li>abethan plays and explain many of those things in them which at the present time appear perplexing. I?1; 1< % H6;3, v, '. 1: 6. 3A6;6. rumpets sound. 6nter %lcibiades with his Dowers before %thens. O%lc. 3ound to this Aoward, and lascivious owne, 1ur terrible approach.O 3ounds a parly. he 3enators appears upon the ,als.

%n 6li>abethan stage
16 3

he medieval religious drama had been written and acted in many towns throughout the country, and was a far less important feature in the life of =ondon than of many other places. $ut as the capital became more and more the center of national life, the drama, with other forms of literature, was more largely appropriated by itN the 6li>abethan drama of the great period was altogether written in =ondon and belonged distinctly to it. :ntil well into the seventeenth century, to be sure, the =ondon companies made fre"uent tours through the country, but that was chiefly when the prevalence of the plague had necessitated the closing of the =ondon theaters or when for other reasons acting there had become temporarily unprofitable. he companies themselves had now assumed a regular organi>ation. hey retained a trace of their origin in that each was under the protection of some influential noble and was called, for example, )=ord =eicester)s 3ervants,) or ) he =ord %dmiral)s 3ervants.) $ut this connection was for the most part nominal&&the companies were virtually very much like the stock&companies of the nineteenth century. $y the beginning of the great period the membership of each troupe was made up of at least three classes of persons. %t the bottom of the scale were the boy&apprentices who were employed, as 3hakespeare is said to have been at first, in miscellaneous menial capacities. ;ext came the paid actorsN and lastly the shareholders, generally also actors, some or all of whom were the general managers. he writers of plays were sometimes members of the companies, as in 3hakespeare)s caseN sometimes, however, they were independent. :ntil near the middle of 6li>abeth)s reign there were no special theater buildings, but the players, in =ondon or elsewhere, acted wherever they could find an available place&&in open s"uares, large halls, or, especially, in the "uadrangular open inner yards of inns. %s the profession became better organi>ed and as the plays gained in "uality, such makeshift accommodations became more and more unsatisfactoryN but there were special difficulties in the way of securing better ones in =ondon. <or the population and magistrates of =ondon were prevailingly Duritan, and the great body of the Duritans, then as always, were strongly opposed to the theater as a frivolous and irreligious thing&&an attitude for which the lives of the players and the character of many plays afforded, then as almost always, only too much reason. he city was very jealous of its prerogativesN so that in spite of hueen 6li>abeth)s strong patronage of the drama, throughout her whole reign no public theater buildings were allowed within the limits of the city corporation. $ut these limits were narrow, and in 1+0- *ames $urbage inaugurated a new era by erecting ) he heater) just to the north of the )city,) only a few minutes) walk from the center of population. His example was soon followed by other managers, though the favorite place for the theaters soon came to be the )$ankside,) the region in 3outhwark just across the hames from the )city) where Ahaucer)s abard Inn had stood and where pits for bear&baiting and cock&fighting had long flourished. he structure of the 6li>abethan theater was naturally imitated from its chief predecessor, the inn& yard. here, under the open sky, opposite the street entrance, the players had been accustomed to set up their stage. %bout it, on three sides, the ordinary part of the audience had stood during the performance, while the inn&guests and persons able to pay a fixed price had sat in the open galleries which lined the building and ran all around the yard. In the theaters, therefore, at first generally s"uare&built or octagonal, the stage projected from the rear wall well toward the center of an unroofed pit 8the present&day )orchestra)9, where, still on three sides of the stage, the common people, admitted for sixpence or less, stood and jostled each other, either going home when it rained or staying and getting wet as the degree of their interest in the play might determine. he enveloping building proper was occupied with tiers of galleries, generally two or three in number, provided with seatsN and here, of course, sat the people of means, the women avoiding embarrassment and annoyance only by being always masked. $ehind the unprotected front part of the stage the middle part was covered by a lean&to roof sloping down from the rear wall of the building and supported by two pillars standing on the stage. his roof concealed a loft, from which gods and goddesses or any appropriate properties could be let down by mechanical devices. 3till farther back, under the galleries, was the )rear&stage,) which could be used to represent inner roomsN and that part of the lower gallery immediately above it was generally appropriated as a part of the stage, representing such places as city walls or the second stories of houses. he musicians) place was also just beside in the gallery. he stage, therefore, was a )platform stage,) seen by the audience from almost all sides, not, as in our own time, a )picture&stage,) with its scenes viewed through a single large frame. his arrangement made impossible any front curtain, though a curtain was generally hung before the rear stage, from the floor of the gallery. Hence the changes between scenes must generally be made in full view of the audience, and instead of ending the scenes with striking situations the dramatists must arrange for a withdrawal of the actors, only avoiding if possible the effect of a

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mere anti&climax. (ead bodies must either get up and walk away in plain sight or be carried off, either by stage hands, or, as part of the action, by other characters in the play. his latter device was sometimes adopted at considerable violence to probability, as when 3hakespeare makes <alstaff bear away Hotspur, and Hamlet, Dolonius. =ikewise, while the medieval habit of elaborate costuming was continued, there was every reason for adhering to the medieval simplicity of scenery. % single potted tree might symboli>e a forest, and houses and caverns, with a great deal else, might be left to the imagination of the audience. In no respect, indeed, was realism of setting an important concern of either dramatist or audienceN in many cases, evidently, neither of them cared to think of a scene as located in any precise spotN hence the anxious effort of 3hakespeare)s editors on this point is beside the mark. his nonchalance made for easy transition from one place to another, and the whole simplicity of staging had the important advantage of allowing the audience to center their attention on the play rather than on the accompaniments. 1n the rear& stage, however, behind the curtain, more elaborate scenery might be placed, and 6li>abethan plays, like those of our own day, seem sometimes to have )alternation scenes,) intended to be acted in front, while the next background was being prepared behind the balcony curtain. he lack of elaborate settings also facilitated rapidity of action, and the plays, beginning at three in the afternoon, were ordinarily over by the dinner&hour of five. =ess satisfactory was the entire absence of women&actors, who did not appear on the public stage until after the .estoration of 1--5. he inade"uacy of the boys who took the part of the women&characters is alluded to by 3hakespeare and must have been a source of fre"uent irritation to any dramatist who was attempting to present a subtle or complex heroine. =astly may be mentioned the pictures"ue but very objectionable custom of the young dandies who insisted on carrying their chairs onto the sides of the stage itself, where they not only made themselves conspicuous objects of attention but seriously crowded the actors and rudely abused them if the play was not to their liking. It should be added that from the latter part of 6li>abeth)s reign there existed within the city itself certain )private) theaters, used by the boys) companies and others, whose structure was more like that of the theaters of our own time and where plays were given by artificial light.

3hakespeare, 1+-'&1-1,illiam 3hakespeare, by universal consent the greatest author of 6ngland, if not of the world, occupies chronologically a central position in the 6li>abethan drama. He was born in 1+-' in the good&si>ed village of 3tratford&on&%von in ,arwickshire, near the middle of 6ngland, where the level but beautiful country furnished full external stimulus for a poet)s eye and heart. His father, *ohn 3hakespeare, who was a general dealer in agricultural products and other commodities, was one of the chief citi>ens of the village, and during his son)s childhood was chosen an alderman and shortly after mayor, as we should call it. $ut by 1+00 his prosperity declined, apparently through his own shiftlessness, and for many years he was harassed with legal difficulties. In the village )grammar) school ,illiam 3hakespeare had ac"uired the rudiments of book&knowledge, consisting largely of =atin, but his chief education was from ;ature and experience. %s his father)s troubles thickened he was very likely removed from school, but at the age of eighteen, under circumstances not altogether creditable to himself, he married %nne Hathaway, a woman eight years his senior, who lived in the neighboring village of 3hottery. he suggestion that the marriage proved positively unhappy is supported by no real evidence, but what little is known of 3hakespeare)s later life implies that it was not exceptionally congenial. wo girls and a boy were born from it. In his early manhood, apparently between 1+2- and 1+22, 3hakespeare left 3tratford to seek his fortune in =ondon. %s to the circumstances, there is reasonable plausibility in the later tradition that he had joined in poaching raids on the deer&park of 3ir homas =ucy, a neighboring country gentleman, and found it desirable to get beyond the bounds of that gentleman)s authority. It is also likely enough that 3hakespeare had been fascinated by the performances of traveling dramatic companies at 3tratford and by the 6arl of =eicester)s costly entertainment of hueen 6li>abeth in 1+0+ at the castle of /enilworth, not many miles away. %t any rate, in =ondon he evidently soon secured mechanical employment in a theatrical company, presumably the one then known as =ord =eicester)s company, with which, in that case, he was always thereafter connected. His energy and interest must soon have won him the opportunity to show his skill as actor and also reviser and collaborator in play&writing, then as independent authorN and after the first few years of slow progress his rise was rapid. He became one of the leading members, later one of the chief shareholders, of the company, and evidently enjoyed a substantial reputation as a playwright and

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a good, though not a great, actor. his was both at Aourt 8where, however, actors had no social standing9 and in the =ondon dramatic circle. 1f his personal life only the most fragmentary record has been preserved, through occasional mentions in miscellaneous documents, but it is evident that his rich nature was partly appreciated and thoroughly loved by his associates. His business talent was marked and before the end of his dramatic career he seems to have been receiving as manager, shareholder, playwright and actor, a yearly income e"uivalent to o!+,555 in money of the present time. He early began to devote attention to paying the debts of his father, who lived until 1-51, and restoring the fortunes of his family in 3tratford. he death of his only son, Hamnet, in 1+4-, must have been a severe blow to him, but he obtained from the Heralds) Aollege the grant of a family coat of arms, which secured the position of the family as gentlefolksN in 1+40 he purchased ;ew Dlace, the largest house in 3tratfordN and later on he ac"uired other large property rights there. How often he may have visited 3tratford in the twenty&five years of his career in =ondon we have no informationN but however enjoyable =ondon life and the society of the writers at the )?ermaid) avern may have been to him, he probably always looked forward to ending his life as the chief country gentleman of his native village. hither he retired about 1-15 or 1-1!, and there he died prematurely in 1-1-, just as he was completing his fifty&second year. 3hakespeare)s dramatic career falls naturally into four successive divisions of increasing maturity. o be sure, no definite record of the order of his plays has come down to us, and it can scarcely be said that we certainly know the exact date of a single one of themN but the evidence of the title& page dates of such of them as were hastily published during his lifetime, of allusions to them in other writings of the time, and other scattering facts of one sort or another, joined with the more important internal evidence of comparative maturity of mind and art which shows )?acbeth) and ) he ,inter)s ale,) for example, vastly superior to )=ove)s =abour)s =ost)&&all this evidence together enables us to arrange the plays in a chronological order which is certainly approximately correct. he first of the four periods thus disclosed is that of experiment and preparation, from about 1+22 to about 1+4#, when 3hakespeare tried his hand at virtually every current kind of dramatic work. Its most important product is ).ichard III,) a melodramatic chronicle&history play, largely imitative of ?arlowe and yet showing striking power. %t the end of this period 3hakespeare issued two rather long narrative poems on classical subjects, )Benus and %donis,) and ) he .ape of =ucrece,) dedicating them both to the young 6arl of 3outhampton, who thus appears as his patron. $oth display great fluency in the most luxuriant and sensuous .enaissance manner, and though they appeal little to the taste of the present day )Benus and %donis,) in particular, seems to have become at once the most popular poem of its own time. 3hakespeare himself regarded them very seriously, publishing them with care, though he, like most 6li>abethan dramatists, never thought it worth while to put his plays into print except to safeguard the property rights of his company in them. Drobably at about the end of his first period, also, he began the composition of his sonnets, of which we have already spoken. he second period of 3hakespeare)s work, extending from about 1+4' to about 1-51, is occupied chiefly with chronicle&history plays and happy comedies. he chronicle&history plays begin 8probably9 with the subtile and fascinating, though not yet absolutely masterful study of contrasting characters in ).ichard II)N continue through the two parts of )Henry IB,) where the realistic comedy action of <alstaff and his group makes history familiarly vividN and end with the epic glorification of a typical 6nglish hero&king in )Henry B.) he comedies include the charmingly fantastic )?idsummer ;ight)s (ream)N ) he ?erchant of Benice,) where a story of tragic sternness is strikingly contrasted with the most poetical ideali>ing romance and yet is harmoniously blended into itN )?uch %do %bout ;othing,) a magnificent example of high comedy of character and witN )%s You =ike It,) the supreme delightful achievement of 6li>abethan and all 6nglish pastoral romanceN and ) welfth ;ight,) where again charming romantic sentiment is made believable by combination with a story of comic realism. 6ven in the one, uni"ue, tragedy of the period, ).omeo and *uliet,) the main impression is not that of the predestined tragedy, but that of ideal youthful love, too gloriously radiant to be viewed with sorrow even in its fatal outcome. he third period, extending from about 1-51 to about 1-54, includes 3hakespeare)s great tragedies and certain cynical plays, which formal classification mis&names comedies. In these plays as a group 3hakespeare sets himself to grapple with the deepest and darkest problems of human character and lifeN but it is only very uncertain inference that he was himself passing at this time through a period of bitterness and disillusion. )*ulius Aasar) presents the material failure of an unpractical idealist 8$rutus9N )Hamlet) the struggle of a perplexed and divided soulN )1thello) the ruin of a noble life by an evil one through the terrible

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power of jealousyN )/ing =ear) unnatural ingratitude working its hateful will and yet thwarted at the end by its own excess and by faithful loveN and )?acbeth) the destruction of a large nature by material ambition. ,ithout doubt this is the greatest continuous group of plays ever wrought out by a human mind, and they are followed by )%ntony and Aleopatra,) which magnificently portrays the emptiness of a sensual passion against the background of a decaying civili>ation. 3hakespeare did not solve the insoluble problems of life, but having presented them as powerfully, perhaps, as is possible for human intelligence, he turned in his last period, of only two or three years, to the expression of the serene philosophy of life in which he himself must have now taken refuge. he noble and beautiful romance&comedies, )Aymbeline,) ) he ,inter)s ale,) and ) he empest,) suggest that men do best to forget what is painful and center their attention on the pleasing and encouraging things in a world where there is at least an inexhaustible store of beauty and goodness and delight. 3hakespeare may now well have felt, as his retirement to 3tratford suggests, that in his nearly forty plays he had fully expressed himself and had earned the right to a long and peaceful old age. he latter, as we have seen, was denied himN but seven years after his death two of his fellow& managers assured the preservation of the plays whose uni"ue importance he himself did not suspect by collecting them in the first folio edition of his complete dramatic works. 3hakespeare)s greatness rests on supreme achievement&&the result of the highest genius matured by experience and by careful experiment and labor&&in all phases of the work of a poetic dramatist. he surpassing charm of his rendering of the romantic beauty and joy of life and the profundity of his presentation of its tragic side we have already suggested. 6"ually sure and comprehensive is his portrayal of characters. ,ith the certainty of absolute mastery he causes men and women to live for us, a vast representative group, in all the actual variety of age and station, perfectly reali>ed in all the subtile diversities and inconsistencies of protean human nature. ;ot less notable than his strong men are his delightful young heroines, romantic 6li>abethan heroines, to be sure, with an unconventionality, many of them, which does not belong to such women in the more restricted world of reality, but pure embodiments of the finest womanly delicacy, keenness, and vivacity. 3hakespeare, it is true, was a practical dramatist. His background characters are often present in the plays not in order to be entirely real but in order to furnish amusementN and even in the case of the chief ones, just as in the treatment of incidents, he is always perfectly ready to sacrifice literal truth to dramatic effect. $ut these things are only the corollaries of all successful playwriting and of all art. o 3hakespeare)s mastery of poetic expression similarly strong superlatives must be applied. <or his form he perfected ?arlowe)s blank verse, developing it to the farthest possible limits of fluency, variety, and melodyN though he retained the riming couplet for occasional use 8partly for the sake of variety9 and fre"uently made use also of prose, both for the same reason and in realistic or commonplace scenes. %s regards the spirit of poetry, it scarcely need be said that nowhere else in literature is there a like storehouse of the most delightful and the greatest ideas phrased with the utmost power of condensed expression and figurative beauty. In dramatic structure his greatness is on the whole less conspicuous. ,riting for success on the 6li>abethan stage, he seldom attempted to reduce its romantic licenses to the perfection of an absolute standard. ).omeo and *uliet, )Hamlet,) and indeed most of his plays, contain unnecessary scenes, interesting to the 6li>abethans, which 3ophocles as well as .acine would have pruned away. Yet when 3hakespeare chooses, as in )1thello,) to develop a play with the sternest and most rapid directness, he proves essentially the e"ual even of the most rigid technician. 3hakespeare, indeed, although as $en *onson said, )he was not for an age but for all time,) was in every respect a thorough 6li>abethan also, and does not escape the superficial 6li>abethan faults. Ahief of these, perhaps, is his fondness for )conceits,) with which he makes his plays, especially some of the earlier ones, sparkle, brilliantly, but often inappropriately. In his prose style, again, except in the talk of commonplace persons, he never outgrew, or wished to outgrow, a large measure of 6li>abethan self&conscious elegance. 3carcely a fault is his other 6li>abethan habit of seldom, perhaps never, inventing the whole of his stories, but drawing the outlines of them from previous works&&6nglish chronicles, poems, or plays, Italian )novels,) or the biographies of Dlutarch. $ut in the majority of cases these sources provided him only with bare or even crude sketches, and perhaps nothing furnishes clearer proof of his genius than the way in which he has seen the

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human significance in stories baldly and wretchedly told, where the figures are merely wooden types, and by the power of imagination has transformed them into the greatest literary masterpieces, profound revelations of the underlying forces of life. 3hakespeare, like every other great man, has been the object of much unintelligent, and misdirected adulation, but his greatness, so far from suffering diminution, grows more apparent with the passage of time and the increase of study. F;ote: he theory persistently advocated during the last half century that 3hakespeare)s works were really written not by himself but by <rancis $acon or some other person can never gain credence with any competent judge. 1ur knowledge of 3hakespeare)s life, slight as it is, is really at least as great as that which has been preserved of almost any dramatist of the periodN for dramatists were not then looked on as persons of permanent importance. here is really much direct contemporary documentary evidence, as we have already indicated, of 3hakespeare)s authorship of the plays and poems. ;o theory, further, could be more preposterous, to any one really ac"uainted with literature, than the idea that the imaginative poetry of 3hakespeare was produced by the essentially scientific and prosaic mind of <rancis $acon. %s to the cipher systems supposed to reveal hidden messages in the plays: <irst, no poet bending his energies to the composition of such masterpieces as 3hakespeare)s could possibly concern himself at the same time with weaving into them a complicated and trifling cryptogram. 3econd, the cipher systems are absolutely arbitrary and unscientific, applied to any writings whatever can be made to )prove) anything that one likes, and indeed have been discredited in the hands of their own inventors by being made to )prove) far too much. hird, it has been demonstrated more than once that the verbal coincidences on which the cipher systems rest are no more numerous than the law of mathematical probabilities re"uires. %side from actually vicious pursuits, there can be no more melancholy waste of time than the effort to demonstrate that 3hakespeare is not the real author of his reputed works.G

;ational life from 1-5# to 1--5


,e have already observed that, as 3hakespeare)s career suggests, there was no abrupt change in either life or literature at the death of hueen 6li>abeth in 1-5#N and in fact the 6li>abethan period of literature is often made to include the reign of *ames I, 1-5#&1-!+ 8the *acobean period F<ootnote: )*aco)bus) is the =atin form of )*ames.)G9, or even, especially in the case of the drama, that of Aharles I, 1-!+&1-'4 8the Aarolean period9. Aertainly the drama of all three reigns forms a continuously developing whole, and should be discussed as such. ;one the less the spirit of the first half of the seventeenth century came gradually to be widely different from that of the preceding fifty years, and before going on to 3hakespeare)s successors we must stop to indicate briefly wherein the difference consists and for this purpose to speak of the determining events of the period. $efore the end of 6li>abeth)s reign, indeed, there had been a perceptible changeN as the "ueen grew old and morose the national life seemed also to lose its youth and freshness. Her successor and distant cousin, *ames of 3cotland 8*ames I of 6ngland9, was a bigoted pedant, and under his rule the perennial Aourt corruption, striking in, became foul and noisome. he national Ahurch, instead of protesting, steadily identified itself more closely with the Aourt party, and its ruling officials, on the whole, grew more and more worldly and intolerant. =ittle by little the nation found itself divided into two great factionsN on the one hand the Aavaliers, the party of the Aourt, the nobles, and the Ahurch, who continued to be largely dominated by the .enaissance >est for beauty and, especially, pleasureN and on the other hand the Duritans, comprising the bulk of the middle classes, controlled by the religious principles of the .eformation, often, in their opposition to Aavalier frivolity, stern and narrow, and more and more inclined to separate themselves from the 6nglish Ahurch in denominations of their own. he breach steadily widened until in 1-'!, under the arbitrary rule of Aharles I, the Aivil ,ar broke out. In three years the Duritan Darliament was victorious, and in 1-'4 the extreme minority of the Duritans, supported by the army, took the unprecedented step of putting /ing Aharles to death, and declared 6ngland a Aommonwealth. $ut in four years more the Darliamentary government, bigoted and inefficient, made itself impossible, and then for five years, until his death, 1liver Aromwell strongly ruled 6ngland as Drotector. %nother year and a half of chaos confirmed the nation in a natural reaction, and in 1--5 the unworthy 3tuart race was restored in the person of the base and frivolous Aharles II. he general influence of the forces which produced these events shows clearly in the changing tone of the drama, the work of those dramatists who were 3hakespeare)s later contemporaries and successors.

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$en *onson
he second place among the 6li>abethan and *acobean dramatists is universally assigned, on the whole justly, to $en *onson, who both in temperament and in artistic theories and practice presents a complete contrast to 3hakespeare. *onson, the posthumous son of an impoverished gentleman&clergyman, was born in =ondon in 1+0#. %t ,estminster 3chool he received a permanent bent toward classical studies from the headmaster, ,illiam Aamden, who was one of the greatest scholars of the time. <orced into the uncongenial trade of his stepfather, a master& bricklayer, he soon deserted it to enlist among the 6nglish soldiers who were helping the (utch to fight their 3panish oppressors. Here he exhibited some of his dominating traits by challenging a champion from the other army and killing him in classical fashion in single combat between the lines. $y about the age of twenty he was back in =ondon and married to a wife whom he later described as being )virtuous but a shrew,) and who at one time found it more agreeable to live apart from him. He became an actor 8at which profession he failed9 and a writer of plays. %bout 1+42 he displayed his distinguishing realistic style in the comedy )6very ?an in His Humour,) which was acted by 3hakespeare)s company, it is said through 3hakespeare)s friendly influence. %t about the same time the burly *onson killed another actor in a duel and escaped capital punishment only through )benefit of clergy) 8the exemption still allowed to educated men9. he plays which *onson produced during the following years were chiefly satirical attacks on other dramatists, especially ?arston and (ekker, who retorted in kind. hus there developed a fierce actors) "uarrel, referred to in 3hakespeare)s )Hamlet,) in which the )children)s) companies had some active but now uncertain part. $efore it was over most of the dramatists had taken sides against *onson, whose arrogant and violent self&assertiveness put him at odds, sooner or later, with nearly every one with whom he had much to do. In 1-5# he made peace, only to become involved in other, still more, serious difficulties. 3hortly after the accession of /ing *ames, *onson, Ahapman, and ?arston brought out a comedy, )6astward Hoe,) in which they offended the king by satirical flings at the needy 3cotsmen to whom *ames was freely awarding Aourt positions. hey were imprisoned and for a while, according to the barbarous procedure of the time, were in danger of losing their ears and noses. %t a ban"uet celebrating their release, *onson reports, his )old mother) produced a paper of poison which, if necessary, she had intended to administer to him to save him from this disgrace, and of which, she said, to show that she was )no churl,) she would herself first have drunk. *ust before this incident, in 1-5#, *onson had turned to tragedy and written )3ejanus,) which marks the beginning of his most important decade. He followed up )3ejanus) after several years with the less excellent )Aatiline,) but his most significant dramatic works, on the whole, are his four great satirical comedies. )Bolpone, or the <ox,) assails gross viceN )6picoene, the 3ilent ,oman,) ridicules various sorts of absurd personsN ) he %lchemist) castigates "uackery and its foolish encouragersN and )$artholomew <air) is a coarse but overwhelming broadside at Duritan hypocrisy. 3trange as it seems in the author of these masterpieces of frank realism, *onson at the same time was showing himself the most gifted writer of the Aourt masks, which now, arrived at the last period of their evolution, were reaching the extreme of spectacular elaborateness. 6arly in *ames) reign, therefore, *onson was made Aourt Doet, and during the next thirty years he produced about forty masks, devoting to them much attention and care, and "uarreling violently with Inigo *ones, the Aourt architect, who contrived the stage settings. (uring this period *onson was under the patronage of various nobles, and he also reigned as dictator at the club of literary men which 3ir ,alter .aleigh had founded at the ?ermaid avern 8so called, like other inns, from its sign9. % well&known poetical letter of the dramatist <rancis $eaumont to *onson celebrates the club meetingsN and e"ually well known is a description given in the next generation from hearsay and inference by the anti"uary homas <uller: )?any were the wit&combats betwixt 3hakespeare and $en *onson, which two I behold like a 3panish great galleon and an 6nglish man&of&war: ?aster *onson, like the former, was built far higher in learningN solid, but slow in his performancesN 3hakespere, with the 6nglish man&of&war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and take advantage of all winds, by the "uickness of his wit and invention.) he last do>en years of *onson)s life were unhappy. hough he had a pension from the Aourt, he was sometimes in financial straitsN and for a time he lost his position as Aourt Doet. He resumed the writing of regular plays, but his style no longer pleased the publicN and he often suffered much from sickness. ;evertheless at the (evil avern he collected about him a circle of younger admirers, some of them among the oncoming poets, who were proud to be known as )3ons of $en,) and who largely accepted as authoritative his opinions on literary matters. hus his life, which

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ended in 1-#0, did not altogether go out in gloom. 1n the plain stone which alone, for a long time, marked his grave in ,estminster %bbey an unknown admirer inscribed the famous epitaph, )1 rare $en *onson.) %s a man *onson, pugnacious, capricious, ill&mannered, sometimes surly, intemperate in drink and in other respects, is an object for only very "ualified admirationN and as a writer he cannot properly be said to possess that indefinable thing, genius, which is essential to the truest greatness. $ut both as man and as writer he manifested great forceN and in both drama and poetry he stands for several distinct literary principles and attainments highly important both in themselves and for their subse"uent influence. 1. ?ost conspicuous in his dramas is his realism, often, as we have said, extremely coarse, and a direct reflection of his intellect, which was as strongly masculine as his body and altogether lacking, where the regular drama was concerned, in fineness of sentiment or poetic feeling. He early assumed an attitude of pronounced opposition to the 6li>abethan romantic plays, which seemed to him not only lawless in artistic structure but unreal and trifling in atmosphere and substance. 8 hat he was not, however, as has sometimes been said, personally hostile to 3hakespeare is clear, among other things, from his poetic tributes in the folio edition of 3hakespeare and from his direct statement elsewhere that he loved 3hakespeare almost to idolatry.9 *onson)s purpose was to present life as he believed it to beN he was thoroughly ac"uainted with its worser sideN and he refused to conceal anything that appeared to him significant. His plays, therefore, have very much that is flatly offensive to the taste which seeks in literature, prevailingly, for idealism and beautyN but they are, nevertheless, generally speaking, powerful portrayals of actual life. !. *onson)s purpose, however, was never unworthyN rather, it was distinctly to uphold morality. His frankest plays, as we have indicated, are attacks on vice and folly, and sometimes, it is said, had important reformatory influence on contemporary manners. He held, indeed, that in the drama, even in comedy, the function of teaching was as important as that of giving pleasure. His attitude toward his audiences was that of a learned schoolmaster, whose ideas they should accept with deferential respectN and when they did not approve his plays he was outspoken in indignant contempt. #. *onson)s self&satisfaction and his critical sense of intellectual superiority to the generality of mankind produce also a marked and disagreeable lack of sympathy in his portrayal of both life and character. he world of his dramas is mostly made up of knaves, scoundrels, hypocrites, fools, and dupesN and it includes among its really important characters very few excellent men and not a single really good woman. *onson viewed his fellow&men, in the mass, with complete scorn, which it was one of his moral and artistic principles not to disguise. His characteristic comedies all belong, further, to the particular type which he himself originated, namely, the )Aomedy of Humors.) F<ootnote: he meaning of this, term can be understood only by some explanation of the history of the word )Humor.) In the first place this was the =atin name for )li"uid.) %ccording to medieval physiology there were four chief li"uids in the human body, namely blood, phlegm, bile, and black bile, and an excess of any of them produced an undue predominance of the corresponding "ualityN thus, an excess of phlegm made a person phlegmatic, or dullN or an excess of black bile, melancholy. In the 6li>abethan idiom, therefore, )humor) came to mean a mood, and then any exaggerated "uality or marked peculiarity in a person.G %iming in these plays to flail the follies of his time, he makes his chief characters, in spite of his realistic purpose, extreme and distorted )humors,) each, in spite of individual traits, the embodiment of some one abstract vice&&cowardice, sensualism, hypocrisy, or what not. oo often, also, the unreality is increased because *onson takes the characters from the stock figures of =atin comedy rather than from genuine 6nglish life. '. In opposition to the free 6li>abethan romantic structure, *onson stood for and deliberately intended to revive the classical styleN though with characteristic good sense he declared that not all the classical practices were applicable to 6nglish plays. He generally observed unity not only of action but also of time 8a single day9 and place, sometimes with serious resultant loss of probability. In his tragedies, )3ejanus) and )Aatiline,) he excluded comic materialN for the most part

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he kept scenes of death and violence off the stageN and he very carefully and slowly constructed plays which have nothing, indeed, of the poetic greatness of 3ophocles or 6uripides 8rather a *onsonese broad solidity9 but which move steadily to their climaxes and then on to the catastrophes in the compact classical manner. He carried his scholarship, however, to the point of pedantry, not only in the illustrative extracts from =atin authors with which in the printed edition he filled the lower half of his pages, but in the plays themselves in the scrupulous exactitude of his rendering of the details of .oman life. he plays reconstruct the ancient world with much more minute accuracy than do 3hakespeare)sN the student should consider for himself whether they succeed better in reproducing its human reality, making it a living part of the reader)s mental and spiritual possessions. +. *onson)s style in his plays, especially the blank verse of his tragedies, exhibits the same general characteristics. It is strong, compact, and sometimes powerful, but it entirely lacks imaginative poetic beauty&&it is really only rhythmical prose, though sometimes suffused with passion. -. he surprising skill which *onson, author of such plays, showed in devising the court masks, daintily unsubstantial creations of moral allegory, classical myth, and eutonic folklore, is rendered less surprising, perhaps, by the lack in the masks of any very great lyric "uality. here is no lyric "uality at all in the greater part of his non&dramatic verse, though there is an occasional delightful exception, as in the famous )(rink to me only with thine eyes.) $ut of his non&dramatic verse we shall speak in the next chapter. 0. =ast, and not least: *onson)s revolt from romanticism to classicism initiated, chiefly in non& dramatic verse, the movement for restraint and regularity, which, making slow headway during the next half century, was to issue in the triumphant pseudo&classicism of the generations of (ryden and Dope. hus, notable in himself, he was significant also as one of the moving forces of a great literary revolution.

he other dramatists
<rom the many other dramatists of this highly dramatic period, some of whom in their own day enjoyed a reputation fully e"ual to that of 3hakespeare and *onson, we may merely select a few for brief mention. <or not only does their light now pale hopelessly in the presence of 3hakespeare, but in many cases their violations of taste and moral restraint pass the limits of present&day tolerance. ?ost of them, like 3hakespeare, produced both comedies and tragedies, prevailingly romantic but with elements of realismN most of them wrote more often in collaboration than did 3hakespeareN they all shared the 6li>abethan vigorously creative interest in lifeN but none of them attained either 3hakespeare)s wisdom, his power, or his mastery of poetic beauty. 1ne of the most learned of the group was 7eorge Ahapman, whose verse has a *onsonian solidity not unaccompanied with *onsonian ponderousness. He won fame also in non&dramatic poetry, especially by vigorous but rather clumsy verse translations of the )Iliad) and )1dyssey,) %nother highly individual figure is that of homas (ekker, who seems to have been one of the completest embodiments of irrepressible 6li>abethan cheerfulness, though this was joined in him with an irresponsibility which kept him commonly floundering in debt or confined in debtor)s prison. His )3hoemaker)s Holiday) 81-559, still occasionally chosen by amateur companies for reproduction, gives a rough&and&ready but 8apart from its coarseness9 charming romantici>ed picture of the life of =ondon apprentices and whole&hearted citi>ens. homas Heywood, a sort of journalist before the days of newspapers, produced an enormous amount of work in various literary formsN in the drama he claimed to have had )an entire hand, or at least a maine finger) in no less than two hundred and twenty plays. Inevitably, therefore, he is careless and slipshod, but some of his portrayals of sturdy 6nglish men and women and of romantic adventure 8as in ) he <air ?aid of the ,est)9 are of refreshing naturalness and bree>iness. homas ?iddleton, also a very prolific writer, often deals, like *onson and Heywood, with sordid material. *ohn ?arston, as well, has too little delicacy or reserveN he also wrote catch&as&catch&can non&dramatic satires. he sanity of 3hakespeare)s plays, continuing and indeed increasing toward the end of his career, disguises for modern students the tendency to decline in the drama which set in at about the time of /ing *ames) accession. ;ot later than the end of the first decade of the century the dramatists as a class exhibit not only a decrease of originality in plot and characteri>ation, but also a lowering of moral tone, which results largely from the closer identification of the drama with the Aourt party. here is a lack of seriousness of purpose, an increasing tendency to return, in more morbid spirit, to the sensationalism of the 1+25)s, and an anxious straining to attract and please the

17 1

audiences by almost any means. hese tendencies appear in the plays of <rancis $eaumont and *ohn <letcher, whose reputations are indissolubly linked together in one of the most famous literary partnerships of all time. $eaumont, however, was short&lived, and much the greater part of the fifty and more plays ultimately published under their joint names really belong to <letcher alone or to <letcher and other collaborators. he scholarship of our day agrees with the opinion of their contemporaries in assigning to $eaumont the greater share of judgment and intellectual power and to <letcher the greater share of spontaneity and fancy. <letcher)s style is very individual. It is peculiarly sweetN but its unmistakable mark is his constant tendency to break down the blank verse line by the use of extra syllables, both within the line and at the end. he lyrics which he scatters through his plays are beautifully smooth and musical. he plays of $eaumont and <letcher, as a group, are sentimentally romantic, often in an extravagant degree, though their charm often conceals the extravagance as well as the lack of true characteri>ation. hey are notable often for their portrayal of the loyal devotion of both men and women to king, lover, or friend. 1ne of the best of them is )Dhilaster, or =ove =ies $leeding,) while <letcher)s )<aithful 3hepherdess) is the most pleasing example in 6nglish of the artificial pastoral drama in the Italian and 3panish style. he 6li>abethan tendency to sensational horror finds its greatest artistic expression in two plays of *ohn ,ebster, ) he ,hite (evil, or Bittoria Aorombona,) and ) he (uchess of ?alfi.) Here the corrupt and brutal life of the Italian nobility of the .enaissance is presented with terrible frankness, but with an overwhelming sense for passion, tragedy, and pathos. he most moving pathos permeates some of the plays of *ohn <ord 8of the time of Aharles I9, for example, ) he $roken Heart)N but they are abnormal and unhealthy. Dhilip ?assinger, a pupil and collaborator of <letcher, was of thoughtful spirit, and apparently a sincere moralist at heart, in spite of much concession in his plays to the contrary demands of the time. His famous comedy, )% ;ew ,ay to Day 1ld (ebts,) a satire on greed and cruelty, is one of the few plays of the period, aside from 3hakespeare)s, which are still occasionally acted. he last dramatist of the whole great line was *ames 3hirley, who survived the Aommonwealth and the .estoration and died of exposure at the <ire of =ondon in 1---. In his romantic comedies and comedies of manners 3hirley vividly reflects the thoughtless life of the Aourt of Aharles I and of the well&to&do contemporary =ondon citi>ens and shows how surprisingly far that life had progressed toward the reckless frivolity and abandonment which after the interval of Duritan rule were to run riot in the .estoration period. he great 6li>abethan dramatic impulse had thus become deeply degenerate, and nothing could be more fitting than that it should be brought to a definite end. ,hen the war broke out in 1-'! one of the first acts of Darliament, now at last free to work its will on the enemies of Duritanism, was to decree that )whereas public sports do not well agree with public calamities, nor public stage&plays with the seasons of humiliation,) all dramatic performances should cease. his law, fatal, of course, to the writing as well as the acting of plays, was enforced with only slightly relaxing rigor until very shortly before the .estoration of Aharles II in 1--5. (oubtless to the Duritans it seemed that their long fight against the theater had ended in permanent triumphN but this was only one of many respects in which the Duritans were to learn that human nature cannot be forced into permanent conformity with any rigidly over&severe standard, on however high ideals it may be based. SUMMARY7 he chief dramatists of the whole sixty years of the great period may be conveniently grouped as follows: I. 3hakespeare)s early contemporaries, about 1+25 to about 1+4#: =yly, Deele, 7reene, /yd, ?arlowe. II. 3hakespeare. III. 3hakespeare)s later contemporaries, under 6li>abeth and *ames I: *onson, Ahapman, (ekker, Heywood, ?iddleton, ?arston, $eaumont and <letcher, ,ebster. IB. he last group, under *ames I and Aharles I, to 1-'!: <ord, ?assinger, and 3hirley.

17 2

he 3eventeenth Aentury, 1-5#&1--5. Drose %nd Doetry


he first half of the seventeenth century as a whole, compared with the 6li>abethan age, was a period of relaxing vigor. he .enaissance enthusiasm had spent itself, and in place of the danger and glory which had long united the nation there followed increasing dissension in religion and politics and uncertainty as to the future of 6ngland and, indeed, as to the whole purpose of life. hrough increased experience men were certainly wiser and more sophisticated than before, but they were also more self&conscious and sadder or more pensive. he output of literature did not diminish, but it spread itself over wider fields, in general fields of somewhat recondite scholarship rather than of creation. ;evertheless this period includes in prose one writer greater than any prose writer of the previous century, namely <rancis $acon, and, further, the book which un"uestionably occupies the highest place in 6nglish literature, that is the /ing *ames version of the $ibleN and in poetry it includes one of the very greatest figures, *ohn ?ilton, together with a varied and highly interesting assemblage of lesser lyrists.

<rancis $acon, Biscount 3t. %lbans, 1+-1&1-!-.

<rancis $acon, intellectually one of the most eminent 6nglishmen of all times, and chief formulator of the methods of modern science, was born in 1+-1 8three years before 3hakespeare9, the son of 3ir ;icholas $acon, =ord /eeper of the 7reat 3eal under hueen 6li>abeth and one of her most trusted earlier advisers. he boy)s precocity led the "ueen to call him her )little =ord /eeper.) %t the age of twelve he, like ,yatt, was sent to Aambridge, where his chief impression was of disgust at the unfruitful scholastic application of %ristotle)s ideas, still supreme in spite of a century of .enaissance enlightenment. % very much more satisfactory three years) residence in <rance in the household of the 6nglish ambassador was terminated in 1+04 8the year of 3penser)s )3hepherd)s Aalendar)9 by the death of 3ir ;icholas. $acon was now ready to enter on the great career for which his talents fitted him, but his uncle by marriage, =ord $urghley, though all&powerful with the "ueen, systematically thwarted his progress, from jealous consciousness of his superiority to his own son. $acon therefore studied law, and was soon chosen a member of Darliament, where he "uickly became a leader. He continued, however, throughout his life to devote much of his time to study and scholarly scientific writing. 1n the interpretation of $acon)s public actions depends the answer to the complex and much& debated "uestion of his character. he most reasonable conclusions seem to be: that $acon was sincerely devoted to the public good and in his earlier life was sometimes ready to risk his own interests in its behalfN that he had a perfectly clear theoretical insight into the principles of moral conductN that he lacked the moral force of character to live on the level of his convictions, so that after the first, at least, his personal ambition was often stronger than his conscienceN that he believed that public success could be gained only by conformity to the low standards of the ageN that he fell into the fatal error of supposing that his own preeminent endowments and the services which they might enable him to render justified him in the use of unworthy meansN that his sense of real as distinguished from apparent personal dignity was distressingly inade"uateN and that, in general, like many men of great intellect, he was deficient in greatness of character, emotion, fine feeling, sympathy, and even in comprehension of the highest spiritual principles. He certainly shared to the full in the usual courtier)s ambition for great place and wealth, and in the worldling)s inclination to ostentatious display. Having offended hueen 6li>abeth by his boldness in successfully opposing an encroachment on the rights of the House of Aommons, $acon connected himself with the 6arl of 6ssex and received from him many favorsN but when 6ssex attempted a treasonable insurrection in 1-51, $acon, as one of the hueen)s lawyers, displayed against him a subservient >eal which on theoretical grounds of patriotism might appear praiseworthy, but which in view of his personal obligations was grossly indecent. <or the worldly prosperity which he sought, however, $acon was obliged to wait until the accession of /ing *ames, after which his rise was rapid. he /ing appreciated his ability and often consulted him, and he fre"uently gave the wisest advice, whose acceptance might perhaps have averted the worst national disasters of the next fifty years. he advice was above the courage of both the /ing and the ageN but $acon was advanced through various legal offices, until in 1-1# he
3: ?acaulay)s well&known essay on $acon is marred by ?acaulay)s besetting faults of superficiality and dogmatism and is best left unread.

17 3

was made %ttorney&7eneral and in 1-12 8two years after 3hakespeare)s death9 =ord High Ahancellor of 6ngland, at the same time being raised to the peerage as $aron Berulam. (uring all this period, in spite of his better knowledge, he truckled with sorry servility to the /ing and his unworthy favorites and lent himself as an agent in their most arbitrary acts. .etribution overtook him in 1-!1, within a few days after his elevation to the dignity of Biscount 3t. %lbans. he House of Aommons, balked in an attack on the /ing and the (uke of $uckingham, suddenly turned on $acon and impeached him for having received bribes in connection with his legal decisions as =ord Ahancellor. $acon admitted the taking of presents 8against which in one of his essays he had directly cautioned judges9, and threw himself on the mercy of the House of =ords, with whom the sentence lay. He appears to have been sincere in protesting later that the presents had not influenced his decisions and that he was the justest judge whom 6ngland had had for fifty yearsN it seems that the giving of presents by the parties to a suit was a customary abuse. $ut he had technically laid himself open to the malice of his enemies and was condemned to very heavy penalties, of which two were enforced, namely, perpetual incapacitation from holding public office, and banishment from Aourt. 6ven after this he continued, with an astonishing lack of good taste, to live extravagantly and beyond his means 8again in disregard of his own precepts9, so that Drince Aharles observed that he )scorned to go out in a snuff.) He died in 1-!- from a cold caught in the prosecution of his scientific researches, namely in an experiment on the power of snow to preserve meat. $acon)s splendid mind and uni"ue intellectual vision produced, perhaps inevitably, considering his public activity, only fragmentary concrete achievements. he only one of his books still commonly read is the series of )6ssays,) which consist of brief and comparatively informal jottings on various subjects. In their earliest form, in 1+40, the essays were ten in number, but by additions from time to time they had increased at last in 1-!+ to fifty&eight. hey deal with a great variety of topics, whatever $acon happened to be interested in, from friendship to the arrangement of a house, and in their condensation they are more like bare synopses than complete discussions. $ut their comprehensiveness of view, sureness of ideas and phrasing, suggestiveness, and apt illustrations reveal the pregnancy and practical force of $acon)s thought 8though, on the other hand, he is not altogether free from the superstitions of his time and after the lapse of three hundred years sometimes seems commonplace9. he whole general tone of the essays, also, shows the man, keen and worldly, not at all a poet or idealist. How to succeed and make the most of prosperity might be called the pervading theme of the essays, and subjects which in themselves suggest spiritual treatment are actually considered in accordance with a coldly intellectual calculation of worldly advantage. he essays are scarcely less notable for style than for ideas. ,ith characteristic intellectual independence $acon strikes out for himself an extremely terse and clear manner of expression, doubtless influenced by such =atin authors as acitus, which stands in marked contrast to the formless diffuseness or artificial elaborateness of most 6li>abethan and *acobean prose. His unit of structure is always a short clause. he sentences are sometimes short, sometimes consist of a number of connected clausesN but they are always essentially loose rather than periodicN so that the thought is perfectly simple and its movement clear and systematic. he very numerous allusions to classical history and life are not the result of affectation, but merely indicate the natural furnishing of the mind of the educated .enaissance gentleman. he essays, it should be added, were evidently suggested and more or less influenced by those of the great <rench thinker, ?ontaigne, an earlier contemporary of $acon. he hold of medieval scholarly tradition, it is further interesting to note, was still so strong that in order to insure their permanent preservation $acon translated them into =atin&&he took for granted that the 6nglish in which he first composed them and in which they will always be known was only a temporary vulgar tongue. $ut $acon)s most important work, as we have already implied, was not in the field of pure literature but in the general advancement of knowledge, particularly knowledge of natural scienceN and of this great service we must speak briefly. His avowal to $urghley, made as early as 1+4!, is famous: )I have taken all knowledge to be my province.) $riefly stated, his purposes, constituting an absorbing and noble ambition, were to survey all the learning of his time, in all lines of thought, natural science, morals, politics, and the rest, to overthrow the current method of a priori deduction, deduction resting, moreover, on very insufficient and long&anti"uated bases of observation, and to substitute for it as the method of the future, unlimited fresh observation and experiment and inductive reasoning. his enormous task was to be mapped out and its results summari>ed in a =atin work called )?agna Instauratio 3cientiarum) 8 he 7reat .enewal of /nowledge9N but parts of this survey were necessarily to be left for posterity to formulate, and of the rest $acon actually composed only a fraction. ,hat may be called the first part appeared

17 4

originally in 6nglish in 1-5+ and is known by the abbreviated title, ) he %dvancement of =earning)N the expanded =atin form has the title, )(e %ugmentis 3cientiarum.) Its exhaustive enumeration of the branches of thought and knowledge, what has been accomplished in each and what may be hoped for it in the future, is thoroughly fascinating, though even here $acon was not capable of passionate enthusiasm. However, the second part of the work, );ovum 1rganum) 8 he ;ew ?ethod9, written in =atin and published in 1-!5, is the most important. ?ost interesting here, perhaps, is the classification 8contrasting with Dlato)s doctrine of divinely perfect controlling ideas9 of the )idols) 8phantoms9 which mislead the human mind. 1f these $acon finds four sorts: idols of the tribe, which are inherent in human natureN idols of the cave, the errors of the individualN idols of the market&place, due to mistaken reliance on wordsN and idols of the theater 8that is, of the schools9, resulting from false reasoning. In the details of all his scholarly work $acon)s knowledge and point of view were inevitably imperfect. 6ven in natural science he was not altogether abreast of his time&&he refused to accept Harvey)s discovery of the manner of the circulation of the blood and the Aopernican system of astronomy. ;either was he, as is sometimes supposed, the in#entor of the inductive method of observation and reasoning, which in some degree is fundamental in all study. $ut he did, much more fully and clearly than any one before him, demonstrate the importance and possibilities of that methodN modern experimental science and thought have proceeded directly in the path which he pointed outN and he is fully entitled to the great honor of being called their father, which certainly places him high among the great figures in the history of human thought.

he /ing *ames $ible, 1-11


It was during the reign of *ames I that the long series of sixteenth century translations of the $ible reached its culmination in what we have already called the greatest of all 6nglish books 8or rather, collections of books9, the /ing *ames 8)%uthori>ed)9 version. In 1-5' an ecclesiastical conference accepted a suggestion, approved by the king, that a new and more accurate rendering of the $ible should be made. he work was entrusted to a body of about fifty scholars, who divided themselves into six groups, among which the various books of the $ible were apportioned. he resulting translation, proceeding with the inevitable slowness, was completed in 1-11, and then rather rapidly superseded all other 6nglish versions for both public and private use. his /ing *ames $ible is universally accepted as the chief masterpiece of 6nglish prose style. he translators followed previous versions so far as possible, checking them by comparison with the original Hebrew and 7reek, so that while attaining the greater correctness at which they aimed they preserved the accumulated stylistic excellences of three generations of their predecessorsN and their language, properly varying according to the nature of the different books, possesses an imaginative grandeur and rhythm not unworthy&&and no higher praise could be awarded&&of the themes which it expresses. he still more accurate scholarship of a later century demanded the .evised Bersion of 1221, but the superior literary "uality of the /ing *ames version remains undisputed. Its style, by the nature of the case, was somewhat archaic from the outset, and of course has become much more so with the passage of time. his entails the practical disadvantage of making the $ible&& events, characters, and ideas&&seem less real and livingN but on the other hand it helps inestimably to create the finer imaginative atmosphere which is so essential for the genuine religious spirit.

?inor prose writers


%mong the prose authors of the period who hold an assured secondary position in the history of 6nglish literature three or four may be mentioned: .obert $urton, 1xford scholar, minister, and recluse, whose )%natomy of ?elancholy) 81-!19, a vast and "uaint compendium of information both scientific and literary, has largely influenced numerous later writersN *eremy aylor, royalist clergyman and bishop, one of the most elo"uent and spiritual of 6nglish preachers, author of )Holy =iving) 81-+59 and )Holy (ying) 81-+19N I>aak ,alton, =ondon tradesman and student, best known for his )Aompleat %ngler) 81-+#9, but author also of charming brief lives of (onne, 7eorge Herbert, and others of his contemporariesN and 3ir homas $rowne, a scholarly physician of ;orwich, who elaborated a fastidiously poetic =atini>ed prose style for his pensively delightful ).eligio ?edici) 8% Dhysician)s .eligion&&1-'#9 and other works.

=yric poetry

17 5

%part from the drama and the /ing *ames $ible, the most enduring literary achievement of the period was in poetry. ?ilton&&distinctly, after 3hakespeare, the greatest writer of the century&&must receive separate considerationN the more purely lyric poets may be grouped together. he absence of any sharp line of separation between the literature of the reign of 6li>abeth and of those of *ames I and Aharles I is no less marked in the case of the lyric poetry than of the drama. 3ome of the poets whom we have already discussed in Ahapter B continued writing until the second decade of the seventeenth century, or later, and some of those whom we shall here name had commenced their career well before 1-55. *ust as in the drama, therefore, something of the 6li>abethan spirit remains in the lyric poetryN yet here also before many years there is a perceptible changeN the 6li>abethan spontaneous joyousness largely vanishes and is replaced by more self&conscious artistry or thought. he 6li>abethan note is perhaps most unmodified in certain anonymous songs and other poems of the early years of *ames I, such as the ex"uisite ),eep you no more, sad fountains.) It is clear also in the charming songs of homas Aampion, a physician who composed both words and music for several song&books, and in ?ichael (rayton, a voluminous poet and dramatist who is known to most readers only for his finely rugged patriotic ballad on the battle of %gincourt. 3ir Henry ,otton, F<ootnote: he first o is pronounced as in note. G statesman and Drovost 8head9 of 6ton 3chool, displays the 6li>abethan idealism in ) he Aharacter of a Happy =ife) and in his stan>as in praise of 6li>abeth, daughter of /ing *ames, wife of the ill&starred 6lector&Dalatine and /ing of $ohemia, and ancestress of the present 6nglish royal family. he 6li>abethan spirit is present but mingled with seventeenth century melancholy in the sonnets and other poems of the 3cotch gentleman ,illiam (rummond of Hawthornden 8the name of his estate near 6dinburgh9, who in "uiet life&long retirement lamented the untimely death of the lady to whom he had been betrothed or meditated on heavenly things. In (rummond appears the influence of 3penser, which was strong on many poets of the period, especially on some, like ,illiam $rowne, who continued the pastoral form. %nother of the main forces, in lyric poetry as in the drama, was the beginning of the revival of the classical spirit, and in lyric poetry also this was largely due to $en *onson. %s we have already said, the greater part of *onson)s non&dramatic poetry, like his dramas, expresses chiefly the downright strength of his mind and character. It is terse and unadorned, dealing often with commonplace things in the manner of the 6pistles and 3atires of Horace, and it generally has more of the "uality of intellectual prose than of real emotional poetry. % very favorable representative of it is the admirable, eulogy on 3hakespeare included in the first folio edition of 3hakespeare)s works. In a few instances, however, *onson strikes the true lyric note delightfully. 6very one knows and sings his two stan>as ) o Aelia)&&)(rink to me only with thine eyes,) which would still be famous without the ex"uisitely appropriate music that has come down to us from *onson)s own time, and which are no less beautiful because they consist largely of ideas culled from the 7reek philosopher heophrastus. In all his poems, however, *onson aims consistently at the classical virtues of clearness, brevity, proportion, finish, and elimination of all excess. hese latter "ualities appear also in the lyrics which abound in the plays of *ohn <letcher, and yet it cannot be said that <letcher)s sweet melody is more classical than 6li>abethan. His other distinctive "uality is the tone of somewhat artificial courtliness which was soon to mark the lyrics of the other poets of the Aavalier party. %n avowed disciple of *onson and his classicism and a greater poet than <letcher is .obert Herrick, who, indeed, after 3hakespeare and ?ilton, is the finest lyric poet of these two centuries. Herrick, the nephew of a wealthy goldsmith, seems, after a late graduation from Aambridge, to have spent some years about the Aourt and in the band of *onson)s )sons.) 6ntering the Ahurch when he was nearly forty, he received the small country parish of (ean Drior in the southwest 8(evonshire9, which he held for nearly twenty years, until 1-'0, when he was dispossessed by the victorious Duritans. %fter the .estoration he was reinstated, and he continued to hold the place until his death in old age in 1-0'. He published his poems 8all lyrics9 in 1-'2 in a collection which he called )Hesperides and ;oble ;umbers.) he )Hesperides) 8named from the golden apples of the classical 7arden of the (aughters of the 3un9 are twelve hundred little secular pieces, the );oble ;umbers) a much less extensive series of religious lyrics. $oth sorts are written in a great variety of stan>a forms, all e"ually skilful and musical. <ew of the poems extend beyond fifteen or twenty lines in

17 6

length, and many are mere epigrams of four lines or even two. he chief secular subjects are: Herrick)s devotion to various ladies, *ulia, %nthea, Derilla, and sundry more, all presumably more or less imaginaryN the joy and uncertainty of lifeN the charming beauty of ;atureN country life, folk lore, and festivalsN and similar light or familiar themes. Herrick)s characteristic "uality, so far as it can be described, is a blend of 6li>abethan joyousness with classical perfection of finish. he finish, however, really the result of painstaking labor, such as Herrick had observed in his uncle)s shop and as *onson had enjoined, is perfectly unobtrusiveN so apparently natural are the poems that they seem the irrepressible unmeditated outpourings of happy and idle moments. In care&free lyric charm Herrick can certainly never be surpassedN he is certainly one of the most captivating of all the poets of the world. 3ome of the );oble ;umbers) are almost as pleasing as the )Hesperides,) but not because of real religious significance. <or of anything that can be called spiritual religion Herrick was absolutely incapableN his nature was far too deficient in depth. He himself and his philosophy of life were purely 6picurean, Hedonistic, or pagan, in the sense in which we use those terms to&day. His forever controlling sentiment is that to which he gives perfect expression in his best&known song, )7ather ye rosebuds,) namely the Horatian )Aarpe diem)&&)3natch all possible pleasure from the rapidly&fleeting hours and from this gloriously delightful world.) He is said to have performed his religious duties with regularityN though sometimes in an outburst of disgust at the stupidity of his rustic parishioners he would throw his sermon in their faces and rush out of the church. Dut his religion is altogether conventional. He thanks 7od for material blessings, prays for their continuance, and as the conclusion of everything, in compensation for a formally orthodox life, or rather creed, expects when he dies to be admitted to Heaven. he simple naivete with which he expresses this skin&deep and primitive faith is, indeed, one of the chief sources of charm in the );oble ;umbers.) Herrick belongs in part to a group of poets who, being attached to the Aourt, and devoting some, at least, of their verses to conventional love&making, are called the Aavalier Doets. %mong the others homas Aarew follows the classical principles of *onson in lyrics which are facile, smooth, and sometimes a little frigid. 3ir *ohn 3uckling, a handsome and capricious representative of all the extravagances of the Aourt set, with whom he was enormously popular, tossed off with affected carelessness a mass of slovenly lyrics of which a few audaciously impudent ones are worthy to survive. <rom the e"ually chaotic product of Aolonel .ichard =ovelace stand out the two well& known bits of noble idealism, ) o =ucasta, 7oing to the ,ars,) and ) o %lthea, from Drison.) 7eorge ,ither 81+22&1--09, a much older man than 3uckling and =ovelace, may be mentioned with them as the writer in his youth of light&hearted love&poems. $ut in the Aivil ,ar he took the side of Darliament and under Aromwell he rose to the rank of major&general. In his later life he wrote a great "uantity of Duritan religious verse, largely prosy in spite of his fluency. he last important group among these lyrists is that of the more distinctly religious poets. he chief of these, 7eorge Herbert 81+4#&1-##9, the subject of one of the most delightful of the short biographies of I>aak ,alton, belonged to a distinguished family of the ,elsh $order, one branch of which held the earldom of Dembroke, so that the poet was related to the young noble who may have been 3hakespeare)s patron. He was also younger brother of =ord 6dward Herbert of Aherbury, an inveterate duellist and the father of 6nglish (eism. F<ootnote: 3ee below, p. !1!.G (estined by his mother to peaceful pursuits, he wavered from the outset between two forces, religious devotion and a passion for worldly comfort and distinction. <or a long period the latter had the upper hand, and his life has been described by his best editor, Drofessor 7eorge Herbert Dalmer, as twenty&seven years of vacillation and three of consecrated service. %ppointed Dublic 1rator, or showman, of his university, Aambridge, he spent some years in enjoying the somewhat trifling elegancies of life and in truckling to the great. hen, on the death of his patrons, he passed through a period of intense crisis from which he emerged wholly spirituali>ed. he three remaining years of his life he spent in the little country parish of $emerton, just outside of 3alisbury, as a fervent High Ahurch minister, or as he preferred to name himself, priest, in the strictest devotion to his professional duties and to the practices of an ascetic piety which to the usual %merican mind must seem about e"ually admirable and conventional. His religious poems, published after his death in a volume called ) he emple,) show mainly two things, first his intense and beautiful consecration to his personal 7od and 3aviour, which, in its earnest sincerity, renders him distinctly the most representative poet of the Ahurch of 6ngland, and second the influence of (onne, who was a close friend of his mother. he titles of most of the poems, often consisting of a single word, are commonly fantastic and symbolical&&for example, ) he Aollar,) meaning the yoke of submission to 7odN and his use of conceits, though not so pervasive as with (onne, is e"ually contorted. o a present&day reader the apparent affectations may seem at first to throw doubt on Herbert)s genuinenessN but in reality he was aiming to dedicate to religious purposes what appeared to him the highest style of poetry. ,ithout "uestion he is, in a true if special sense, a really great poet.

17 7

he second of these religious poets, .ichard Arashaw, F<ootnote: he first vowel is pronounced as in the noun crash.G whose life 81-1!&1-'49 was not "uite so short as Herbert)s, combined an ascetic devotion with a glowingly sensuous esthetic nature that seems rather 3panish than 6nglish. $orn into an extreme Drotestant family, but outraged by the wanton iconoclasm of the triumphant Duritans, and deprived by them of his fellowship, at Aambridge, he became a Aatholic and died a canon in the church of the miracle&working =ady 8Birgin ?ary9 of =oretto in Italy. His most characteristic poetry is marked by extravagant conceits and by ecstatic outbursts of emotion that have been called more ardent than anything else in 6nglishN though he sometimes writes also in a vein of calm and limpid beauty. He was a poetic disciple of Herbert, as he avowed by humbly entitling his volume )3teps to the emple.) he life of Henry Baughan F<ootnote: he second a is not now sounded.G 81-!1&1-4+9 stands in contrast to those of Herbert and Arashaw both by its length and by its "uietness. Baughan himself emphasi>ed his ,elsh race by designating himself ) he 3ilurist) 8native of 3outh ,ales9. %fter an incomplete university course at *esus Aollege 8the ,elsh college9, 1xford, and some apparently idle years in =ondon among *onson)s disciples, perhaps also after serving the king in the war, he settled down in his native mountains to the self&denying life of a country physician. His important poems were mostly published at this time, in 1-+5 and 1-++, in the collection which he named )3ilex 3cintillans) 8 he <laming <lint9, a title explained by the frontispiece, which represents a flinty heart glowing under the lightning stroke of 7od)s call. Baughan)s chief traits are a very fine and calm philosophic&religious spirit and a carefully observant love of external ;ature, in which he sees mystic revelations of 7od. In both respects he is closely akin to the later and greater ,ordsworth, and his ).etreat) has the same theme as ,ordsworth)s famous )1de on Intimations of Immortality,) the idea namely that children have a greater spiritual sensitiveness than older persons, because they have come to earth directly from a former life in Heaven. he contrast between the chief %nglican and Aatholic religious poets of this period has been thus expressed by a discerning critic: )Herrick)s religious emotions are only as ripples on a shallow lake when compared to the crested waves of Arashaw, the storm&tides of Herbert, and the deep&sea stirrings of Baughan.) ,e may give a further word of mention to the voluminous <rancis huarles, who in his own day and long after enjoyed enormous popularity, especially among members of the Ahurch of 6ngland and especially for his )6mblems,) a book of a sort common in 6urope for a century before his time, in which fantastic woodcuts, like Baughan)s )3ilex 3cintillans,) were illustrated with short poems of religious emotion, chiefly dominated by fear. $ut huarles survives only as an interesting curiosity. hree other poets whose lives belong to the middle of the century may be said to complete this entire lyric group. %ndrew ?arvell, a very moderate Duritan, joined with ?ilton in his office of =atin 3ecretary under Aromwell, wrote much poetry of various sorts, some of it in the 6li>abethan octosyllabic couplet. He voices a genuine love of ;ature, like ,ither often in the pastoral formN but his best&known poem is the )Horatian 1de upon Aromwell)s .eturn from Ireland,) containing the famous eulogy of /ing Aharles) bearing at his execution. %braham Aowley, a youthful prodigy and always conspicuous for intellectual power, was secretary to hueen Henrietta ?aria after her flight to <rance and later was a royalist spy in 6ngland. His most conspicuous poems are his so&called )Dindaric 1des,) in which he supposed that he was imitating the structure of the 7reek Dindar but really originated the pseudo&Dindaric 1de, a poem in irregular, non&correspondent stan>as. He is the last important representative of the )?etaphysical) style. In his own day he was acclaimed as the greatest poet of all time, but as is usual in such cases his reputation very rapidly waned. 6dmund ,aller 81-5-&1-209, a very wealthy gentleman in public life who played a flatly discreditable part in the Aivil ,ar, is most important for his share in shaping the riming pentameter couplet into the smooth pseudo&classical form rendered famous by (ryden and DopeN but his only notable single poems are two Aavalier love&lyrics in stan>as, )1n a 7irdle) and )7o, =ovely .ose.)

*ohn ?ilton, 1-52&1-0'


Aonspicuous above all his contemporaries as the representative poet of Duritanism, and, by almost e"ually general consent, distinctly the greatest of 6nglish poets except 3hakespeare, stands *ohn ?ilton. His life falls naturally into three periods: 1. Youth and preparation, 1-52&1-#4, when he wrote his shorter poems. !. Dublic life, 1-#4&1--5, when he wrote, or at least published, in poetry,

17 8

only a few sonnets. #. =ater years, 1--5&1-0', of outer defeat, but of chief poetic achievement, the period of )Daradise =ost,) )Daradise .egained,) and )3amson %gonistes.) ?ilton was born in =ondon in (ecember, 1-52. His father was a prosperous scrivener, or lawyer of the humbler sort, and a Duritan, but broad&minded, and his children were brought up in the love of music, beauty, and learning. %t the age of twelve the future poet was sent to 3t. Daul)s 3chool, and he tells us that from this time on his devotion to study seldom allowed him to leave his books earlier than midnight. %t sixteen, in 1-!+, he entered Aambridge, where he remained during the seven years re"uired for the ?. %. degree, and where he was known as )the lady of Ahrist)s) FAollegeG, perhaps for his beauty, of which all his life he continued proud, perhaps for his moral scrupulousness. ?ilton was never, however, a conventional prig, and a "uarrel with a self& important tutor led at one time to his informal suspension from the :niversity. His nature, indeed, had many elements "uite inconsistent with the usual vague popular conception of him. He was always not only inflexible in his devotion to principle, but&&partly, no doubt, from consciousness of his intellectual superiority&&haughty as well as reserved, self&confident, and little respectful of opinions and feelings that clashed with his own. ;evertheless in his youth he had plenty of animal spirits and always for his friends warm human sympathies. o his college years belong two important poems. His Ahristmas hymn, the )1de on the ?orning of Ahrist)s ;ativity,) shows the influence of his early poetical master, 3penser, and of contemporary pastoral poets, though it also contains some conceits&&truly poetic conceits, however, not exercises in intellectual cleverness like many of those of (onne and his followers. ,ith whatever "ualifications, it is certainly one of the great 6nglish lyrics, and its union of .enaissance sensuousness with grandeur of conception and sureness of expression foretell clearly enough at twenty the poet of )Daradise =ost.) he sonnet on his twenty&third birthday, further, is known to almost every reader of poetry as the best short expression in literature of the dedication of one)s life and powers to 7od. ?ilton had planned to enter the ministry, but the growing predominance of the High&Ahurch party made this impossible for him, and on leaving the :niversity in 1-#! he retired to the country estate which his parents now occupied at Horton, twenty miles west of =ondon. Here, for nearly six years, amid surroundings which nourished his poet)s love for ;ature, he devoted his time chiefly to further mastery of the whole range of approved literature, 7reek, =atin, <rench, Italian, and 6nglish. His poems of these years also are few, but they too are of the very highest "uality. )=)%llegro) and )Il Denseroso) are ideali>ed visions, in the tripping 6li>abethan octosyllabic couplet, of the pleasures of suburban life viewed in moods respectively of light&hearted happiness and of reflection. )Aomus,) the last of the 6li>abethan and *acobean masks, combines an ex"uisite poetic beauty and a real dramatic action more substantial than that of any other mask with a serious moral theme 8the security of Birtue9 in a fashion that renders it uni"ue. )=ycidas) is one of the supreme 6nglish elegiesN though the grief which helps to create its power sprang more from the recent death of the poet)s mother than from that of the nominal subject, his college ac"uaintance, 6dward /ing, and though in the hands of a lesser artist the solemn denunciation of the false leaders of the 6nglish Ahurch might not have been wrought into so fine a harmony with the pastoral form. ?ilton)s first period ends with an experience designed to complete his preparation for his career, a fifteen months) tour in <rance and Italy, where the highest literary circles received him cordially. <rom this trip he returned in 1-#4, sooner than he had planned, because, he said, the public troubles at home, foreshadowing the approaching war, seemed to him a call to serviceN though in fact some time intervened before his entrance on public life. he twenty years which follow, the second period of ?ilton)s career, developed and modified his nature and ideas in an unusual degree and fashion. 1utwardly the occupations which they brought him appear chiefly as an unfortunate waste of his great poetic powers. he sixteen sonnets which belong here show how nobly this form could be adapted to the varied expression of the most serious thought, but otherwise ?ilton abandoned poetry, at least the publication of it, for prose, and for prose which was mostly ephemeral. aking up his residence in =ondon, for some time he carried on a small private school in his own house, where he much overworked his boys in the mistaken effort to raise their intellectual ambitions to the level of his own. ;aturally unwilling to confine himself to a private sphere, he soon engaged in a prose controversy supporting the Duritan

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view against the 6piscopal form of church government, that is against the office of bishops. here shortly followed the most regrettable incident in his whole career, which pathetically illustrates also the lack of a sense of humor which was perhaps his greatest defect. %t the age of thirty&four, and apparently at first sight, he suddenly married ?ary Dowell, the seventeen&year&old daughter of a royalist country gentleman with whom his family had long maintained some business and social relations. 6vidently this daughter of the Aavaliers met a rude disillusionment in ?ilton)s Duritan household and in his 1ld estament theory of woman)s inferiority and of a wife)s duty of strict subjection to her husbandN a few weeks after the marriage she fled to her family and refused to return. hereupon, with characteristic egoism, ?ilton put forth a series of pamphlets on divorce, arguing, contrary to 6nglish law, and with great scandal to the public, that mere incompatibility of temper was ade"uate ground for separation. He even proceeded so far as to make proposals of marriage to another woman. $ut after two years and the ruin of the royalist cause his wife made unconditional submission, which ?ilton accepted, and he also received and supported her whole family in his house. ?eanwhile his divorce pamphlets had led to the best of his prose writings. He had published the pamphlets without the license of Darliament, then re"uired for all books, and a suit was begun against him. He replied with )%reopagitica,) an, elo"uent and noble argument against the licensing system and in favor of freedom of publication within the widest possible limits. 8 he name is an allusion to the condemnation of the works of Drotagoras by the %thenian %reopagus.9 In the stress of public affairs the attack on him was dropped, but the book remains, a deathless plea for individual liberty. ;ow at last ?ilton was drawn into active public life. he execution of the /ing by the extreme Duritan minority excited an outburst of indignation not only in 6ngland but throughout 6urope. ?ilton, rising to the occasion, defended the act in a pamphlet, thereby beginning a paper controversy, chiefly with the (utch scholar 3almasius, which lasted for several years. $y 1-+! it had resulted in the loss of ?ilton)s eyesight, previously over&strained by his studies&&a sacrifice in which he gloried but which lovers of poetry must always regret, especially since the controversy largely consisted, according to the custom of the time, in a disgusting exchange of personal scurrilities. ?ilton)s championship of the existing government, however, together with his scholarship, had at once secured for him the position of =atin secretary, or conductor of the diplomatic correspondence of the 3tate with foreign countries. He held this office, after the loss of his eyesight, with ?arvell as a colleague, under both Darliament and Aromwell, but it is an error to suppose that he exerted any influence in the management of affairs or that he was on familiar terms with the Drotector. %t the .estoration he necessarily lost both the position and a considerable part of his property, and for a while he went into hidingN but through the efforts of ?arvell and others he was finally included in the general amnesty. In the remaining fourteen years which make the third period of his life ?ilton stands out for subse"uent ages as a noble figure. His very obstinacy and egoism now enabled him, blind, comparatively poor, and the representative of a lost cause, to maintain his proud and patient dignity in the midst of the triumph of all that was most hateful to him, and, as he believed, to 7od. His isolation, indeed, was in many respects extreme, though now as always he found the few sympathetic friends on whom his nature was "uite dependent. His religious beliefs had become what would at present be called :nitarian, and he did not associate with any of the existing denominationsN in private theory he had even come to believe in polygamy. %t home he is said to have suffered from the coldness or more active antipathy of his three daughters, which is no great cause for wonder if we must credit the report that he compelled them to read aloud to him in foreign languages of which he had taught them the pronunciation but not the meaning. heir mother had died some years before, and he had soon lost the second wife who is the subject of one of his finest sonnets. In 1--#, at the age of fifty&four, he was united in a third marriage to 6li>abeth ?inshull, a woman of twenty&four, who was to survive him for more than fifty years. he important fact of this last period, however, is that ?ilton now had the leisure to write, or to complete, )Daradise =ost.) <or a "uarter of a century he had avowedly cherished the ambition to produce )such a work as the world would not willingly let die) and had had in mind, among others, the story of ?an)s <all. 1utlines for a treatment of it not in epic but in dramatic form are preserved in a list of a hundred possible subjects for a great work which he drew up as early as 1-'5, and during the Aommonwealth period he seems not only to have been slowly maturing the plan but to have composed parts of the existing poemN nevertheless the actual work of composition belongs chiefly to the years following 1--5. he story as told in 7enesis had received much elaboration in Ahristian tradition from a very early period and ?ilton drew largely from this general tradition and no doubt to some extent from various previous treatments of the $ible narrative in several languages which he might naturally have read and kept in mind. $ut beyond the simple outline the

18 0

poem, like every great work, is essentially the product of his own genius. He aimed, specifically, to produce a Ahristian epic which should rank with the great epics of anti"uity and with those of the Italian .enaissance. In this purpose he was entirely successful. %s a whole, by the consent of all competent judges, )Daradise =ost) is worthy of its theme, perhaps the greatest that the mind of man can conceive, namely )to justify the ways of 7od.) 1f course there are defects. he seventeenth century theology, like every successive theological, philosophical, and scientific system, has lost its hold on later generations, and it becomes dull indeed in the long expository passages of the poem. he attempt to express spiritual ideas through the medium of the secular epic, with its battles and councils and all the forms of physical life, is of course rationally paradoxical. It was early pointed out that in spite of himself ?ilton has in some sense made 3atan the hero of the poem&&a reader can scarcely fail to sympathi>e with the fallen archangel in his uncon"uerable Duritan&like resistance to the arbitrary decrees of ?ilton)s despotic (eity. <urther, ?ilton)s personal, 6nglish, and Duritan prejudices sometimes intrude in various ways. $ut all these things are on the surface. In sustained imaginative grandeur of conception, expression, and imagery )Daradise =ost) yields to no human work, and the majestic and varied movement of the blank verse, here first employed in a really great non&dramatic 6nglish poem, is as magnificent as anything else in literature. It cannot be said that the later books always sustain the greatness of the first twoN but the profusely scattered passages of sensuous description, at least, such as those of the 7arden of 6den and of the beauty of 6ve, are in their own way e"ually fine. 3tately and more familiar passages alike show that however much his experience had done to harden ?ilton)s Duritanism, his youthful .enaissance love of beauty for beauty)s sake had lost none of its strength, though of course it could no longer be expressed with youthful lightness of fancy and melody. he poem is a magnificent example of classical art, in the best 7reek spirit, united with glowing romantic feeling. =astly, the value of ?ilton)s scholarship should by no means be overlooked. %ll his poetry, from the );ativity 1de) onward, is like a rich mosaic of gems borrowed from a great range of classical and modern authors, and in )Daradise =ost) the allusions to literature and history give half of the romantic charm and very much of the dignity. he poem could have been written only by one who combined in a very high degree intellectual power, poetic feeling, religious idealism, profound scholarship and knowledge of literature, and also experienced knowledge of the actual world of men. )Daradise =ost) was published in 1-00. It was followed in 1-01 by )Daradise .egained,) only one& third as long and much less importantN and by )3amson %gonistes) 83amson in his (eath 3truggle9. In the latter ?ilton puts the story of the fallen hero)s last days into the majestic form of a 7reek drama, imparting to it the passionate but lofty feeling evoked by the close similarity of 3amson)s situation to his own. his was his last work, and he died in 1-0'. ,hatever his faults, the moral, intellectual and poetic greatness of his nature sets him apart as in a sense the grandest figure in 6nglish literature.

*ohn $unyan
3eventeenth century Duritanism was to find a supreme spokesman in prose fiction as well as in poetryN *ohn ?ilton and *ohn $unyan, standing at widely different angles of experience, make one of the most interesting complementary pairs in all literature. $y the mere chronology of his works, $unyan belongs in our next period, but in his case mere chronology must be disregarded. $unyan was born in 1-!2 at the village of 6lstow, just outside of $edford, in central 6ngland. %fter very slight schooling and some practice at his father)s trade of tinker, he was in 1-'' drafted for two years and a half into garrison service in the Darliamentary army. .eleased from this occupation, he married a poor but excellent wife and worked at his tradeN but the important experiences of his life were the religious ones. 6ndowed by nature with great moral sensitiveness, he was nevertheless a person of violent impulses and had early fallen into profanity and laxity of conduct, which he later described with great exaggeration as a condition of abandoned wickedness. $ut from childhood his abnormally active dramatic imagination had tormented him with dreams and fears of devils and hell&fire, and now he entered on a long and agoni>ing struggle between his religious instinct and his obstinate self&will. He has told the whole story in his spiritual autobiography, )7race %bounding to the Ahief of 3inners,) which is one of the notable religious books of the world. % reader of it must be filled about e"ually with admiration for the force of will and perseverance that enabled $unyan at last to win his battle, and pity for the fantastic morbidness that created out of next to nothing most of his well&nigh intolerable tortures. 1ne

18 1

3unday, for example, fresh from a sermon on 3abbath observance, he was engaged in a game of )cat,) when he suddenly heard within himself the "uestion, ),ilt thou leave thy sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hellE) 3tupefied, he looked up to the sky and seemed there to see the =ord *esus ga>ing at him )hotly displeased) and threatening punishment. %gain, one of his favorite diversions was to watch bellmen ringing the chimes in the church steeples, and though his Duritan conscience insisted that the pleasure was )vain,) still he would not forego it. 3uddenly one day as he was indulging in it the thought occurred to him that 7od might cause one of the bells to fall and kill him, and he hastened to shield himself by standing under a beam. $ut, he reflected, the bell might easily rebound from the wall and strike himN so he shifted his position to the steeple&door. hen )it came into his head, OHow if the steeple itself should fallEO) and with that he fled alike from the controversy and the danger. .elief came when at the age of twenty&four he joined a non&sectarian church in $edford 8his own point of view being $aptist9. % man of so energetic spirit could not long remain inactive, and within two years he was preaching in the surrounding villages. % dispute with the <riends had already led to the beginning of his controversial writing when in 1--5 the .estoration rendered preaching by persons outside the communion of the Ahurch of 6ngland illegal, and he was arrested and imprisoned in $edford jail. Aonsistently refusing to give the promise of submission and abstention from preaching which at any time would have secured his release, he continued in prison for twelve years, not suffering particular discomfort and working for the support of his family by fastening the ends onto shoestrings. (uring this time he wrote and published several of the most important of his sixty books and pamphlets. %t last, in 1-0!, the authorities abandoned the ineffective re"uirement of conformity, and he was released and became pastor of his church. hree years later he was again imprisoned for six months, and it was at that time that he composed the first part of ) he Dilgrim)s Drogress,) which was published in 1-02. (uring the remaining ten years of his life his reputation and authority among the (issenters almost e"ualled his earnest devotion and kindness, and won for him from his opponents the good&naturedly jocose title of )the $aptist bishop.) He died in 1-22. 3everal of $unyan)s books are strong, but none of the others is to be named together with ) he Dilgrim)s Drogress.) his has been translated into nearly or "uite a hundred languages and dialects&&a record never approached by any other book of 6nglish authorship. he sources of its power are obvious. It is the intensely sincere presentation by a man of tremendous moral energy of what he believed to be the one subject of eternal and incalculable importance to every human being, the subject namely of personal salvation. Its language and style, further, are founded on the noble and simple model of the 6nglish $ible, which was almost the only book that $unyan knew, and with which his whole being was saturated. His triumphant and loving joy in his religion enables him often to attain the poetic beauty and elo"uence of his originalN but both by instinct and of set purpose he rendered his own style even more simple and direct, partly by the use of homely vernacular expressions. ,hat he had said in )7race %bounding) is e"ually true here: )I could have stepped into a style much higher ... but I dare not. 7od did not play in convincing of me ... wherefore I may not play in my relating of these experiences.) )Dilgrim)s Drogress) is perfectly intelligible to any child, and further, it is highly dramatic and pictures"ue. It is, to be sure, an allegory, but one of those allegories which seem inherent in the human mind and hence more natural than the most direct narrative. <or all men life is indeed a journey, and the 3lough of (espond, (oubting Aastle, Banity <air, and the Balley of Humiliation are places where in one sense or another every human soul has often struggled and sufferedN so that every reader goes hand in hand with Ahristian and his friends, fears for them in their dangers and rejoices in their escapes. he incidents, however, have all the further fascination of supernatural romanceN and the union of this element with the homely sincerity of the style accounts for much of the peculiar "uality of the book. :niversal in its appeal, absolutely direct and vivid in manner&&such a work might well become, as it speedily did, one of the most famous of world classics. It is interesting to learn, therefore, that $unyan had expected its circulation to be confined to the common peopleN the early editions are as cheap as possible in paper, printing, and illustrations. Ariticism, no doubt, easily discovers in )Dilgrim)s Drogress) technical faults. he story often lacks the full development and balance of incidents and narration which a trained literary artist would have given itN the allegory is inconsistent in a hundred ways and placesN the characters are only typesN and $unyan, always more preacher than artist, is distinctly unfair to the bad ones among them. $ut these things are unimportant. 6very allegory is inconsistent, and $unyan repeatedly takes pains to emphasi>e that this is a dreamN while the simplicity of character&treatment increases the directness of the main effect. ,hen all is said, the book remains the greatest example in literature of what absolute earnestness may make possible for a plain and untrained

18 2

man. ;othing, of course, can alter the fundamental distinctions. )Daradise =ost) is certainly greater than )Dilgrim)s Drogress,) because it is the work of a poet and a scholar as well as a religious enthusiast. $ut )Dilgrim)s Drogress,) let it be said frankly, will always find a do>en readers where ?ilton has one by choice, and no man can afford to think otherwise than respectfully of achievements which speak powerfully and nobly to the underlying instincts and needs of all mankind. he naturalness of the allegory, it may be added, renders the resemblance of )Dilgrim)s Drogress) to many previous treatments of the same theme and to less closely parallel works like ) he <aerie hueene) probably accidentalN in any significant sense $unyan probably had no other source than the $ible and his own imagination.

The T( ors an

the Eli2a6ethan Age

he beginning of the udor dynasty coincided with the first dissemination of printed matter. ,illiam Aaxton )s press was established in 1'0-, only nine years before the beginning of Henry BII)s reign. Aaxton)s achievement encouraged writing of all kinds and also influenced the standardi>ation of the 6nglish language. he early udor period, particularly the reign of Henry BIII, was marked by a break with the .oman Aatholic Ahurch and a weakening of feudal ties, which brought about a vast increase in the power of the monarchy. 3tronger political relationships with the Aontinent were also developed, increasing 6ngland)s exposure to .enaissance culture. Humanism became the most important force in 6nglish literary and intellectual life, both in its narrow senseTthe study and imitation of the =atin classicsTand in its broad senseTthe affirmation of the secular, in addition to the otherworldly, concerns of people. hese forces produced during the reign 81++2W1-5#9 of 6li>abeth I one of the most fruitful eras in literary history. he energy of 6ngland)s writers matched that of its mariners and merchants. %ccounts by men such as .ichard Hakluyt, 3amuel Durchas, and 3ir ,alter .aleigh were eagerly read. he activities and literature of the 6li>abethans reflected a new nationalism, which expressed itself also in the works of chroniclers 8*ohn 3tow, .aphael Holinshed, and others9, historians, and translators and even in political and religious tracts. % myriad of new genres, themes, and ideas were incorporated into 6nglish literature. Italian poetic forms, especially the sonnet, became models for 6nglish poets. 3ir homas ,yatt was the most successful sonneteer among early udor poets, and was, with Henry Howard, earl of 3urrey, a seminal influence. Tottel's Miscellany 81++09 was the first and most popular of many collections of experimental poetry by different, often anonymous, hands. % common goal of these poets was to make 6nglish as flexible a poetic instrument as Italian. %mong the more prominent of this group were homas Ahurchyard, 7eorge 7ascoigne, and 6dward de Bere, earl of 1xford. %n ambitious and influential work was A Mirror for Magistrates 81++49, a historical verse narrative by several poets that updated the medieval view of history and the morals to be drawn from it. he poet who best synthesi>ed the ideas and tendencies of the 6nglish .enaissance was 6dmund 3pencer. His unfinished epic poem The 3aerie 2ueen 81+4-9 is a treasure house of romance, allegory, adventure, ;eoplatonic ideas, patriotism, and Drotestant morality, all presented in a variety of literary styles. he ideal 6nglish .enaissance man was 3ir Dhilip 3idneyTscholar, poet, critic, courtier, diplomat, and soldierTwho died in battle at the age of #!. His best poetry is contained in the sonnet se"uence Astrophel and &tella 81+419 and his .efence of )oesie is among the most important works of literary criticism in the tradition. ?any others in a historical era when poetic talents were highly valued, were skilled poets. Important late udor sonneteers include 3penser and 3hakespeare, ?ichael (rayton, 3amuel (aniel, and <ulke 7reville. ?ore versatile even than 3idney was 3ir ,alter .aleighTpoet, historian, courtier, explorer, and soldierTwho wrote strong, spare poetry. 6arly udor drama owed much to both medieval morality plays and classical models. 9alph 9oister .oister 8c.1+'+9 by ;icholas :dall and :ammer :urton's !eedle 8c.1++!9 are considered the first 6nglish comedies, combining elements of classical .oman comedy with native burles"ue. (uring

18 3

the late 1-th and early 10th cent., drama flourished in 6ngland as never before or since. It came of age with the work of the :niversity ,its, whose sophisticated plays set the course of .enaissance drama and paved the way for 3hakespeare. he ,its included *ohn =yly, famed for the highly artificial and much imitated prose work <uphues 81+029N .obert 7reene, the first to write romantic comedyN the versatile homas =odge and homas ;asheN homas /yd, who populari>ed neo&3enecan tragedyN and Ahristopher ?arlowe, the greatest dramatist of the group. <ocusing on heroes whose very greatness leads to their downfall, ?arlowe wrote in blank verse with a rhetorical brilliance and elo"uence superbly e"ual to the demands of high drama. ,illiam 3hakespeare, of course, fulfilled the promise of the 6li>abethan age. His history plays, comedies, and tragedies set a standard never again e"ualed, and he is universally regarded as the greatest dramatist and one of the greatest poets of all time.

The Ca+o6ean Era> *ro.1ell> an

the Restoration

6li>abethan literature generally reflects the exuberant self&confidence of a nation expanding its powers, increasing its wealth, and thus keeping at bay its serious social and religious problems. (isillusion and pessimism followed, however, during the unstable reign of *ames I 81-5#W!+9. he 10th century was to be a time of great upheavalTrevolution and regicide, restoration of the monarchy, and, finally, the victory of Darliament, landed Drotestantism, and the moneyed interests. *acobean literature begins with the drama, including some of 3hakespeare)s greatest, and darkest, plays. he dominant literary figure of *ames)s reign was $en *onson, whose varied and dramatic works followed classical models and were enriched by his worldly, peculiarly 6nglish wit. His satiric dramas, notably the great Volpone 81-5-9, all take a cynical view of human nature. %lso cynical were the horrific revenge tragedies of *ohn <ord, homas ?iddleton, Ayril ourneur, and *ohn ,ebster 8the best poet of this grim genre9. ;ovelty was in great demand, and the possibilities of plot and genre were exploited almost to exhaustion. 3till, many excellent plays were written by men such as 7eorge Ahapman, the masters of comedy homas (ekker and Dhilip ?assinger, and the team of <rancis $eaumont and *ohn <letcher. (rama continued to flourish until the closing of the theaters at the onset of the 6nglish .evolution in 1-'!. he foremost poets of the *acobean era, $en *onson and *ohn (onne, are regarded as the originators of two diverse poetic traditionsTthe Aavalier and the metaphysical poets. *onson and (onne shared not only a common fund of literary resources, but also a dryness of wit and precision of expression. (onne)s poetry is distinctive for its passionate intellection, *onson)s for its classicism and urbane guidance of passion. %lthough 7eorge Herbert and (onne were the principal metaphysical poets, the meditative religious poets Henry Baughan and homas raherne were also influenced by (onne, as were %braham Aowley and .ichard Arashaw. he greatest of the Aavalier poets was the sensuously lyrical .obert Herrick. 3uch other Aavaliers as homas Aarew, 3ir *ohn 3uckling, and .ichard =ovelace were lyricists in the elegant *onsonian tradition, though their lyricism turned political during the 6nglish .evolution. %lthough ranked with the metaphysical poets, the highly individual %ndrew ?arvell partook of the traditions of both (onne and *onson. %mong the leading prose writers of the *acobean period were the translators who produced the classic /ing *ames Bersion of the $ible 81-119 and the divines =ancelot %ndrewes, *eremy aylor, and *ohn (onne. he work of <rancis $acon helped shape philosophical and scientific method. .obert $urton)s Anatomy of Melancholy 81-!19 offers a varied, virtually encyclopedic view of the moral and intellectual preoccupations of the 10th cent. =ike $urton, 3ir homas $rowne sought to reconcile the mysteries of religion with the newer mysteries of science. I>aak ,alton, author of The "ompleat Angler 81-+#9, produced a number of graceful biographies of prominent writers. homas Hobbes wrote the most influential political treatise of the age, $e#iathan 81-+19. he *acobean era)s most fiery and elo"uent author of political tracts 8many in defense of Aromwell)s government, of which he was a member9 was also one of the greatest of all 6nglish poets, *ohn ?ilton. His )aradise $ost 81--09 is a Ahristian epic of encompassing scope. In ?ilton the literary and philosophical heritage of the .enaissance merged with Drotestant political and moral conviction.

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,ith the restoration of the 6nglish monarchy in the person of Aharles II, literary tastes widened. he lifting of Duritan restrictions and the reassembling of the court led to a relaxation of restraints, both moral and stylistic, embodied in such figures as the 6arl of .ochester. .estoration comedy reveals both the influence of <rench farce 8the 6nglish court spent its exile in <rance9 and of *acobean comedy. It generously fed the public)s appetite for broad satire, high style, and a licentiousness that justified the worst Duritan imaginings. 3uch dramatists as 3ir 7eorge 6therege, ,illiam ,ycherley, and ,illiam Aongreve created superbly polished high comedy. 3parkling but not "uite so brilliant were the plays of 7eorge <ar"uhar, homas 3hadwell, and 3ir *ohn Banbrugh. *ohn (ruden began as a playwright but became the foremost poet and critic of his time. His greatest works are satirical narrative poems, notably Absalom and Achitophel 81-219, in which prominent contemporary figures are unmistakably and devastatingly portrayed. %nother satiric poet of the period was 3amuel $utler, whose ;udibras 81--#9 satiri>es Duritanism together with all the intellectual pretensions of the time. (uring the .estoration Duritanism or, more generally, the (issenting tradition, remained vital. he most important (issenting literary work was *ohn $unyan)s )ilgrim's )rogress 81-0+9, an allegorical prose narrative that is considered a forerunner of the novel. =ively and illuminating glimpses of .estoration manners and mores are provided by the diaries of 3amuel Depys and *ohn 6velyn.

The si-teenth-+ent(ry
=iterary works in sixteenth&century 6ngland were rarely if ever created in isolation from other currents in the social and cultural world. he boundaries that divided the texts we now regard as aesthetic from other texts were porous and constantly shifting. It is perfectly acceptable, of course, for the purposes of reading to redraw these boundaries more decisively, treating .enaissance texts as if they were islands of the autonomous literary imagination. 1ne of the greatest writers of the period, 3ir Dhilip 3idney, defended poetry in just such termsN the poet, 3idney writes in The .efence of )oetry 8!A<$ 2, 1.4+#W0'9, is not constrained by nature or history but freely ranges Oonly within the >odiac of his own wit.O $ut 3idney knew well, and from painful personal experience, how much this vision of golden autonomy was contracted by the pressures, perils, and longings of the bra>en world. %nd only a few pages after he imagines the poet orbiting entirely within the constellations of his own intellect, he advances a very different vision, one in which the poet)s words not only imitate reality but also actively change it. ,e have no way of knowing to what extent, if at all, this dream of literary power was ever reali>ed in the world. ,e do know that many sixteenth&century artists, such as Ahristopher ?arlowe, 6dmund 3penser, and ,illiam 3hakespeare, brooded on the magical, transforming power of art. his power could be associated with civility and virtue, as 3idney claims, but it could also have the demonic "ualities manifested by the Opleasing wordsO of 3penser)s enchanter, %rchimago 8 !A<$ 2, 1.01'W45!9, or by the incantations of ?arlowe)s .octor 3austus 8!A<$ 2, 1.15!!W15+09. It is significant that ?arlowe)s great play was written at a time in which the possibility of sorcery was not merely a theatrical fantasy but a widely shared fear, a fear upon which the state could act T as the case of (octor <ian vividly shows T with horrendous ferocity. ?arlowe was himself the object of suspicion and hostility, as indicated by the strange report filed by a secret agent, .ichard $aines, professing to list ?arlowe)s wildly heretical opinions, and by the gleeful 8and factually inaccurate9 report by the Duritan homas $eard of ?arlowe)s death. ?arlowe)s tragedy emerges not only from a culture in which bargains with the devil are imaginable as real events but also from a world in which many of the most fundamental assumptions about spiritual life were being called into "uestion by the movement known as the .eformation. Aatholic and Drotestant voices struggled to articulate the precise beliefs and practices thought necessary for the soul)s salvation. 1ne key site of conflict was the $ible, with Aatholic authorities trying unsuccessfully to stop the circulation of the unauthori>ed Drotestant translation of 3cripture by ,illiam yndale, a translation in which doctrines and institutional structures central to the .oman Aatholic church were directly challenged. hose doctrines and structures, above all the interpretation of the central ritual of the eucharist, or =ord)s 3upper, were contested with murderous ferocity, as the fates of the Drotestant martyr %nne %skew and the Aatholic martyr .obert %ske make painfully clear. he .eformation is closely linked to many of the texts printed in the sixteenth&century section of the ;orton %nthology: $ook 1 of 3penser)s 3aerie 2ueene 8!A<$ 2, 1.014W2+-9, for example, in

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which a staunchly Drotestant knight of Holiness struggles against the satanic forces of .oman Aatholicism, or the Drotestant propagandist <oxe)s account of =ady *ane 7rey)s execution 8 !A<$ 2, 1.-0'&0+9, or the Aatholic .obert 3outhwell)s moving religious lyric, O he windows on the .eformation offer a revealing glimpse of the inner lives of men and women in $urning $abeO 8!A<$ 2, 1.-'5&'19. If these udor 6ngland, the subsection entitled O he ,ider ,orldO provides a glimpse of the huge world that lay beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, a world that the 6nglish were feverishly attempting to explore and exploit. .uthless military expeditions and 6nglish settlers 8including the poet 6dmund 3penser9 struggled to subdue and coloni>e nearby Ireland, but with very limited success. <arther afield, merchants from cities such as =ondon and $ristol established profitable trading links to markets in ;orth %frica, urkey, and .ussia. %nd daring seamen such as (rake and Aavendish commanded voyages to still more distant lands. he texts collected here, which supplement the selections from .alegh)s .isco#erie of :uiana 8!A<$ 2, 1.4!#&!-9 and Hariot)s ?rief and True 9eport 8!A<$ 1.4#2&'#9 in the ;orton %nthology, are fascinating, disturbing records of intense human curiosity, greed, fear, wonder, and intelligence. %nd lest we imagine that the 6nglish were only the observers of the world and never the observed, O he ,ider ,orldO includes a sample of a foreign tourist)s description of =ondon. he tourist, homas Dlatter, had the good sense to go to the theater and to see, as so many thousands of visitors to 6ngland have done since, a play by 3hakespeare.

The early se,enteenth +ent(ry


he earlier seventeenth century, and especially the period of the 6nglish .evolution 81-'5W-59, was a time of intense ferment in all areas of life T religion, science, politics, domestic relations, culture. hat ferment was reflected in the literature of the era, which also registered a heightened focus on and analysis of the self and the personal life. However, little of this seems in evidence in the elaborate frontispiece to ?ichael (rayton)s long OchorographicalO poem on the landscape, regions, and local history of 7reat $ritain 81-1!9, which appeared in the first years of the reign of the 3tuart king *ames I 81-5#W1-!+9. he frontispiece appears to represent a peaceful, prosperous, triumphant $ritain, with 6ngland, 3cotland, and ,ales united, patriarchy and monarchy firmly established, and the nation serving as the great theme for lofty literary celebration. %lbion 8the .oman name for $ritain9 is a young and beautiful virgin wearing as cloak a map featuring rivers, trees, mountains, churches, townsN she carries a scepter and holds a cornucopia, symbol of plenty. 3hips on the hori>on signify exploration, trade, and garnering the riches of the sea. In the four corners stand four con"uerors whose descendants ruled over $ritain: the legendary $rutus, *ulius Aaesar, Hengist the 3axon, and the ;orman ,illiam the Aon"ueror, Owhose line yet rules,O as (rayton)s introductory poem states. Yet this frontispiece also registers some of the tensions, conflicts, and redefinitions evident in the literature of the period and explored more directly in the topics and texts in this portion of the ; 1 ,eb site. It is %lbion herself, not /ing *ames, who is seated in the center holding the emblems of sovereigntyN her male con"uerors stand to the side, and their smaller si>e and their number suggest something unstable in monarchy and patriarchy. %lbion)s robe with its multiplicity of regional features, as well as the ODolyO of the title, suggests forces pulling against national unity. %lso, )oly 1lbion had no successors: instead of a celebration of the nation in the vein of 3penser)s 3aerie 2ueene or )oly 1lbion itself, the great seventeenth&century heroic poem, )aradise $ost, treats the <all of ?an and its tragic conse"uences, Oall our woe.O he first topic here, O7ender, <amily, Household: 3eventeenth&Aentury ;orms and Aontroversies,O provides important religious, legal, and domestic advice texts through which to explore cultural assumptions about gender roles and the patriarchal family. It also invites attention to how those assumptions are modified or challenged in the practices of actual families and householdsN in tracts on transgressive subjects 8cross&dressing, women speaking in church, divorce9N in women)s texts asserting women)s worth, talents, and rightsN and especially in the upheavals of the 6nglish .evolution.

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O)aradise $ost in Aontext,O the second topic for this period, surrounds that radically revisionist epic with texts that invite readers to examine how it engages with the interpretative traditions surrounding the 7enesis story, how it uses classical myth, how it challenges orthodox notions of 6denic innocence, and how it is positioned within but also against the epic tradition from Homer to Birgil to (u $artas. he protagonists here are not martial heroes but a domestic couple who must, both before and after their <all, deal with "uestions hotly contested in the seventeenth century but also perennial: how to build a good marital relationshipN how to think about science, astronomy, and the nature of thingsN what constitutes tyranny, servitude, and libertyN what history teachesN how to meet the daily challenges of love, work, education, change, temptation, and deceptive rhetoricN how to reconcile free will and divine providenceN and how to understand and respond to 7od)s ways. he third topic, OAivil ,ars of Ideas: 3eventeenth&Aentury Dolitics, .eligion, and Aulture,O provides an opportunity to explore, through political and polemical treatises and striking images, some of the issues and conflicts that led to civil war and the overthrow of monarchical government 81-'!W -59. hese include royal absolutism vs. parliamentary or popular sovereignty, monarchy vs. republicanism, Duritanism vs. %nglicanism, church ritual and ornament vs. iconoclasm, toleration vs. religious uniformity, and controversies over court mas"ues and 3unday sports. he climax to all this was the highly dramatic trial and execution of /ing Aharles I 8*anuary 1-'49, a cataclysmic event that sent shock waves through courts, hierarchical institutions, and traditionalists everywhereN this event is presented here through contemporary accounts and graphic images.

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Elisa6eth I

he 6nglish 6li>abethan 6ra is one of the most fascinating periods in the History of 6ngland. he 6li>abethan 6ra is named after the greatest hueens of 6ngland & hueen 6li>abeth I. he 6li>abethan 6ra is not only famous for the Birgin hueen but also for the era itself & 7reat 6xplorers, such as 3ir <rancis (rake and ,alter .aleigh. he era of the very first heatres in 6ngland & ,illiam 3hakespeare, the globe heatre and Ahristopher ?arloweK he people of the era & the <amous <igures who featured in the history of this era such as the hueen)s love .obert (udley, the sinister (r. *ohn (ee, the intrigues of the spy&master 3ir <rancis ,alsingham and the hueen)s chief advisor 3ir ,illiam Aecil 8=ord $urghley9. .eligion & Dolitics & 6xecutions & Arime and Dunishment all played their part in the 6li>abethan era, and so did the commoners. he Arime and Dunishment at her time is not a happy subjectit was a violent time. Arimes were met with violent, cruel punishments. ?any punishments and executions were witnessed by many hundreds of people. he =ower Alasses treated such events as exciting days out. 6ven royalty were subjected to this most public form of punishment for their crimes. he execution of the tragic %nne $oleyn was restricted to the :pper Alasses and ;obility and was witnessed by several hundred spectatorsK his era was split into two classes & the :pper Alass, the nobility and courtiers, and everyone elseK Dunishment would vary according to class. he :pper class was well educated, wealthy and associated with .oyalty and high members of the clergy. hey would often become involved in Dolitical intrigue and matters of .eligion. he nobility could therefore become involved in crime which was not shared by other people. *ust being accused of one of the serious crimes could well result in torture. % (efendant)s chances in receiving any ac"uittal in court extremely slim. rials were designed in the favour of the prosecutors and defendants accused any of the following crimes were not even allowed legal counsel. he most common crimes of the ;obility included: High .ebellionN ?urderN ,itchcraftN %lchemy. reasonN $lasphemyN 3editionN 3pyingN

?any crimes committed by +o..oners were through sheer desperation and abject poverty. he most common crimes were: heftN Aut pursesN $eggingN DoachingN%dulteryN (ebtorsN <orgersN <raudN(ice coggers. heft for stealing anything over + pence resulted in hanging & a terrible price to pay for poor people who were starving. 6ven such small crimes such as stealing bird eggs could result in the death sentence. Dunishment for poaching crimes differed according to when the crime was committed & Doaching at night resulted in the punishment by death, whereas poaching during the day time did not. $egging was a serious crime during the 6li>abethan era. he 6li>abethan government made begging a crime and therefore illegal and )poor beggars) %s their punishment )poor beggars) would be beaten until they reached the stones that marked the town parish boundary. he beatings given as punishment were bloody and merciless and those who were caught continually begging could be sent to prison and even hanged as their punishment. =ife in 6li>abethan 6ngland was chronicled by an 6li>abethan called ,illiam Harrison & this included details of 6li>abethan crime and punishment. he most dreadful punishment of being Hung, (rawn and huartered was described by ,illiam Harrison as:

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OThe greatest and most grie#ous punishment used in <ngland for such as offend against the &tate is drawing from the prison to the place of e/ecution upon an hurdle or sled, where they are hanged till they be half dead, and then taken down, and Guartered ali#eE after that, their members and bowels are cut from their bodies, and thrown into a fire, pro#ided near hand and within their own sight, e#en for the same purpose%> 1ther punishment included execution by burning and beheading. $eing burnt at the stake was a terrible death. 6xecutioners sometimes showed mercy to their victims by placing gunpowder at the base of the stake which helped the victims to a swifter, and less painful, death. he only other respite from the excruciating pain of being burnt to death was if the victims died of suffocation through smoke inhalation and lack of oxygen. he punishment of (eath by the axe was a terrifying prospect. he 6li>abethan executioners often took several blows before the head was finally severed. he punishment of death by 6xecution were held in public and witnessed by many people. <ollowing the execution the severed head was held up by the hair by the executioner, not as many people think to show the crowd the head, but in fact to show the head the crowd and to it)s own bodyK Aonsciousness remains for at least eight seconds after beheading, until lack of oxygen causes unconsciousness, and eventually death. he punishment by beheading therefore even continued after )death). he Heads of 6li>abethan traitors were placed on stakes and displayed in public places such as =ondon $ridge. Dunishment for commoners, the lower class, during the 6li>abethan period included the following: HangingN $urningN he Dillory and the 3tocksN ,hippingN$randingNDressingN (ucking stoolsN he ,heelN $oiling in oil water or lead 8usually reserved for poisoners9N 3tarvation in a public placeN Autting off various items of the anatomy & hands, ears etcN he 7ossip)s $ridle or the $rankN he (runkards Aloak ?inor crime and punishment in small 6li>abethan towns were dealt with by the *ustice of the Deace. ?any crimes during the 6li>abethan era were due to a crime committed and the law broken due to the desperate acts of the poor. 6very town parish was responsible for the poor and unemployed within that parish. he *ustice of the Deace for each town parish was allowed to collect a tax from those who owned land in the town. his was called the Door .ate which was used to help the poor during the 6li>abethan period. 6B6; T9AV<$ %;( A"T,!: I; 6=I\%$6 H%; 6;7=%;( ,%3 % A.I?6 ,I H1: % =IA6;A6K Deople did not travel around a lot during the udor and 6li>abethan era. ravelling during the 6li>abethan era could be dangerous, money was necessary and a license, obtained from the $ailiff in the 7uild Hall, was re"uired by anyone who needed to travel around 6ngland & it was a crime to travel without a licence. his law ensured that the spread of disease, especially the plague, was contained as much as possible and that the poor and the homeless did not travel from one village to another village & an 6li>abethan ploy to lower the crime and punishment levels in 6ngland. 3trangers were treated with suspicion and risked being accused of crimes and suffered the appropriate punishment.

The great Eli2a6ethan Age o/ E-"loration


It was at first dominated by the Dortuguese and the 3panish. he 7olden %ge of 6xploration also saw the emergence of 6nglish explorers such as 3ir <rancis (rake 81+'!&1+4-9, 3ir ,alter .aleigh 81++'&1-129, 3ir Humphrey 7ilbert 81+#4&1+2#9, 3ir *ohn Hawkins 81+#!&1+4+9, 3ir .ichard 7renville 81+'1&1+419 and 3ir ?artin <robisher 81+#+&1+4'9. % biography, timeline, facts, pictures and information has been included about the most famous 6xplorers and their explorations that made such momentous voyages during the %ge of 6xploration, many including 3cientific curiosity, bred of the .enaissance spirit of free in"uiry, the crusading spirit in which 6uropeans thrilled at the thought of spreading Ahristianity among heathen peoples. %nd the opportunities to ac"uire wealth, fame and power. 3o we have the scientific improvements in ;avigation during this %ge of 6xploration. he 6li>abethan imes saw the emergence of the bravest and skilful 6nglish seamen who revelled in the .enaissance %ge of 6xplorationK ;ew discoveries could bring untold riches in terms of gold and silver and spices & the 6li>abethan explorers were searching for adventure, glory and wealth. he 7reatest 6nglish 6xplorers were 3ir <rancis (rake , 3ir ,alter .aleigh , 3ir Humphrey 7ilbert ,

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3ir *ohn Hawkins , 3ir .ichard 7renville and 3ir ?artin <robisher . his fact happens between 1555 & 1+55 8this early 6xplorers imeline provides a )backdrop) to the achievements and voyages of discovery by the .enaissance and 6li>abethan 6xplorers until the imeline covering 1+55 & 1-55. he .enaissance saw the success of the 3panish explorers in ac"uiring monopolies on much of the 6astern spice trade and their expeditions to the ;ew ,orld brought great wealth and power to 3pain during the %ge of 6xploration. .odrigo de $astidas, Basco ;une> de $alboa, *uan (ia> de 3olis, <rancisco Hernande> de Aordoba, Hernan Aortes and <rancisco Di>arro were the greatest 3panish 6xplorers in the great %ge of 6xploration. he emergence of some <amous Dirates and the 7olden %ge of Dirates, the lucrative slave trade, spice trade and the spoils of gold and silver encouraged the activities of Dirates. ?any explorers such as 3ir <rancis (rake and 3ir ?artin <robisher were referred to as pirates, the real Dirates of the AaribbeanK In this period, the age of the .enaissance, of new ideas and new thinking, we have the introduction of the printing press, one of the greatest tools in increasing knowledge and learning, was responsible for the interest in the different sciences and inventions & and the supernaturalK he new ideas, information and increased knowledge about science, technology and astrology led to a renewed interest in the supernatural including witches, witchcraft and ghosts which led to belief in superstitions and the supernatural. <acts about all of these subjects are included in the plays written at that time.

The Eli2a6ethan Theatre


he history of the theater is fascinating. How plays were first produced in the yards of inns & the Inn&yards. he very first theater and the development of the amphitheatreK he 6li>abethan 6ntrepreneurs 8the men with the ideas and the moneyK9. he building, design and construction of a =ondon 6li>abethan heatre. he plays, the playwrights, the politics and the propaganda all play an important part in the history of the 6li>abethan heatre. It was a booming business. Deople loved the heatreK he plays and theatres were as popular as the movies and cinemas of the early !5th century. Bast amounts of money could be madeK he inn&keepers increased their profits by allowing plays to be shown on temporary stages erected in the yards of their inns 8inn&yards9. 3oon purpose&built playhouses and great open theatres were being constructed. he great success of the theatre and what led to its downfall. he History of the 6li>abethan theatre & the Inn&Yards, the %mphitheatres and the Dlayhouses It presents all of the imported dates and events in the history of the 6li>abethan heatre in a logical order. he theatre was an expanding industry during this era. ?any theatres sprang up in and around the Aity of =ondon. he excitement, money and fame lured 6li>abethan theatre entrepreneurs and actors into working in the famous heatre. ,e can mention the 7lobe heatre, ;ewington $utts, the Aurtain 6li>abethan heatre, the .ose heatre, the 3wan heatre, the <ortune 6li>abethan heatre, the $oars Head , the $ear 7arden, the $ull .ing and the Hope 6li>abethan heatre. (uring 6li>abetahn era we saw a great flourishing of literature, especially in the field of drama. he Italian .enaissance had rediscovered the ancient 7reek and .oman theatre, and this was instrumental in the development of the new drama, which was then beginning to evolve apart from the old mystery and miracle plays of the ?iddle %ges. 6li>abethan %ctors were treated with as much suspicion as beggars. %nyone who needed to travel to earn their living, such as actors, were treated with suspicion and could therefore be expected to be accused of crimes. %n actors standing in 6li>abethan 6ngland was only slightly higher than a beggar, vagabond or a thief. ,hen plays started to become more popular rich nobles, or high ranking courtiers of the land, acted as their sponsors. It was soon decreed that licenses should be granted to legitimise certain %cting roupes. his raised the actors status somewhat and lead to fewer accusations of crimes. % license also had to be granted by own Aouncillors when a troupe of actors came to town. ?any actors received punishments for real and sometimes imaginary crimes which included the punishment of branding with red hot irons. he role of women were played by men, as it was not proper for a woman to act.

19 0

5illia. Shakes"eare li/e an

1ork

5illiam

3hakespeare was a poet, dramatist, and actor and is

considered by many to be the greatest dramatist of all time. He is the foremost figure in 6nglish literature and had a primary influence on the development of the 6nglish literary language. He was born in %pril, 1+-' in 3tratford&upon&%von, ,arwickshire, about 155 miles northwest of =ondon. %ccording to the records of 3tratford)s Holy rinity Ahurch, he was bapti>ed on %pril !-. 3ince it was customary to bapti>e infants within days of birth, and since 3hakespeare died +! years later on %pril !#, and&&most significantly&& since %pril !# is 3t. 7eorge)s day, the patron saint of 6ngland, it has become traditional to assign the birth day of 6ngland)s most famous poet to %pril !#. %s with most sixteenth century births, the actual day is not recorded. %nd as with most remarkable men, the power of myth and symmetry has proven irresistible. 3o %pril !# it has become. His parents were *ohn and ?ary 3hakespeare, who lived in Henley 3treet, 3tratford. *ohn, the son of .ichard 3hakespeare, was a whittawer 8a maker, worker and seller of leather goods such as purses, belts and gloves9 and a dealer in agricultural commodities. He was a solid, middle class citi>en at the time of ,illiam)s birth, and a man on the rise. He served in 3tratford government successively as a member of the Aouncil 81++09, constable 81++29, chamberlain 81+-19, alderman 81+-+9 and finally high bailiff 81+-29&&the e"uivalent of town mayor. %bout 1+00 *ohn 3hakespeare)s fortunes began to decline for unknown reasons. here are records of debts. In 1+2he was replaced as alderman for shirking responsibilities, and in 1+4! was reprimanded for not coming to church for fear of process of debt. ?ary, the daughter of .obert %rden, had in all eight children with *ohn 3hakespeare. ,illiam was the third child and the first son. he eldest child of *ohn 3hakespeare, a tradesman and public servant, and ?ary %rden 3hakespeare, the daughter of a gentleman farmer, ,illiam was bapti>ed on %pril !-, 1+-'. $ased on this fact, it is hypothesi>ed that he was born on or about %pril !#, 1+-'. =ittle is known about his early life and the only documented facts come from christening and marriage records and other legal documents. hough no records exist, it is possible young ,illiam may have attended the /ing)s ;ew 3chool and received what would have been considered a classical education. He probably would have been taught the basics of =atin, 7reek, Italian, and <rench and read such authors as %esop, Aaesar, Birgil, and 1vid. He probably also would have been taught logic, rhetoric, grammar, speech, and drama. 1n ;ovember !2, 1+2! the $ishop of ,orcester issued the marriage bond for O,illiam 3hagspereO, he was eighteen years old and O%nn Hathwey of 3tratford.O his was, almost beyond doubt, %nne Hathaway, daughter of .ichard Hathaway of 3hottery&&a gathering of farm houses near 3tratford on ?ay !-, 1+2# their first daughter 3usanna was baptised. 3ix months later, on ?ay !-, 1+2#, ,illiam and %nne)s first daughter, 3usanna, was born. wo years later, twins were born to them, Hamnet and *udith, named after Hamnet and *udith 3adler, apparently lifetime friends to 3hakespeare. Hamnet 3adler was remembered in 3hakespeare)s will. It was also during this time period that 3hakespeare became of part of =ord AhamberlainJs ?en. %s a member of =ord AhamberlainJs ?en, 3hakespeare enjoyed fame and prosperity and in 1+4', he began to hold stock in the company. 3hakespeare and his company opened the 7lobe heatre in 1+44. hat same year, =ord AhamberlainJs ?en performed +ulius "aesar for the first time, probably at the 7lobe. In 1-5#, hueen 6li>abeth died and her successor, *ames I, pronounced 3hakespeareJs troupe his servants under the name the /ingJs ?en.

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%round 1-15, 3hakespeare returned to 3tratford&:pon&%von to retire and live as a country gentleman, though his plays continued to be performed at the 7lobe until its burning in 1-1#. 1n %pril !#, 1-1-, 3hakespeare died and seven years later, in 1-!#, the <irst <olio of his works was published. ;1
63 %$1:

3H%/63D6%.6J3 ,1./3:

3hakespeareJs dramatic works do not survive in manuscript and the exact order in which his plays were written and produced is not known with certainty. However, comedies such as The "omedy of <rrors, The Taming of the &hrew, $o#e@s $abour@s $ost, and A Midsummer !ight@s .ream and his early tragedy 9omeo and +uliet were performed in the early 1+45s. hese early works are influenced by prevailing contemporary conventions, but are also marked by vivid characteri>ation and rich and inventive use of the 6nglish =anguage that are strictly 3hakespearean. In the early 10th century, 3hakespeare produced his four great tragediesN ;amlet, 1thello, *ing $ear, and Macbeth, which mark one of the high points in the history of ,estern =iterature. His last plays, The 'inter@s Tale and The Tempest combine elements of romance comedy, and tragedy. In addition to his dramatic works, 3hakespeare wrote over 1+5 sonnets, which were published in 1-54, and two heroic narrative poems, Venus and Adonis 81+4#9 and SThe 9ape ofT $ucrece 81+4'9.

vol. -!, <liDabethan .ramatists, pp. !-0&#+#, The 1/ford "ompanion to the <nglish $anguage, edited by om ?c%rthur, and Merriam 'ebster@s <ncyclopedia of $iterature.

he information for ,illiam 3hakespeareJs biography was adapted from The .ictionary of $iterary ?iography S.$?T,

Shakes"eare *hronologi+al listing o/ "lays


Title The *o.e y o/ Errors Tit(s An roni+(s The Ta.ing o/ the Shre1 E 0enry :I ! 0enry :I A 0enry :I Ri+har III Lo,e's La6or's Lost T1o )entle.en o/ :erona A Mi s(..er Night's Drea. Ro.eo an C(liet Ri+har II @ing Cohn The Mer+hant o/ :eni+e 0enry I: %art A The Merry 5i,es o/ 5in sor 0enry I: %art E As Yo( Like It 0enry : M(+h A o A6o(t Nothing C(li(s *aesar T1el/th Night 0a.let Troil(s an *ressi a All's 5ell That En s 5ell Meas(re For Meas(re Othello @ing Lear Ma+6eth Antony an *leo"atra Date 5ritten AF$B AF$B AF$A AF$A AF$A AF$E AF$E AF$! AF$! AF$G AF$F AF$F AF$D AF$D AF$I AF$I AF$# AF$# AF$$ AF$$ AF$$ ADBB ADBA ADBE ADB! ADBG ADBG ADBF ADBF ADBD Date Range ; - AF$G ; - AF$G ; - AF$G ; - AF$E ; - AF$E ; - AF$E AF$E - AF$I ; - AF$I ; - AF$# AF$G - AF$# ; - AF$I AF$F - AF$I ; - AF$# AF$G - AF$# AF$F - AF$# AF$I - ADBE AF$D - AF$# AF$# - ADBB AF$$ AF$# - ADBB AF$# - AF$$ ADBB - ADBE AF$$ - ADBA ADBA - ADB! AF$# - ; AF$# - ADBG AF$# - ADBG AF$# - ADBD ADB! - ADAA AF$# - ADB# First %(6lishe ADE! AF$G ADE! AF$G AF$F ADE! AF$I AF$# ADE! ADBB AF$I AF$I ADE! ADBB AF$# ADBE ADBB ADE! ADBB ADBB ADE! ADE! ADB! ADB$ ADE! ADE! ADEE ADB# ADE! ADE!

19 2

Ti.on o/ Athens %eri+les %rin+e o/ Tyre *oriolan(s *y.6eline A 5inter's Tale The Te."est 0enry :III

ADBD ADBI ADB# ADB$ ADAB ADAA ADA!

AF$# AF$# AF$# AF$# AF$# ADAB ADAE

; ADB# ; ADAA ADAA ADAA ADA!

ADE! ADB$ ADE! ADE! ADE! ADE! ADE!

Shakes"earean Theater
$efore 3hakespeareps time and during his boyhood, troupes of actors performed wherever they could in halls, courts, courtyards, and any other open spaces available. However, in 1+0', when 3hakespeare was ten years old, the Aommon Aouncil passed a law re"uiring plays and theaters in =ondon to be licensed. In 1+0-, actor and future =ord Ahamberlain)s ?an, *ames $urbage, built the first permanent theater, called O he heatreO, outside =ondon city walls. %fter this many more theaters were established, including the 7lobe heatre, which was where most of 3hakespeare)s plays premiered. 6li>abethan theaters were generally built after the design of the original heatre. $uilt of wood, these theaters comprised three tiers of seats in a circular shape, with a stage area on one side of the circle. he audience)s seats and part of the stage were roofed, but much of the main stage and the area in front of the stage in the center of the circle were open to the elements. %bout 1,+55 audience members could pay extra money to sit in the covered seating areas, while about 255 OgroundlingsO paid less money to stand in this open area before the stage. he stage itself was divided into three levels: a main stage area with doors at the rear and a curtained area in the back for Odiscovery scenesON an upper, canopied area called OheavenO for balcony scenesN and an area under the stage called Ohell,O accessed by a trap door in the stage. here were dressing rooms located behind the stage, but no curtain in the front of the stage, which meant that scenes had to flow into each other, and Odead bodiesO had to be dragged off. Derformances took place during the day, using natural light from the open center of the theater. 3ince there could be no dramatic lighting and there was very little scenery or props, audiences relied on the actors) lines and stage directions to supply the time of day and year, the weather, location, and mood of the scenes. 3hakespeare)s plays masterfully supply this information . <or example, in Hamlet the audience learns within the first twenty lines of dialogue where the scene takes place 8OHave you had "uiet guardEO9, what time of day it is 8O) is now strook twelfO9, what the weather is like 8O) is bitter coldO9, and what mood the characters are in 8Oand I am sick at heartO9. 1ne important difference between plays written in 3hakespeare)s time and those written today is that 6li>abethan plays were published after their performances, sometimes even after their authors) deaths, and were in many ways a record of what happened on stage during these performances rather than directions for what should happen. %ctors were allowed to suggest changes to scenes and dialogue and had much more freedom with their parts than actors today. 3hakespeare)s plays are no exception. In Hamlet, for instance, much of the plot revolves around the fact that Hamlet writes his own scene to be added to a play in order to ensnare his murderous father. 3hakespeare)s plays were published in various forms and with a wide variety of accuracy during his time. he discrepancies between versions of his plays from one publication to the next make it difficult for editors to put together authoritative editions of his works. Dlays could be published in large anthologies called <olios 8the <irst <olio of 3hakespeare)s plays contains #- plays9 or smaller huartos. <olios were so named because of the way their paper was folded in half to make chunks of two pages each which were sewn together to make a large volume. huartos were smaller, cheaper books containing only one play. heir paper was folded twice, making four pages. In general, the <irst <olio is of better "uality than the "uartos. herefore, plays that are printed in the <irst <olio are much easier for editors to compile. %lthough 3hakespeare)s language and classical references seem archaic to some modern readers, they were commonplace to his audiences. His viewers came from all classes, and his plays appealed to all kinds of sensibilities, from OhighbrowO accounts of kings and "ueens of old to the

19 3

OlowbrowO blunderings of clowns and servants. 6ven his most tragic plays include clown characters for comic relief and to comment on the events of the play. %udiences would have been familiar with his numerous references to classical mythology and literature, since these stories were staples of the 6li>abethan knowledge base. ,hile 3hakespeareps plays appealed to all levels of society and included familiar story lines and themes, they also expanded his audiences) vocabularies. ?any phrases and words that we use today, like Oama>ement,O Oin my mind)s eye,O and Othe milk of human kindnessO were coined by 3hakespeare. His plays contain a greater variety and number of words than almost any other work in the 6nglish language, showing that he was "uick to innovate, had a huge vocabulary, and was interested in using new phrases and words. %s it is very difficult to select only one play of this great playwrighter, we decide to read and analyse L1thelloM, because of the way he presents so perfectly the inner feelings of human beings during the acts.

Literary Ter.s to hel" rea ing Shakes"eare


%gent of change &% person or spirit that produces a significant change in a situation. Iago is the main agent of change in 1thello. ,ithout him the plot would not proceed to its tragic conclusion. %lliteration& % poetic techni"ue often used by 3hakespeare where two or more words beginning with the same consonant sound appear close to each other within a line or series of lines. It is used to make the poetry sound more impressive or beautiful, or to emphasise a particular feeling or idea. %ntihero&% character who dominates the play because of his evil actions rather than the noble "ualities which are usually associated with a hero. 3hakespeare created some wonderful antiheroesN in 1thello, Iago could be seen as one. He is given many of the playJs most impressive solilo"uies and the "uestion of why he behaves as he does is often seen as the most interesting aspect of the play. %ssonance &% literary techni"ue in which words containing the same or very similar vowel sounds are placed close together. his can produce a strong, musical effect and is one of the ways in which the sound of 3hakespeareJs poetry helps to convey particular ideas or feelings. Aatastrophe& % term for the final scene in a classic tragedy in which, either as a result of the workings of fate or as a conse"uence of a flaw in the heroJs or heroineJs personality, terrible disasters occur. :sually, this involves the deaths of all or nearly all the main characters. In 1thello, Aassio and Iago are the only survivors out of the major characters. Alimax& % key moment in the plot, when the tensions which have been set up and developed throughout the middle part of the play are resolved. In a tragedy, the climax is also known as the SAatastropheJ. Aomedy&% light, amusing style of drama that usually has a happy ending. 3hakespeare usually added some comic scenes and characters to his tragedies in order to provide some Slight reliefJ and to vary the tone. 1thello is unusual because there are very few comic moments. he most famous comic scene in the play occurs at the beginning of %ct #, 3cene 1, where the Alown makes fun of a band of musicians who are playing outside tragedy 1thelloJs lodgings. Aontrast& 3hakespeare often used contrasts to draw the audienceJs attention to particular ideas or "ualities within his characters. <or example, in tragedy, there are many contrasting images of black and white, heaven and hell, light and darkness, and so on. Aharacters are also contrasted with each otherN as an example, (esdemona and Iago represent opposing good and evil influences on 1thello. (ramatic irony & % dramatic techni"ue where the audience possesses important information which is not known by the characters on stage. his often creates humour or powerful tension, as we see the characters acting in a way which we know is unwise, or saying things which we know to be mistaken. 1thello is full of dramatic irony, often caused by IagoJs ability to deceive the other characters.

19 4

(ramatic tension& % important feature of a dramatic plot. In the first act, problems or "uestions are introduced, setting up suspense. his is then developed during the central acts of the play, and eventually resolved at the playJs climax. he plot tension keeps the audience interested and intrigued as they wonder what will happen next and how exactly the various tensions will be resolved. Iambic pentameter& his is the type of unrhymed verse that 3hakespeare generally wrote in. It was an extremely popular form of verse in 6li>abethan 6ngland. It consists of five metrical )feet) . hese are arranged in the following pattern of syllables: either, shortC longC shortC longC shortN or unstressedC stressedC unstressedC stressedC unstressed. Irony & % kind of humour resulting from the fact that the reader or audience knows that the SrealJ meaning of a statement may not be the same as its literal meaning. In 1thello, it is ironic that almost all the other characters call Iago Shonest IagoJ, when the audience knows from the very first scene that he is dishonest and proud of itK ?achiavelli & %n Italian statesman and political theorist who wrote about statecraft during 3hakespeareJs lifetime. His ideas were widely discussed throughout 6urope, and often appear in 6li>abethan and *acobean drama. He was interested in the idea that Sthe end justifies the meansJ. In other words, the effective use of power may have to involve unethical behaviour in order to achieve a desired result. In 1thello, Iago is an example of a ?achiavellian antihero. He will do anything in order to achieve his ends. ?etaphor& % comparison which is implicit or indirect rather than explicit. wo ideas or images are compared by using language appropriate to both of them within the same statement or line8s9 of poetry. he effect is often complex and thought&provoking. 1xymoron&% figure of speech in which contradictory terms are brought together in what is at first sight an impossible combination T such as Sliving deathJ. Dlot & he order in which a playJs storyline unfolds. 3hakespeare often used existing stories for his plays, but he made his own decisions about the order in which the story would be revealed and sometimes changed the events in the story, too. <or instance, in 1thello, he used a basic storyline written by an Italian writer, Ainthio, but he made many alterations to the plot and completely changed both the beginning and the ending, making the story much more powerful and dramatic. Drotagonist& % character 8usually the hero or heroine9 who is important as an agent of change, influencing the events through which the plot unfolds. Dun & % kind of joke which relies on a double meaning. % word or phrase has one obvious meaning, but the reader or audience is also aware of a second meaning, which is often rude or funny. ,e see examples when reading extract from the ame of he 3hrew. .eliable and unreliable witnesses & % playwright often presents a character through the words and opinions of others. his is made more complex and interesting because of the fact that the audience will also have to work out whether these SwitnessesJ are reliable or unreliable T in other words, can we trust what they have to say, or should we immediately suspect that the opposite is trueE 3hakespeare often used this techni"ue to introduce major characters. In 1thello, both 1thello himself and (esdemona are introduced in this way. his creates intense curiosity as to their SrealJ characteristics and encourages the audience to focus carefully on their first appearances on the stage. .epresentation & he way in which an idea or a particular group of people are presented. <or instance, in 1thello 3hakespeare offers interesting representations of women through the range of female characters. %ttitudes towards race in 3hakespeareJs time are also explored through the representation of a black hero and the ways in which he is perceived and treated by the Benetians. .hyming couplet & wo consecutive lines which rhyme. hese are often used at the end of a speech to sum up an idea or series of ideas. .hyming couplets can also suggest witty humour or a trivial attitude.

19 5

3imile&% comparison between two ideas or images which is made explicit, often by using the words SlikeJ or Sas J. 3olilo"uy & % speech in which a character shares his or her inner thoughts with the audience, as if thinking aloud. 6ven if there are other characters on the stage, the audience is encouraged to believe that they cannot hear what is being said in the solilo"uy. ragedy& % drama in which the protagonist is in conflict with fate or a superior force, leading to an unhappy or disastrous conclusion. 1ften, a flaw in the protagonistJs character brings about his or her downfall. In 1thello, his tendency to experience jealousy makes the hero vulnerable to the forces of disorder represented by Iago . ragic flaw&% weakness within the character of the hero or heroine of a tragedy, which eventually leads to his or her downfall. In 7reek tragedy, fate played the biggest part in bringing tragedy upon the characters. 3hakespeare developed a more psychological version, in which the charactersJ actions and personalities interacted with aspects of earthly reality. 1thelloJs tragic flaw could be said to be his jealousy. ragic hero & he main protagonist in a tragedy. 1thello is one of 3hakespeareJs greatest tragic heroes. :nities& In 7reek tragedy, the intensity of the drama was heightened through observing the SunitiesJ of time and place. his meant that the action had to occur within one location or setting, and within a short space of time, often one day. %lthough 3hakespeare did not observe the unities strictly, he often confined the action of his tragedies to "uite a considerable extent in order to create a feeling of claustrophobia and inevitability. In 1thello, most of the action takes place in Ayprus and the final scenes are focused around 1thelloJs lodgings in the citadel. his helps to create a claustrophobic atmosphere in which tragedy seems more and more inevitable. 3hakespeare also contracts time during the playJs middle section, making the rise of 1thelloJs jealousy seem to occur at a terrifying pace. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

19 6

AMERI*AN LITERATURE

he painting of ,illiam $rewster is part of a thematic representation in the Dresident)s room of the 3enate ,ing, signifying 9eligion. he other themes are: .isco#ery 8Ahristopher Aolumbus9N ;istory 8$enjamin <ranklin9N </ploration 8%mericus Bespucius9.

he statues of .oger ,illiams and *ohn ,inthrop were chosen by the respective states that they were commissioned to represent&&.hode Island and ?assachusetts. he statue of ,illiams was sculpted by <ranklin 3immons in 1205N that of ,inthrop by .ichard 3. 7reenough in 120+.

A.eri+an Literary Ti.e %erio s


compiled from he %merican radition, Drentice Hall he %merican 6xperience, by Aindy %dams
Duritan imes .ationalismC%ge of 6nlightenment

19 7

Years Historical Aontext

7enreC3tyle

Aontent

6ffect

to 10+5 Duritans move to %merica for religious freedom 1thers moved to %merica to coloni>e it and endured hardships with the land and the ;ative %mericans sermons diaries personal narratives captivity narratives plain style Ahristian utopia relationship with 7od histories Duritan beliefs: community, original sin, and hard work instructive reinforces authority of $ible and church

10+5&12+5 growing dissatisfaction with 6ngland and taxation without representation rebellion against 6ngland .evolutionary ,ar political pamphlets travel writing highly ornate writing

national mission and %merican character democratic utopia use of reason

pride and patriotism grow Lprint cultureM becomes a Lvehicle for the new nationJs democratic identity and principlesM 81'' 6?A9 proliferance of newspapers and maga>ines .ealism 12++&1455 3lavery Aivil ,ar westward expansion continues

.omanticism Years Historical Aontext 1255&12++ expansion to !+ states by 12#technological developments make expansion seem easier 8telegraph and the steam engine9 many states extended voting rights to all free men W a shift in emphasis to Lcommon peopleM poetry short stories novels slave narratives political writings essays sub&genres: ranscendentalism 7othic

7enreC3tyle

spirituals slave narratives political writing poetry short stories novels sub&genres: ;aturalism .egionalism

Aontent

6ffect

imagination over reason reverence for nature supernaturalCmysterious writing that can be interpreted on two levels focus on individualJs feelings fueled abolitionist movement detective fiction, invented by Doe, still popular today ?odernism

abolition of slavery common characters not ideali>ed local color 8.egionalism9 manJs lack of control over his fate more literature centered around the ?idwest and the <ar ,est social realism W changing social problems realistic fiction remains popular today AontemporaryCDostmodernism 14'-&present Aivil .ights ?ovement *</Js assassination space exploration Bietnam ,ar growing media influence technological advances rethinking of our past at the beginning of !1st century

Years Historical Aontext

1455&14',,I and ,,II technological changes *a>> %ge W conflicts developed between older, conservative generation and young, alienated generation 7reat (epression expanded role of women in society

19 8

7enreC3tyle

continuation of the same genres as in the past sub&genre: Harlem .enaissance highly experimental 8rejection of the artistic convention of the past9 free verse, stream&of& consciousness prose new stylesN use of allusions irony became a signature techni"ue

continuation of the same genres as in the past new styles: found poems, concrete poems confessional poetry performance poetry blurring of lines between fact and fiction much of what is being written right now defies classification until critics have the advantage of time to place it in perspective people observe life as the media presents it popular culture has seeped into the literature peopleJs identity shaped by cultural and gender attitudes people learning to cope with problems through communication emergence of ethnic and women writers poetry slams have become inexpensive, popular entertainment more multicultural literature included in anthologies

Aontent

reality not absolute but depends upon the point of view of the observer impersonal, alienating people not able to communicate effectively grief over loss of the past 8pre world wars9

6ffect

%merican literature on the Lleading edge of worldJs artistic achievementM 8-'2 DH9

O,er,ie1 o/ A.eri+an 0istory an

Literat(re

his introduction is meant to help the students to enter the soul of literature, kowing its history and important figures of the %merican people. he foundation of %merican people are due to the pilgrims and puritans. $oth very important in producing the %merican behavior and character.

The %ilgri.s
he immigration of the Dilgrims to ;ew 6ngland occurred in stages. $ut that they had to go somewhere became apparent soon enough. heirs was the position of the 3eparatist: they believed that the reforms of the %nglican church had not gone far enough, that, although the break with Aatholicism in 1+#+ had moved some way toward the Duritan belief in and idea of religious authority grounded solely in 3cripture, by substituting king for pope as the head of the church, 6ngland was only recapitulating an unnecessary, corrupt, and even idolatrous order 87ill, 14&!19. In one basic respect, the Dilgrims are a logical outcome of the .eformation. In its increasing dissemination of the $ible, the increasing emphasis on it as the basis of spiritual meaning, the subse"uently increasing importance of literacy as a mode of religious authority and awareness, a growing individualism was implicit. his individualism may then have easily led to an atomi>ation or dispersion of authority that the monarchy duly feared, and that later generations of %mericans could easily label democratiDation. %s a writer in 14!1 put it, O hey accepted Aalvin)s rule, that those who are to exercise any public function in the church should be chosen by common voiceO 8,heelwright, vii9. However much this might emphasi>e the democratic "ualities

19 9

of the Dilgrims, as dissenters they do suggest at some level the origins of democratic society, in its reliance upon contending and even conflicting points of view, and in its tendency toward a more fluid social structure. $ut theirs was a religious, not a political agendaN moral and theological principles were involved, and from their perspective, there could be no compromise. <or them ! Aorinthians made it clear: OAome out from among them and be ye separate, saith the =ord.O o achieve and preserve a simplicity and )purity) that they felt had been lost amid the some of the surviving features of Aatholicism&&the rituals which continued through into the %nglican Ahurch and were epitomi>ed in its statement, O)I believe in...the holy Aatholick Ahurch)O 87ill, 149. o establish themselves as rightful interpreters of the $ible independent of an inherited social and cultural order, they removed from the %nglican Ahurch in order to re&establish it as they believed it truly should be. his of course meant leaving the country, and they left for Holland in 1-52. %fter 1! years, they decided to move again. Having gone back to 6ngland to obtain the backing of the Birginia Aompany, 15! Dilgrims set out for %merica. he reasons are suggested by ,illiam $radford, when he notes the OdiscouragementsO of the hard life they had in Holland, and the hope of attracting others by finding Oa better, and easier place of livingON the OchildrenO of the group being Odrawne away by evill examples into extravagence and dangerous coursesON the Ogreat hope, for the propagating and advancing the gospell of the kingdom of Ahrist in those remote parts of the worldO 8,heelwright, 0&29. In these reasons, the second sounds most like the Dilgrims many %mericans are familiar with&&the group that wants to be left alone and live in its own pure and righteous way. $ehind it seems to lie not only the fear of the breakdown of individual families, but even a concern over the dissolution of the larger community. he concern seems to be that their split with 6ngland was now only effecting their own disolution into (utch culture. $ut it is also interesting to note the underlying traces of evangelism in, if not the first, certainly the last of the reasons. 1n the one hand, this strain would find its later expression 8and perversion9 in such portrayals of the Dilgrims as the .otunda fresco, where the idea of conversion is baldly fashioned within the image of con"uestN here, the Indian is shown as subdued before the word of the OkingdomO even as the Dilgrims are landing, and the Dilgrim is seen as an agent of domination, a superior moral force commanding by its sheer presence. 1n the other hand, such a portrayal suggests an uneasy tension with the common 8and seemingly accurate9 conception of the Dilgrims as a model of tolerance. Indeed, the first of their reasons for sailing to %merica is fairly passive&& they want to OdrawO others by the example of their prosperity, not necessarily go con"uer and actively convert. 3uch an idea reflects the one that would be expressed explicitly by the Duritan *ohn ,inthrop, where the ;ew ,orld would become a beacon of religious light, a model of spiritual promise, a Ocitty upon a hill.O In any case, from their own point of view, they are )agents) only insofar as they are agents of Drovidence, and as $radford strives to make clear throughout, the narrative of their actions is only an interpretation of the works of 7od. hus, in a remarkable instance when a Oproud and very profane yonge manO who Owould curse and swear most bitterlyO falls overboard from the ?ayflower and drowns, it is seen as Othe just hand of 7od upon himO 8,heelwright, 1'9. 3o too when a member of their party is saved from drowning, or when the initial landing party finds the corn and beans for seed, or with their safe arrival at Dlymouth $ay in general, is the Ospetiall providence of 7odO evinced. %nd $radford seems to self&consciously maintain this version of the Ahristian perspective as an historical one, never allowing the reader or student of the Dilgrims to forget that their story is one with a trajectory&&coming from its beginnings 6ngland, and moving through the beginnings of the );ew ,orld). his is an emphasis that will serve histories and memories alike, especially in viewing the .evolution and the increased democrati>ation of the :nited 3tates as some necessary fulfillment of the Dilgrim promise.

The .ay/lo1er +o."a+t


;aturally, the primary text for later interpreters would be the ?ayflower Aompact, which $radford gives: In the name of 7od, %men. ,e whose names are underwriten, by the loyall subjects of our dread soveraigne =ord, /ing *ames, by the grace of 7od, of 7reat $ritaine, <ranc, and Ireland king, defender of the faith, etc.

20 0

Haveing undertaken, for the glorie of 7od, and advancemente of the Ahristian faith, and honour of our king and countrie, a voyage to plant the first colonie in the ;ortherne parts of Birginia, doe by these presents solemnly and mutually in the presence of 7od, and one another, covenant and combine our selves togeather into a civill body politick, for our better ordering and preservation and furtherance of the ends aforesaidN and by vertue hereof to enacte, constitute and frame shuch just and e"uall lawes, ordinances, acts, constitutions, and offices, from time to time, as shall be thought most meete and convenient for the generall good of the Aolonie, unto which we promise all due submission and obedience. In witnes whereof we have hereunder subscribed our names at Aap&Aodd the .11. of ;ovember, in the year of the raigne of our soveraigne lord, /ing *ames, of 6ngland, <rance, and Ireland, the eighteenth, and of 3cotland the fiftie&fourth. %nno (om. 1-!5 8,heelwright, #!&##9 $radford writes of the Aompact, that it developed partly in response to Othe discontented and mutinous speechesO of some of the OstrangersO&&colonists who had travelled with them but who Owere uncommitted to church fellowshipO&&and that it asserted and firmed the Dilgrims) Oowne libertieN for none had the power to command them, the patente they had being for Birginia, and not for ;ew england....O he Aompact thus arose out of a need to maintain social and civic coherence, to ensure that the officials elected and the group as a whole would have some legitimation against challenges to its Olegal authorityO 8?chuade, 1'5N ,heelwright, #!9. ?ichael /ammen, however, notes a OtraditionO in the early 14th century Oin which the Aompact was viewed as part of the repudiation of 6nglish dominationO 8/ammen, -'9. 3urely there are evident democratic tendencies in the text, wherein a code established from the consent of the people becomes the underpinning of a society of Ojust and e"uall lawes,O where the officials and figures of authority are all elected. $ut as Oloyall subjectsO to the Odread soveraigne =ord, /ing *ames,O their task is twofold: to maintain a degree of independence that would allow them to live in accordance with their 3eparatist views, but also to keep the ties to 6ngland strong enough so that those who did not share their religion nevertheless would be bound by an order ultimately traceable to the Arown. he misreadings that /ammen notes will be discussed further in following sections.

Thanksgi,ing an

the in ians

>The 3irst Thanksgi#ing,> a painting by +%$%:% 3erris, depicts America@s early settlers and !ati#e Americans celebrating a bountiful har#est.

he first few months were grueling for the Dilgrims. Half of their 15! members perished: Oof the 10 male heads of families, ten died during the first infectionON of the 10 wives, only three were left after three months. ,hen such devastation is seen against the following summer, when conditions improved so that $radford would write of Oall things in good plenty,O the sincerity of ) hanksgiving) becomes apparent. .egardless of how far removed one may be now or even may have been when it was established as a national holiday in 12-#, the sense of Drovidence had undoubtedly been heightened to an extreme pitch for the Dilgrims. %fter such devastating sickness, everyday survival itself was probably seen as cause for gratitude, but when given a full and prosperous harvest 8with the help and instruction of ;ative %mericans such as 3"uanto9, the previous ordeal could be understood as a trial by 7od, a test of faith, the heavenly reward prefigured by an earthly one. he institutional&&by which is meant primarily the Aapitol)s&&portrayal of ;ative %mericans throughout the establishment of Dlymouth Dlantation stands in curious relation to $raford)s

20 1

narrative. <irst of all, there is the initial landing party, with its description of the men led by Aaptain ?iles 3tandish, firing shots into the darkness at Oa hideous and great crie.O his they mistook for a Ocompanie of wolves, or such like wild beasts,O until the next morning)s skirmish&& when the Oarrowes came flyingO and one Olustie man, and no less valienteO who Owas seen shoot . #. arrowesO and Ostood .#. shot of a musket...O 8,heelwright, !+&!-9. his is hardly the humble servant offering up the corn at the mere sight of the Dilgrim)s arrival. %nd when 3amoset, the first representative of the Indians, comes to speak 8in Obroken 6nglishO9 with the Dilgrims, Ohe came bouldly amongst themO 8emphasis added9N and having had previous contact with 6uropeans, he presumably knew as much or more about the Dilgrims than they about him. 3"uanto, who had been to 6ngland and could communicate well with the colonists, and who taught them Ohow to set their corne, wher to take fish, and to procure other commodities,O is understood by the Dilgrims as Oa spetiall instrument sent of 7od for their good beyond their expectationO 8,heelwright, '19. .egardless of the sense of utility in such an expression 8all things being for them the effect or instrument of 7od9, there is an undeniable gratitude, and even the sense of dependence that those must have before one who would provide aid and instruction. he treaty with ?assasoit was initiated not by the Dilgrims but by the sachem himself, who had already made an e"uivalent pact with earlier explorers. he success of the treaty during ?assasoit)s lifetime suggests an e"uality, fairness, and tolerance that would be ideali>ed and wistfully re&presented in various remembrances of the overall colonial experience. It allows both the positive exemplar of the )Indian) in ?assasoit, and reassurance of 6uropean good&faith in dealing with him.

The %(ritans
he most obvious difference between the Dilgrims and the Duritans is that the Duritans had no intention of breaking with the %nglican church. he Duritans were nonconformists as were the Dilgrims, both of which refusing to accept an authority beyond that of the revealed word. $ut where with the Dilgrims this had translated into something closer to an egalitarian mode, the ODuritans considered religion a very complex, subtle, and highly intellectual affair,O and its leaders thus were highly trained scholars, whose education tended to translate into positions that were often authoritarian. here was a built&in hierarchism in this sense, but one which mostly reflected the age: OBery few 6nglishmen had yet broached the notion that a lackey was as good as a lord, or that any om, (ick, or Harry...could understand the 3ermon on the ?ount as well as a ?aster of %rts from 1xford, Aambridge, or HarvardO 8?iller, I: ', 1'9. 1f course, while the Duritan emphasis on scholarship did foster such class distinction, it nevertheless encouraged education among the whole of its group, and in fact demanded a level of learning and understanding in terms of salvation. homas Hooker stated in The Application of 9edemption, OIts with an ignorant sinner in the midst of all means as with a sick man remaining in the %pothecaries shop, ful of choycest ?edicines in the darkest night: ...because he cannot see what he takes, and how to use them, he may kill himself or encrease his distempers, but never cure any diseaseO 8"td. in ?iller, I: 1#9. /nowledge of 3cripture and divinity, for the Duritans, was essential. his was an uncompromising attitude that characteri>ed the Duritans) entry into ;ew 6ngland, according to Derry ?iller and homas H. *ohnson, whose thematic anthology, The )uritans 814#!, 14-#9, became a key text of revisionist historicism, standing as an influential corrective against the extreme anti&Duritanism of the early twentieth century. <ollowing 3amuel 6liot ?orison, they noted that the emphasis on education saw the establishment, survival, and flourishing of Harvard Aollege&&which survived only because the entire community was willing to support it, so that even the poor yeoman farmers Ocontributed their pecks of wheatO for the continued promise of a Oliterate ministryO 8?iller, I: 1'9. %nd again, to their credit, Duritan leaders did not bolster the knowledge of its ministry simply to perpetuate the level of power of the ruling elite. % continuing goal was to further education among the laity, and so ensure that not only were the right and righteous ideas and understandings being held and expressed, but that the expressions were in fact messages received by a comprehending audience. %n %ct passed in ?assachusetts in 1-'0 re"uired Othat every town of one hundred families or more should provide free common and grammar school instruction.O Indeed, the first O<ree 7rammar 3choolO was established in $oston in 1-#+, only five years after the ?assachusetts $ay Aolony was founded 8?iller, II: -4+&409. <or all the accusations of superstition and narrow& mindedness, the Duritans could at least be said to have provided their own antidote in their system of schools. %s *ohn Aotton wrote in "hrist the 3ountaine of $ife, O>eale is but a wilde&fire without knowledgeO 8"td. in ?iller, I: !!9. he Duritans who, in the 1+-5s, first began to be 8contemptuously9 referred to as such, were ardent reformers, seeking to bring the Ahurch to a state of purity that would match Ahristianity as

20 2

it had been in the time of Ahrist. his reform was to involve, depending upon which Duritan one asked, varying degrees of stripping away practices seen as residual OpoperyO&&vestments, ceremony, and the like. $ut many of the ideas later associated strictly with the Duritans were not held only by them. he Aalvinist doctrine of predestination, with which Duritanism agreed, was held by the Dilgrims as well: both believed that the human state was one of sin and depravityN that after the <all all but an elect group were irrevocably bound for hellN that, because 7od)s knowledge and power was not limited by space or time, this group had always been elect. In other words, there was nothing one could do about the condition of one)s soul but try to act as one would expect a heaven&bound soul to act. %s Derry ?iller points out, they inherited .enaissance humanism just as they inherited the .eformation, and so held an interesting place for reason in their overall beliefs. he Duritan idea of OAovenant heologyO describes how Oafter the fall of man, 7od voluntarily condescended...to draw up a covenant or contract with His creature in which He laid down the terms and conditions of salvation, and pledged Himself to abide by themO 8?iller, I: +29. he doctrine was not so much one of prescription as it was of explanation: it reasoned why certain people were saved and others were not, it gave the conditions against which one might measure up one)s soul, and it ensured that 7od would abide by Ohuman conceptions of right and justiceO&&Onot in all aspects, but in the mainO 8?iller, I: +29. he religious agency for the individual Duritan was then located in intense introspection, in the attempt to come to an awareness of one)s own spiritual state. %s with the Dilgrims, the world, history, everything for the Duritan became a te/t to be interpreted. 1ne could not expect all of 7od)s actions to be limited by one)s ideas of reason and justice, but one at least had a general sense, *ohn Aotton)s Oessentiall wisdome,O as guidance. %nd of course, one had the key, the basis of spiritual understanding, the foundational text and all&encompassing code, the $ible.

Sale. 1it+h+ra/t
It was because the Duritan mode of interpretivity&&with its readings of providence and secondary causes&&could reach such extremes that the 3alem witch&trials broke out. 1f course, as homas H. *ohnson writes, the belief in witches was generally "uestioned by no one&&Duritan or otherwise&&Oand even as late as the close of the seventeenth century hardly a scientist of repute in 6ngland but accepted certain phenomena as due to witchcraft.O $ut the Duritan cosmology held a relentless imaginative power, especially demonstrated in narratives wherein Drovidence was shown to be at work through nature and among human beings. he laity read and took in such readings or demonstrations of Drovidence, and the ministry felt compelled by a sense of official responsibility to offer their interpretations and explain the work of 7od in the world 8?iller, II: 0#'& #+9. *ohnson notes the Olurid detailsO of Aotton ?ather)s Memorable )ro#idences, 9elating to 'itchcrafts and )ossessions 81-249, which helped generate an unbalanced fascination with witchcraft. his would prove both fire and tinder for 3alem Billage, so that Oby 3eptember, twenty people and two dogs had been executed as witchesO and hundreds more were either in jail or were accused 8?iller, II: 0#+9. Yet to envision the Duritan community at this point simply as a mob of hysterical >ealots is to lose sight of those prominent figures who stood against the proceedings. 7ranted that they did not speak out too loudly at the height of the fervor, but then to do so would be to risk exposure to a confusion of plague&like properties, where the testimony of an alleged victim alone was enough to condemn a person. $ut it was the injustice of this very condition against which men such as homas $rattle and Increase ?ather wrote. $rattle)s O% <ull and Aandid %ccount of the (elusion called ,itchcraft....O 81-4!9 argued that the evidence was no true evidence at all, because the forms of the accused were taken to be the accused, and the accusers, in declaring that they were informed by the devil as to who afflicted them, were only offering the devil)s testimony. His was an argument which seemed wholly reasonable to many, but it led $rattle to the fear Othat ages will not wear off that reproach and those stains which these things will leave behind them upon our landO 8In ?iller, II: 0-!9. ?ather wrote in 1-4#, in "ases of "onscience concerning <#il &pirits , that Oit were better that en 3uspected ,itches should escape, than that one Innocent Derson be AondemnedO 8htd. in ?iller, II: 0#-9. $eyond this is as well is the journal of 3amuel 3ewall, which records his fascinating approach to what had happened. his complicates the idea of the )Duritan) on another level because while $rattle and 8Increase9 ?ather may have offered challenges to any conception of the homogeneity of Duritan belief, 3ewall reminds one of the variability within an indi#idual% It introduces an axis of

20 3

time by which the measure of the )Duritan mind) must be adjusted. 1n Ahristmas (ay, 1-4-, one reads the terse opening, O,e bury our little daughter.O %nd three weeks later is a transcript of the notice 3ewall had posted publicly. It relates that O3amuel 3ewall, sensible of the reiterated strokes of 7od upon himself and family...(esires to take the $lame and 3hame of Fthe 3alem proceedingsG, %sking pardon of ?en...O 8In ?iller, +1#9. his is once again an interpretation of the Oreiterated strokes of 7odO which has brought the sense of shame to his consciousness, and it suggests that, at least for Duritans such as 3ewall, these readings of nature and events are not merely those of convenience or self&justification. here is at least the indication here that if some Duritans stood ready to see the guilt in others, some of those same people at least made their judgments in good faith and with honesty, giving credence to their understanding of the ways of 7od, even when they themselves were the object of judgment. 3ewall)s example suggests a kind of Duritan whose Duritanism not only carries him to almost inhuman extremes, but also relentlessly brings him back, full circle, to humility.

The re,eale

1or > antino.ianis.> in i,i (alis.

,hat also must be emphasi>ed is the absolute ground of religious understanding that the $iblical text represented for the Duritans. he $ible was the =ord)s revealed word, and only through it does He directly communicate to human beings. ,hile the natural world may be studied and interpreted in order to gain a sense of His will, He is not the world itself, and does not instill Himself directly into human beings by means of visitations or revelations or divine inspirations of any sort 8?iller, I: 159. he antinomian crisis involving %nne Hutchinson focused on this issue. *ohn ,inthrop records it in his journal:
41ctober 21, 1U3U6 1ne Mrs% ;utchinson, a member of the church of ?oston, a woman of ready wit and bold spirit, brought o#er with her two dangerous errors= 1% That the person of the ;oly :host dwells in a 0ustified person% 2% That no sanctification can help to e#idence to us our 0ustification%%% S,n Miller ,= 12LT

,hat the Duritans faced in Hutchinson, or in the huaker idea of Oinner lightO which allowed every person direct access to 7od, was an outbreak of OdangerousO individualism, one which threatened the foundation of their social order. It was not simply a matter of letting Hutchinson spread her ideas freely&&not when those ideas could carry the Duritan conception of grace to such an extreme that it translated into an overall abandonment of any structured church, which is to say, the basis of a Duritan society. ?iller states how the followers of Hutchinson became caught up in a Ofanatical anti&intellectualismO fed by the original Duritan Ocontention that regenerate men were illuminated with divine truth,O which was in turn taken indicate the irrelevance of scholarship and study of the $ible. $oth possibilities were potentially destructive to the ?assachusetts $ay colony, and both only carried out Duritan ideas further than they were meant to go 8?iller, I: 1'&1+9N the individualistic tendencies that was embedded in the Dilgrim community, exists as well with the Duritans. In reference to oc"ueville)s use of the term in volume II of .emocracy in America, 6llwood *ohnson goes so far as to say, O he anti&traditionalism and de& rituali>ation of society that he named ,ndi#idualisme had their sources in Duritan culture. his Duritan individualism had survived especially in the habit of judging others by their characters of mind and will, rather than rank, sex, or race...O 8*ohnson, 1149. 1f course, as *ohnson notes, oc"ueville)s experience in %merica was limited both in time and geographic location. $ut Hutchinson and her followers were banished, after all, and while Duritanism did substitute the more simplified approach of .amean logic to replace the overly recondite and complicated mediaeval scholasticism, and while it fostered a more personal mode of religion with its emphasis on individual faith and access to 3cripture instead of the structured ritualism and mediation of the Aatholic church, it nevertheless took for granted a society and state which relied upon what was only a translated form of class division, and which depended upon a hierarchy where the word of 7od would not become dispersed 8and so, altered9 into a kind of religious precursor to democracy. he Duritans had themselves suffered repeatedly under a society which had seemed to evince the potentially ominous side of the relation of church and state. he king was the leader of the church, and the state decided how the church was to function, and in 1-!4 when Aharles I dissolved parliament, the people found that they no longer had any political representation, any means to act legislatively. heir secular agency had then become a measure of their religious agencyN the removal to ?assachusetts in turn was a way to gain a political voice, to create a state that would develop according to their own beliefs and fashion itself harmoniously with the church. It was not an effort to establish a society wherein one might unreservedly express what one wished to express and still hope to have a say in communal affairs. If religion was to come to bear

20 4

on the governance of the society, to what good would a more egalitarian, democratic form comeE he integrity of the community as religious entity 8,inthrop)s Ocitty on a hillO9, which had been the purpose of their coming to %merica, could only be, at best, weakened and dispersed, and at worst, be challenged to such a degree and in so many ways that there would be no agreement, no action or political effectiveness. heir religion itself would seem to be faced with a prospect of which kind does not easily 8if at all9 admit&&a prefiguration of what is now called )gridlock.) (espite what some later commentators would say, Duritanism and (emocracy were not coproductive ideas, no matter how much one might have anticipated, and even allowed the eventuality of, the other. 1ne who stated the problems which would ultimately unravel Duritanism as a dominant political force was .oger ,illiams. <or one thing, ,illiams)s criti"ue of the institutions being developed in ?assachusetts directly illuminates the difficulty indicated above&&that of perpetuating a religion which both held the seed of an increasingly liberating individualism and at the same time maintained the need of a limited meritocracy. he primary point of contention for ,illiams began in 1-#1 when he declared that the church in ;ew 6ngland was, in its failure to fully separate from the 6nglish church, inade"uate, and tainted. He removed to Dlymouth, where he remained for a year. $ut even there O,illiams wore out his welcomeO 8Heimert, 14-9. Dart of the reason lay in another of ,illiams)s criti"ue of ;ew 6ngland as it was developing, that the lands granted to the colonists had been unjustly given by the crown, because they had not been first purchased from the Indians. <or his efforts, ,illiams was banished. His primary response to this was one of his more threatening ideas, Othat the civil magistrates had no power to punish persons for their religious opinionsO 8?iller, I: !1+9. his was not necessarily an over&arching argument for full toleration, but rather implied a statement specific to Ahristian salvation, that Ono power on earth was entitled to prevent any individual from seeking Ahrist in his own wayO 8Heimert, 1429. <or the Duritan ministry, this was far enough, because it targeted the strongest tie between it and civil government, and thus implied a potential disconnection between the two. %s *ohn Aotton wrote, the "uestion of Omens goods or lands, lives or liberties, tributes, customes, worldly honors and inheritancesO was already the jurisdiction of Othe civill stateO 8"td. in Hall, 1109, but the establishment of laws which fostered Ahristian principles and punished threats to them&& that was only part of the continued and increasing reali>ation of divine will on earth. hat dissenters such as Hutchinson and ,illiams were banished, suggests what has recurringly been described as a major factor in the evolution not only of the Duritan theocracy, but of supposed national identity in general&&the frontier. $oth Arevecoeur and oc"ueville portray the pioneer type, the individual who, being away from the influence of religion and mannered, social customs, becomes increasingly rough, and even near&barabaric. his same figure is also seen as a necessary precursor to more and more )civili>ed) waves of society. %nother view of the frontier effect comes with the increasing democrati>ation of the :nited 3tates, where populist movements occur such as the *acksonian .evolution, suggesting a kind of evolutionary mode through which the %merican socio&political )self) is more and more fully reali>ed. <or Duritan society, ?iller suggests a more socio&economic effect, where the frontier increasingly disperses communities and so disperses the effect and control of the clergy, and where the drive for material profit begins to predominate over the concern with Oreligion and salvationO 8?iller, I: 109. %nd if the frontier demands more a stripped&down material efficacy than the finer attributes of )culture) and class distinction, then so too does frontier&influenced religion lose its taste for the nicer distinctions of theological scholarship, and move instead toward a greater simplicity, toward the eventual evangelism of the 7reat %wakening in the 10'5s, further out toward OfundamentalismO and other forms of belief that had long&since ceased to be Duritan.

*a,eat-a-note on the 8ere.ia


%t this point one must step back with a bit of caution, and once again take note of an important provision underlying the terminology. hat is, in using the term OpuritanO above and assigning to it a set of characteristics and preponderances, I must "ualify the grounds of the 8non9definition. 3pecifically, an argument such as that belonging to (arrett .utman becomes useful, even if one does not take it as far as does he 8in using specifically against the likes of Derry ?iller9. Drimarily, he takes issue with an approach to history that employs only the selected writings of a selected few, in determining some Onotion of Duritan "uintessenceO&&one which is supposed to represent all of Duritan ;ew 6ngland, ministry and laity alike. %s he puts it, this Oview of ;ew 6ngland Duritanism...rests upon two major implicit assumptions....that there is such a thing as )Duritanism)...and that the acme of Duritan ideals is to be found in ;ew 6ngland during the years 1-#5&1-+5O 8In Hall, 1159. His argument is correlative to one which 3acvan $ercovitch will take up

20 5

in The American +eremiad, where he points out that historians, in assuming this so&called decline, are simply following the lead of OAotton ?ather and other ;ew 6ngland *eremiahs.O aking statements such as ?ather)s, historians, instead of seeing it as part of a tradition of Opolitical sermonO 8to use $ercovitch)s phrase9 that could be evinced all the way from the sailing of the Arbella, have instead interpreted them as even more historically specific, reactions against an increasing lack of coherence between religious and secular authority, and declarations of a failing mission. .utman indicates the Opragmatic valueO of seeing the jeremiad this way, in that it helps isolate a model of Duritanism, and narrows the historian)s task to one of describing the thought of a specific twenty&year period. .utman)s basic argument rests on the recognition that, to gain a clearer picture, one must study not only published sermons and theological treatises, but also more wide& ranging anthropologic data&&records of social, political, and economic relations within and among individuals and communities. Into the specifics of this, one need not goN a study in this vein of 3udbury, ?assachusetts, reveals underlying instabilities that challenge assumptions of a dominant Duritan )theocracy,) but then this is not so far from ?iller)s own conclusion, that Duritan ideology held within it the basis of its own loss of control. he point here is rather the point from which .utman begins and with which he concludes, that one must be careful not assume an essence of identity to be described before attempting to describe simply what one finds, that such an assumption may lead to dangerous e"uivocations between the ideology of Duritanism and the history of ;ew 6ngland 8and extrapolating from that, much of the :nited 3tates as a whole9. It is the old instability&&that between the religious and the secular&&which the idea of Duritanism contains. he confusion then becomes translated into the historical perspective in terms that, as $ercovitch states, come from the jeremiad itself: Othe ;ew 6ngland Duritan jeremiad evokes the mythic past not merely to elicit imitation but above all to demand progressO 8$ercovitch, !'9. <or $ercovitch, who reads those key texts of the )7reat ?igration)&&*ohn ,inthrop)s O% ?odel of Ahristian AharityO and *ohn Aotton)s O7od)s Dromise to His DlantationsO&&as important transitions into distinctly American forms of the jeremiad, this entails an Oeffort to fuse the sacred and profane,O to historici>e transcendent values and goals into what he calls a Oritual of errandO 8$ercovitch, !-,!49. (efined then not so much by pre&existing social distinctions but rather by a continual and purposefully&held sense of mission to which the modern idea of )progress) is intrinsic and out of which the notion of Ocivil religionO 8as /ammen would say, Omemory in place of religionO9 develops, Duritanism, as an ideological mode and not 8.utman)s9 historical Oactuality,O suggests %merica as a modern region from the very beginnings of its coloni>ation. =ess so with historians than populari>ers of a Duritan mythos, the evocation of a Ogolden ageO existing less as past fact than future promise, comes to dominate the sense of )Duritan tradition). his, as $ercovitch indicates, is at the heart of )explaining) %merica, with all its promise as a ;ew ,orld, with its idea of ?anifest (estiny, with the kind of self&ideali>ation of ;ational Durpose that Henry ;ash 3mith describes in Virgin $and. he modern perspective and its blurred secular and religious 8or moral9 understandings, thus is what will be explored in the se"uel. he first 6uropeans in %merica did not encounter a silent world. % chorus of voices had been alive and moving through the air for approximately !+,555 years before. ,eaving tales of tricksters, warriors and godsN spinning prayers, creation stories, and spiritual prophesies, the <irst ;ations carved out their oral traditions long before colonial minds were fired and flummoxed by a world loud with language when =eif 6ricsson first sighted ;ewfoundland in %.(. 1555. 7radually the stories that these first communities told about themselves became muffled as the eminences of the 6uropean .enaissance began to contemplate the ;ew ,orld. 1ne of them, the <rench thinker and father of the essay, ?ichel de ?ontaigne, was not loath to transform the anecdotes of a servant who had visited %ntarctic <rance 8modern $ra>il9 into a report on the lives of virtuous cannibals. %ccording to his O1n AannibalsO 81+229, despite their predilection for white meat, these noble individuals led lives of goodness and dignity, in shaming contrast to corrupt 6urope. =ittle wonder that on an imaginary ;ew ,orld island in 3hakespeare)s The Tempest 8first performed in 1-119, the rude savage Aaliban awaits a con"uering Drospero in the midst of natural bounty.

%ioneers to %(ritans
,hether partially or entirely fanciful, these visions of paradise on 6arth were not much different from 3ir homas ?ore)s Otopia 81+1-9, itself partly inspired by the Italian %merigo Bespucci)s voyages to the ;ew ,orld. ,onders of a new 6den, untainted by 6uropean decadence, beckoned

20 6

to those who would venture to %merica, even as others spared no ink to paint accounts of the savagery of this hostile, unknown world. $etween these extremes lay something approaching the truth: %merica as e"ual parts heaven and hell, its aboriginal inhabitants as human beings capable of both virtue and vice. ,hile wealth, albeit cloaked in Ahristian missionary >eal, may have been the primary motive for transatlantic journeys, many explorers "uickly understood that survival had to be secured before pagan souls or gold. *ohn 3mith, himself an escaped slave from the $alkans who led the 1-5- expedition to Birginia, wrote of his plunders with a raconteur)s flair for embellisnment, impatient with those who bemoaned the rigors of earning their colonial daily bread. His twin chronicles, A True 9elation of Virginia 81-529 and The :eneral ;istory of Virginia, !ew <ngland, and the &ummer ,sles 81-!'9, differ in at least one suggestive detail: the Indian maiden Docahontas appears only in the latter, betraying the freedom with which 6uropean imagination worked on some OfactsO of this encounter. Aompeting accounts of the %merican experiment multiplied with homas ?orton, whose ?aypole paganism and free trade in arms with the natives raised the ire of his Duritan neighbors, 7overnor ,illiam $radford, who led Mayflower Dilgrims from religious persecution in 6ngland to Dlymouth .ock in 1-!5, and .oger ,illiams, who sought to understand the language of the natives, earning him expulsion from the OsanctuaryO of ?assachusetts. ?ore often than not, feverish religiosity cast as potent a spell on these early %merican authors as their 6nglish literary heritage. he terrors of *udgment (ay inspired ?ichael ,igglesworth)s The .ay of .oom 81--!9, a poem so sensational that one in twenty homes ended up harboring a copy. 6"ually electrifying were narratives of captivity and restoration, like that of ?ary .owlandson 81-2!9, often cast as allegories of the soul)s journey from a world of torment to heaven. $eset by fragile health and religious doubt, %nne $radstreet captured in her &e#eral )oems 81-029 a moving picture of a Dilgrim mind grappling with the redemptive trials of life with a courage that would later bestir 6mily (ickinson. It seems unlikely that two college roommates at Harvard, 6dward aylor and 3amuel 3ewall, would both come to define Duritan literary cultureTyet they did. Influenced by the 6nglish verse of *ohn (onne and 7eorge Herbert, aylor, a ;ew 6ngland minister, became as great a poet as the Duritans managed to produce. 3ewall)s .iary 8begun 1! %ugust 1-0'9 made him as much a rival of his $ritish counterpart 3amuel Depys as of the more ribald chronicler of Birginia, ,illiam $yrd. ,hile it is easy to caricture the Duritans as models of virtue or else vicious persecutors of real or imagined heresy, the simplicity of myth beggars the complexity of reality. % jurist who presided over the 3alem ,itch rials, 3ewall was also the author of The &elling of +oseph 810559, the first antislavery tract in an %merica that had accepted the practice since 1-14. he 7reat %wakening, a period in which the Duritan mindset enjoyed a brief revival, is notable for the prolific historian and hagiographer Aotton ?ather. The 'onders of the ,n#isible 'orld 81-4#9 afforded a glimpse of his skepticism about the prosecutors of the witch trials, while his Magnalia "hristi Americana 8105!9 provided a narrative of settlers) history of %merica, regularly illuminated with the exemplary Olives of the saints.O ?oved e"ually by dogmatic piety and the imperatives of reason and science, *onathan 6dwards delivered arresting sermons that swayed not only his peers, but also centuries later, ,illiam *ames)s Varieties of 9eligious </perience 8145!9. rue to form, 6dwards)s A 3aithful !arrati#e of the &urprising 'ork of :od 810#09 is a celebration not only of spiritual reawakening, but of the empiricism of *ohn =ocke as well.

Enlighten.ent to A(tono.y
If anyone embodied the recoil from seventeenth&century Duritan orthodoxy toward the 6nlightenment, it was the architect of an independent, modern :nited 3tates, $enjamin <ranklin 8105-W10459. Drinter, statesman, scientist, and journalist, he first delighted his readers with the annual wit and wisdom of Door .ichardJs %lmanac 8launched in 10##9. In 10'1, in parallel with %ndrew $radford)s The American MagaDine, <ranklin)s :eneral MagaDine and ;istorical "hronicle marked the beginning of ;ew 6ngland maga>ine publishing. $ut it was his best&selling Autobiography 810419 that revealed the extent to which his personal destiny twined with the turbulent course of the new state. 1stensibly a lesson in life for his son, the book became a compass for generations of %mericans as it tracked Aiti>en <ranklin)s progress from a humble printer)s apprentice, through his glory as a diplomat in the .evolutionary ,ar 8100+W102#9, to the exclusive club of the founding fathers who drafted the (eclaration of Independence and ratified the Aonstitution.

20 7

he .evolution that stamped <ranklin)s life with the destiny of the nation found its most bra>en exponent in homas Daine. %uthor of Aommon 3ense 8100-9 and The American "risis 8pamphlet series, 100-W102#9, Daine was a $ritish expatriate who came to Dhiladelphia sponsored by <ranklin and galvani>ed the battle for independence. His fervid opposition to the $ritish social order, slavery, and the inferior status of women made him a lightning rod of the .evolution, helping to create an %merican identity in its wake. %merica)s emergence as a sovereign power became enshrined in the (eclaration of Independence, drafted by homas *efferson. Harking back to ?ontaigne in !otes on the &tate of Virginia 8102'W102+9, this patrician statesman idoli>ed the purity of agrarian society in the fear that the closer the ;ew ,orld edged toward the satanic mills of industrial 6urope, the more corrupt it would become. he founder of the :niversity of Birginia, whose library would seed the =ibrary of Aongress, *efferson was elected president in 1255 and again in 125'.

Literat(re A/ter the Re,ol(tion


%fter the .evolution, %merican literary culture grew less dependent on $ritish models, and the popular success of poets like the Aonnecticut ,its, including imothy (wight, composer of an %merican would be epic, The "onGuest of "anaan 8102+9, only confirmed this point. he broad appeal of novels like The )ower of &ympathy 810249 by ,illiam Hill $rown and "harlotte Temple 810419 by 3usanna Haswell .owson, both tales of seduction that spoke to what future critics would call a pulp fiction sensibility, signaled the growing success of domestic authors 8.owson)s novel, the best&seller of the eighteenth century, would do e"ually well in the nineteenth9. ?odeled on .on 2ui/ote, the comic writings of Hugh Henry $rackenridge and the gothic sensibilities of Aharles $rockden $rown also won a degree of popular and critical laurels, the latter presaging the dark strains of Doe and Hawthorne.

20 8

0istory o/ A.eri+an Literat(re 9 *olonial %erio


Early *olonial Literat(re7 ADBI-AIBB
,% The <nglish in Virginia% ,,% )ilgrims and )uritans in !ew <ngland% ,,,% The !ew <ngland "lergy% ,V% )uritan )oetry in !ew <ngland%

I7 The English in :irginiaJ *a"tain Cohn S.ith> 5illia. Stra+hey> )eorge San ys7
he story of a nation)s literature ordinarily has its beginning far back in the remoter history of that nation, obscured by the uncertainties of an age of which no trustworthy records have been preserved. he earliest writings of a people are usually the first efforts at literary production of a race in its childhoodN and as these compositions develop they record the intellectual and artistic growth of the race. he conditions which attended the development of literature in %merica, therefore, are peculiar. %t the very time when 3ir ,alter .aleigh && a type of the great and splendid men of action who made such glorious history for 6ngland in the days of 6li>abeth && was organi>ing the first futile efforts to coloni>e the new world, 6nglish =iterature, which is the joint possession of the whole 6nglish&speaking race, was rapidly developing. 3ir Dhilip 3idney had written his %rcadia, first of the great prose romances, and enriched 6nglish poetry with his sonnetsN 6dmund 3penser had composed he 3hepherd)s AalendarN Ahristopher ?arlowe had established the drama upon heroic linesN and 3hakespeare had just entered on the first flights of his fancy. ,hen, in 1-5-, /ing *ames granted to a company of =ondon merchants the first charter of Birginia, 3idney and 3penser and ?arlowe were dead, 3hakespeare had produced some of his greatest plays, the name of $en *onson, along with other notable names, had been added to the list of our great dramatists, and the philosopher, <rancis $acon, had published the first of his essays. hese are the familiar names which represent the climax of literary achievement in the 6li>abethan ageN and this brilliant epoch had reached its full height when the first permanent 6nglish settlement in %merica was made at *amestown in 1-50. 1n ;ew Year)s day, the little fleet commanded by Aaptain ;ewport sailed forth on its venturesome and romantic enterprise, the significance of which was not altogether unsuspected by those who saw it depart. ?ichael (rayton, one of the most popular poets of his day, later poet laureate of the kingdom, sang in "uaint, prophetic verses a cheery farewell: OYou brave heroic minds, ,orthy your country)s name, hat honor still pursue, 7o and subdue, ,hilst loitering hinds =urk here at home with shame. O%nd in regions farre, 3uch heroes bring ye forth %s those from whom we cameN %nd plant our name :nder that star ;ot known unto our north. O%nd as there plenty grows 1f laurel everywhere, %pollo)s sacred tree, You it may see, % poet)s brows that may sing there.O

20 9

#he 1irgini" Colon /

1riginal map of the ;ew 6ngland seacoast made by Aaptain *ohn 3mith.

his little band of adventurers Oin regions farreO disembarked from the ships (iscovery, 7ood 3peed, and 3usan Aonstant upon the site of a town yet to be built, fifty miles inland, on the shore of a stream as yet unexplored, in the heart of a vast green wilderness the home of savage tribes who were none too friendly. It was hardly to be expected that the ripe seeds of literary culture should be found in such a company, or should germinate under such conditions in any notable luxuriance. he surprising fact, however, is that in this group of gentlemen adventurers there was one man of some literary craft, who, while leading the most strenuous life of all, efficiently protecting and heartening his less courageous comrades in all manner of perilous experiences, compiled and wrote with much literary skill the pictures"ue chronicles of the settlement.

2ohn (mith, 1580!1631

Aaptain *ohn 3mith, the mainstay of the *amestown colony in the critical period of its early existence, was a true soldier of fortune, venturesome, resolute, self&reliant, resourcefulN withal a man of great good sense, and with the grasp on circumstances which belongs to the man of power. His life since leaving his home on a =incolnshire farm at sixteen years of age had been replete with romantic adventure. He had been a soldier in the <rench army and had served in that of Holland. He had wandered through Italy and 7reece into the countries of eastern 6urope, and had lived for a year in urkey and artary. He had been in .ussia, in 7ermany, in 3pain, and in %frica, and was familiar with the islands of the ?editerranean and those of the eastern %tlantic. 3mith afterward wrote a narrative of his singularly full and adventurous life, not sparing, apparently, the embellishment which in his time seems to have been reckoned a natural feature of narrative art. he honesty of his statements has been doubted, perhaps to the point of injusticeN and at the present time a reaction is to be seen which presents the writings of the sturdy old adventurer in a more favorable light. It was natural enough that such a daring rover should catch the spirit of enthusiasm with which the exploration and settlement of the ;ew ,orld had inflamed 6nglishmen of his time and type. %nd it was a recognition of his experience and practical sagacity which led to his appointment as a member of the Aouncil at the head of affairs in the *amestown colony.

21 0

The Tr(e Relation7 In so far as the literary accomplishments of Aaptain *ohn 3mith have any immediate connection with %merican history, our interest centres upon his True 9elation of such occurrences and accidents of noate as hath hapned in Virginia since the first planting of that "ollony, which is now resident in the &outh part thereof, till the last returne from thence 8=ondon, 1-529. 3mith)s writings are plain, blunt narratives, which please by their rough vigor and the bree>y pictures"ueness of his rugged, unaffected style. Hardly to be accounted literature except by way of compliment, the True 9elation is not unworthy of its place in our literary record as the first 6nglish book produced in %merica. It supplies our earliest chronicle of the perils and hardships of our %merican pioneers. he romantic story of Docahontas is found in its pages, briefly recounted by the writer in terms which hardly warrant its dismissal as a mythN and many another thrilling incident of that distressing struggle with the wilderness which makes a genuine appeal to the reader now, as it undoubtedly did to the kinsmen of the colonists in 6ngland for whom the book was originally prepared. Other 1ritings7 3mith was the author of several other narrative and descriptive pamphlets in which he recounted the early history of the colonies at Dlymouth and on ?assachusetts $ay. Indeed, it was the redoubtable Aaptain who first gave to that part of the country the name ;ew 6nglandN and to the little harbor on Aape Aod, before the coming of the Duritans, 3mith had already given the name of Dlymouth. In 1-!', he published A :eneral ;istory of Virginia , a compilation edited in 6ngland from the reports of various writers.

Willi"m (tr"'he , fl/ 1609!1618/


%nother interesting chronicle of this perilous time was written in the summer of 1-15 by a gentleman recently arrived at *amestown after a stormy and eventful voyage. his vivid narrative, called A true 9eportory of the wracke and redemption of &ir Thomas :ates, knight, upon and from the ilands of the ?ermudas, his coming to Virginia, and the estate of that colony , was written by ,illiam 3trachey, of whose personality little is known. he tremendous picture of shipwreck and
disaster is presented in a masterly style. >The clouds gathering thick upon us, and the winds singing and whistling most unusually, % % % a dreadful storm and hideous began to blow from out the !ortheast, which swelling and roaring as it were by fits, some hours with more #iolence than others, at length did beat all light from hea#en, which like an hell of darkness, turned black upon us% % % % >)rayers might well be in the heart and lips, but drowned in the outcries of the 1fficers, could gi#e comfort, nothing seen that might encourage hope% % % > >The sea swelled abo#e the "louds and ga#e battle unto hea#en%> nothing heard that

3ir 7eorge 3ummers being upon the watch, had an apparition of a little round light, like a faint star, trembling and streaming along with a sparkling bla>e, half the height from the mainmast, and shooting sometimes from shroud to shroud, tempting to settle as it were upon any of the four shrouds, and for three or four hours together, or rather more, half the night it kept with us, running sometimes along the mainyard to the very end, and then returning. . . . >,t being now 3riday, the fourth morning, it wanted little but that there had been a general determination to ha#e shut up hatches and commending our sinful souls to :od, committed the ship to the mercy of the sea%> ;o wonder that when 3trachey)s little book, printed in =ondon, fell into the hands of ,illiam 3hakespeare, this dramatic recital of the furious storm which drove the Birginia fleet on the reefs of Othe still vexed $ermoothesO should have inspired the poet in his description of the tempest evoked by Drospero on his enchanted island. 3o other narratives were written and other chronicles compiled by these industrious *amestown settlersN but their chronicles and reports were largely official documents prepared for the guidance

21 1

of the company)s officers in =ondon, and for the general enlightenment of 6nglishmen at home. ;owhere among them do we find the ring of that resounding style which makes literature of 3trachey)s prose.

)eorge ("nd s, 1578!1644/


It did not seem likely that thus early in Birginia history any laurels would be gathered from %pollo)s sacred tree to crown a poet)s brow && as (rayton had pleasantly predicted in his lines of farewell. Yet, after all, among these gentlemen adventurers who continued to come from 6ngland in increasing numbers, there arrived in 1-!1, as treasurer of the Birginia company, one who was recogni>ed as a poet of considerable rank && 7eorge 3andys, author of an excellent metrical translation of the first five books of 1vid. o 3andys also, (rayton, now laureate, had imparted a professional benediction, exhorting his friend with appreciative words: &&
>$et see what lines Virginia will produce% :o on with 1#id% % % % <ntice the muses thither to repairE <ntreat them gentlyE train them to that air%>

%nd amid the exacting duties of his position in a most discouraging time, in experiences of privation and distress, amid the terrors of Indian uprising and massacre, he Owent onO with 1vid. %fter four years of strenuous life in the new %merica, 3andys went home to 6ngland with his translation of the Metamorphoses completed, and in 1626 presented his finished work to the king. It was a notable poem, was so accepted by contemporaries, and afterward elicited the admiration of Dryden and of Pope. Thus came the first e pression of the poetic art in the !ew "orld ## $the first utterance of the conscious literary spirit, articulated in %merica.$ ,e record with interest these few literary appearances in the annals of our early history, but we can in no sense claim these writers as representatives of our native %merican literature. 3mith, 3trachey, and 3andys were 6nglishmen temporarily interested in a great scheme of coloni>ation. %fter brief sojourn in the colony, they returned to 6ngland. hey were not colonistsN they were travelersN and while their compositions have a peculiar interest, and are not without significance for us, they cannot be accounted %merican works.

&e%elo3ment of the Colon /


he record of Birginia)s early struggles, its difficulties with the Indians, its depletion by illness and famine, its losses due to the incapacity of leaders and policies ill adapted to the conditions of a true colonial life, its reinforcements, its ac"uisition of colonists, its advancement in wealth and importance, && this is familiar history. he remarkable fact is the rapidity with which the colony developed. In 1-14, twelve hundred settlers arrivedN along with them were sent one hundred convicts to become servants. $oys and girls, picked up in the =ondon streets, were shipped to Birginia to be bound during their minority to the planters. In the same year a (utch man&of&war landed twenty negroes at *amestown, who were sold as slaves && the first in %merica. he cultivation of tobacco became profitable, the plantations were extended, and new colonists were brought over in large numbers. <ollowing the execution of Aharles I, and the establishment of the Duritan Drotectorate, hundreds of the exiled Aavaliers migrated to Birginia with their families and traditions. hese new colonists stamped the character of the dominion that was to be. he best blood of 6ngland was thus infused into the new enterprise, and the spirit of the 3outh was determined. In 1-+5, the population of Birginia was 1+,555N twenty years later, it was '5,555. Yet the southern soil did not prove favorable to literary growth. 6nglish books were, of course, brought into the colony, and private libraries were to be found here and there in the homes of the wealthy. here were no free schools in Birginia, and but few private schools. he children of the planters received instruction under tutors in their own homes, of were sent to 6ngland for their education. <or fear of seditious literature, printing&presses were forbidden by the king. In 1-01, 7overnor $erkeley declared: Literary *on itions7

21 2

OI thank 7od there are no free schools, nor printing, and I hope we shall not have these hundred yearsN for learning has brought disobedience into the world, and printing has divulged them and libels against the best of governments. 7od keep us from both.O

KLeah an

Ra+hel7K

1f original literary accomplishment, there was little or no thought until well on in the eighteenth century. wo or three vigorous pamphlets, published in 6ngland not long after 1-+5, are interesting as voicing the first decided utterances of a genuine %merican spirit in the southern settlements. *ohn Hammond, a resident in the newer colony of ?aryland, visiting his old home in 1-+-, became homesick for the one he had left in %merica. OIt is not long since I came from thence,O he said, Onor do I intend, by 7od)s assistance, to be long out of it again. . . . It is that country in which I desire to spend the remnant of my days, in which I covet to make my grave,O His little work, entitled $each and 9achel 8Othe two fruitful sisters, Birginia and ?arylandO9, was written with a purpose to show what boundless opportunity was afforded in these two colonies to those who in 6ngland had no opportunity at all.

In ian an

Early A.eri+an Literat(re

%merican children)s literature originated with the oral tradition of its ;ative peoples. ,hen stories and legends were told by ;ative %mericans, children were included in the audience as a means of passing on the society)s culture and values to succeeding generations. his oral literature included creation stories and stories of chiefs, battles, intertribal treaties, spirits, and events of long ago. hey entertained as they instructed, and were often the most important part of sacred ceremonies. he Duritans and other $ritish settlers in ;ew 6ngland brought with them printed matter for children to be used for advancing literacy, teaching religion, and other didactic purposes. $ritish works were imported and reprinted in the %merican colonies, beginning a trend of 6uropean imports that would continue for some time. % number of the earliest known children)s works written in the colonies borrowed heavily from these imports in theme and purpose. hese include *ohn Aotton)s &piritual Milk for ?oston ?abes 81-'-9. Drobably the best&known Duritan book that children read at the time was the !ew <ngland )rimer, originally published sometime between 1-2- and 1-45. It contained lessons in literacy and religious doctrine in verse form with pictures, not for the purpose of entertaining children but because Duritans believed children learned best that way. 1ther common books in early %merica included *ohn $unyan)s )ilgrim's )rogress 81-029 and %merican schoolbooks such as ;oah ,ebster)s 'ebster's American &pelling ?ook 8102#9 and 7eorge ,ilson)s American "lass 9eader 8c. 12159.

A.eri+an Literary as"e+tsJ

Early A.eri+an an

*olonial %erio

to AIID

%merican literature begins with the orally transmitted myths, legends, tales, and lyrics 8always songs9 of Indian cultures. here was no written literature among the more than +55 different Indian languages and tribal cultures that existed in ;orth %merica before the first 6uropeans arrived. %s a result, ;ative %merican oral literature is "uite diverse. ;arratives from "uasi&nomadic hunting cultures like the ;avajo are different from stories of settled agricultural tribes such as the

21 3

pueblo&dwelling %comaN the stories of northern lakeside dwellers such as the 1jibwa often differ radically from stories of desert tribes like the Hopi. ribes maintained their own religions && worshipping gods, animals, plants, or sacred persons. 3ystems of government ranged from democracies to councils of elders to theocracies. hese tribal variations enter into the oral literature as well. 3till, it is possible to make a few generali>ations. Indian stories, for example, glow with reverence for nature as a spiritual as well as physical mother. ;ature is alive and endowed with spiritual forcesN main characters may be animals or plants, often totems associated with a tribe, group, or individual. he closest to the Indian sense of holiness in later %merican literature is .alph ,aldo 6merson)s transcendental O1ver&3oul,O which pervades all of life. he ?exican tribes revered the divine huet>alcoatl, a god of the oltecs and %>tecs, and some tales of a high god or culture were told elsewhere. However, there are no long, standardi>ed religious cycles about one supreme divinity. he closest e"uivalents to 1ld ,orld spiritual narratives are often accounts of shamans initiations and voyages. %part from these, there are stories about culture heroes such as the 1jibwa tribe)s ?anabo>ho or the ;avajo tribe)s Aoyote. hese tricksters are treated with varying degrees of respect. In one tale they may act like heroes, while in another they may seem selfish or foolish. %lthough past authorities, such as the 3wiss psychologist Aarl *ung, have deprecated trickster tales as expressing the inferior, amoral side of the psyche, contemporary scholars && some of them ;ative %mericans && point out that 1dysseus and Drometheus, the revered 7reek heroes, are essentially tricksters as well. 6xamples of almost every oral genre can be found in %merican Indian literature: lyrics, chants, myths, fairy tales, humorous anecdotes, incantations, riddles, proverbs, epics, and legendary histories. %ccounts of migrations and ancestors abound, as do vision or healing songs and tricksters) tales. Aertain creation stories are particularly popular. In one well&known creation story, told with variations among many tribes, a turtle holds up the world. In a Aheyenne version, the creator, ?aheo, has four chances to fashion the world from a watery universe. He sends four water birds diving to try to bring up earth from the bottom. he snow goose, loon, and mallard soar high into the sky and sweep down in a dive, but cannot reach bottomN but the little coot, who cannot fly, succeeds in bringing up some mud in his bill. 1nly one creature, humble 7randmother urtle, is the right shape to support the mud world ?aheo shapes on her shell && hence the Indian name for %merica, O urtle Island.O he songs or poetry, like the narratives, range from the sacred to the light and humorous: here are lullabies, war chants, love songs, and special songs for children)s games, gambling, various chores, magic, or dance ceremonials. 7enerally the songs are repetitive. 3hort poem&songs given in dreams sometimes have the clear imagery and subtle mood associated with *apanese haiku or 6astern&influenced imagistic poetry. % Ahippewa song runs:
A loon , thought it was ?ut it was My lo#e's splashing oar%

Bision songs, often very short, are another distinctive form. %ppearing in dreams or visions, sometimes with no warning, they may be healing, hunting, or love songs. 1ften they are personal, as in this ?odoc song:
, the song , walk here%

Indian oral tradition and its relation to %merican literature as a whole is one of the richest and least explored topics in %merican studies. he Indian contribution to %merica is greater than is often believed. he hundreds of Indian words in everyday %merican 6nglish include Ocanoe,O Otobacco,O Opotato,O Omoccasin,O Omoose,O Opersimmon,O Oraccoon,O Otomahawk,O and Ototem.O "ontemporary !ati#e American writing also contains works of great beauty.

21 4

%fter 1-25 large numbers of immigrants came from 7ermany, Ireland, 3cotland, 3wit>erland and <ranceN and 6ngland ceased to be the chief source of immigration. %gain, the new settlers came for various reasons. housands fled from 7ermany to escape the path of war. ?any left Ireland to avoid the poverty induced by government oppression and absentee&landlordism, and from 3cotland and 3wit>erland, too, people came fleeing the specter of poverty. $y 1-45, the %merican population had risen to a "uarter of a million. <rom then on, it doubled every !+ years until, in 100+, it numbered more than two and a half million. <or the the most part, non&6nglish colonists adapted themselves to the culture of the original settlers. $ut this did not mean that all settlers transformed themselves into 6nglishmen. rue, they adopted the 6nglish language and law and many 6nglish customs, but only as these had been modified by conditions in %merica. he result was a uni"ue culture&a blend of 6nglish and continental 6uropean conditioned by the environment of the ;ew ,orld. %lthough a man and his family could move from ?assachusetts to Birginia or from 3outh Aarolina to Dennsylvania, without making many basic readjustments, distinctions between individual colonies were marked. hey were even more marked between regional groups of colonies. he settlements fell into fairly well&defined sections determined by geography. In the south, with its warm climate and fertile soil, a predominately agrarian society developed. ;ew 6ngland in the northeast, a glaciated area strewn with boulders, was inferior farm country, with generally thin, stony soil, relatively little level land, short summers, and long winters. urning to other pursuits, the ;ew 6nglanders harnessed water power and established gristmills and sawmills. 7ood stands of timber encouraged shipbuilding. 6xcellent harbors promoted trade, and the sea became a source of great wealth. In ?assachusetts, the cod industry alone "uickly furnished a basis for prosperity. 3ettling in villages and towns around the harbors, ;ew 6nglanders "uickly adopted an urban existence, many of them carrying on some trade or business. Aommon pastureland and common wood&lots served the needs of townspeople, who worked small farms nearby. Aompactness made possible the village school, the village church, and the village or town hall, where citi>ens met to discuss matters of common interest. 3haring hardships, cultivating the same rocky soil, pursuing simple trades and crafts, & ;ew 6nglanders rapidly ac"uired characteristics that marked them as a self&reliant, independent people. hese "ualities had manifested themselves in the 15! seaweary Dilgrims who first landed on the peninsula of Aape Aod, projecting into the %tlantic from southeastern ?assachusetts. hey had sailed to %merica under the auspices of the =ondon 8Birginia9 Aompany and were thus intended for settlement in Birginia, but their ship, the MayflowerV made its landfall far to the north. %fter some weeks of exploring, the colonists decided not to make the trip to Birginia but to remain where they were. hey chose the area near Dlymouth harbor as a site for their colony, and though the rigors of the first winter were severe, the settlement survived. RIN The Na.e o/ )o > A.en7 ,e, whose names are underwritten, the =oyal 3ubjects of our dread 3overeign =ord /ing *ames, by the 7race of 7od, of 7reat $ritain, <rance, and Ireland, /ing, (efender of the <aith, @c. Having undertaken for the 7lory of 7od, and %dvancement of the Ahristian <aith, and the Honor of our /ing and Aountry, a Boyage to plant the first colony in the northern Darts of BirginiaN (o by these Dresents, solemnly and mutually in the Dresence of 7od and one another, covenant and combine ourselves together into a civil $ody Dolitick, for our better 1rdering and Dreservation, and <urtherance of the 6nds aforesaidN %nd by Birtue hereof do enact, constitute, and frame, such just and e"ual =aws, 1rdinances, %cts, Aonstitutions, and 1ffices, from time to time, as shall be thought most meet and convenient for the general 7ood of the AolonyN unto which we promise all due 3ubmission and 1bedience. In ,I ;633 whereof we have hereunto subscribed our names at Aape Aod the eleventh of ;ovember, in the .eign of our 3overeign =ord /ing *ames of 6ngland, <rance, and Ireland, the eighteenth and of 3cotland, the fifty& fourth. %nno (omini, 1-!5 *ohn Aarver 6dward (egory Driest

21 5

,illiam $radford 6dward ,inslow ,illiam $rewster Issac %llerton

illey *ohn illey

<rancis Aooke homas 6dmund .ogers ?argeson homas Deter $rowne inker ?yles 3tandish *ohn .igdale .ichard $ritteridge *ohn %lden 6dward 7eoroe 3oule <uller 3amuel <uller *ohn urner .ichard Alarke Ahristopher <rancis .ichard ?artin 6aton 7ardiner ,illiam ?ullins *ames *ohn %llerton Ahilton ,illiam ,hite *ohn homas 6nglish Arackston .ichard ,arren *ohn 6dward (otey $illington *ohn Howland ?oses 6dward =eister <letcher 3tephen *ohn Hopkins 7oodman

homas ,illiams 7ilbert ,inslow

The literat(re o/ e-"loration


Had history taken a different turn, the :nited 3tates easily could have been a part of the great 3panish or <rench overseas empires. Its present inhabitants might speak 3panish and form one nation with ?exico, or speak <rench and be joined with Aanadian <rancophone huebec and ?ontreal. Yet the earliest explorers of %merica were not 6nglish, 3panish, or <rench. he first 6uropean record of exploration in %merica is in a 3candinavian language. he 1ld ;orse Vinland &aga recounts how the adventurous =eif 6riksson and a band of wandering ;orsemen settled briefly somewhere on the northeast coast of %merica && probably ;ova 3cotia, in Aanada && in the first decade of the 11th century, almost '55 years before the next recorded 6uropean discovery of the ;ew ,orld. he first known and sustained contact between the %mericas and the rest of the world, however, began with the famous voyage of an Italian explorer, Ahristopher Aolumbus, funded by the 3panish rulers <erdinand and Isabella. Aolumbus)s journal in his O6pistola,O printed in 1'4#, recounts the trip)s drama && the terror of the men, who feared monsters and thought they might fall off the edge of the worldN the near&mutinyN how Aolumbus faked the ships) logs so the men would not know how much farther they had travelled than anyone had gone beforeN and the first sighting of land as they neared %merica. $artolomI de las Aasas is the richest source of information about the early contact between %merican Indians and 6uropeans. %s a young priest he helped con"uer Auba. He transcribed Aolumbus)s journal, and late in life wrote a long, vivid ;istory of the ,ndians critici>ing their enslavement by the 3panish. Initial 6nglish attempts at coloni>ation were disasters. he first colony was set up in 1+2+ at .oanoke, off the coast of ;orth AarolinaN all its colonists disappeared, and to this day legends are told about blue&eyed Aroatan Indians of the area. he second colony was more permanent: *amestown, established in 1-50. It endured starvation, brutality, and misrule. However, the literature of the period paints %merica in glowing colors as the land of riches and opportunity. %ccounts of the coloni>ations became world&renowned. he exploration of .oanoke was carefully

21 6

recorded by homas Hariot in A ?riefe and True 9eport of the !ew 3ound $and of Virginia 81+229. Hariot)s book was "uickly translated into =atin, <rench, and 7ermanN the text and pictures were made into engravings and widely republished for over !55 years. he *amestown colony)s main record, the writings of Aaptain *ohn 3mith, one of its leaders, is the exact opposite of Hariot)s accurate, scientific account. 3mith was an incurable romantic, and he seems to have embroidered his adventures. o him we owe the famous story of the Indian maiden, Docahontas. ,hether fact or fiction, the tale is ingrained in the %merican historical imagination. he story recounts how Docahontas, favorite daughter of Ahief Dowhatan, saved Aaptain 3mith)s life when he was a prisoner of the chief. =ater, when the 6nglish persuaded Dowhatan to give Docahontas to them as a hostage, her gentleness, intelligence, and beauty impressed the 6nglish, and, in 1-1', she married *ohn .olfe, an 6nglish gentleman. he marriage initiated an eight&year peace between the colonists and the Indians, ensuring the survival of the struggling new colony. In the 10th century, pirates, adventurers, and explorers opened the way to a second wave of permanent colonists, bringing their wives, children, farm implements, and craftsmen)s tools. he early literature of exploration, made up of diaries, letters, travel journals, ships) logs, and reports to the explorers) financial backers && 6uropean rulers or, in mercantile 6ngland and Holland, joint stock companies && gradually was supplanted by records of the settled colonies. $ecause 6ngland eventually took possession of the ;orth %merican colonies, the best&known and most&anthologi>ed colonial literature is 6nglish. %s %merican minority literature continues to flower in the !5th century and %merican life becomes increasingly multicultural, scholars are rediscovering the importance of the continent)s mixed ethnic heritage. %lthough the story of literature now turns to the 6nglish accounts, it is important to recogni>e its richly cosmopolitan beginnings.

The *olonial %erio

in Ne1 Englan

It is likely that no other colonists in the history of the world were as intellectual as the Duritans. $etween 1-#5 and 1-45, there were as many university graduates in the northeastern section of the :nited 3tates, known as ;ew 6ngland, as in the mother country && an astounding fact when one considers that most educated people of the time were aristocrats who were unwilling to risk their lives in wilderness conditions. he self&made and often self&educated Duritans were notable exceptions. hey wanted education to understand and execute 7od)s will as they established their colonies throughout ;ew 6ngland. he Duritan definition of good writing was that which brought home a full awareness of the importance of worshipping 7od and of the spiritual dangers that the soul faced on 6arth. Duritan style varied enormously && from complex metaphysical poetry to homely journals and crushingly pedantic religious history. ,hatever the style or genre, certain themes remained constant. =ife was seen as a testN failure led to eternal damnation and hellfire, and success to heavenly bliss. his world was an arena of constant battle between the forces of 7od and the forces of 3atan, a formidable enemy with many disguises. ?any Duritans excitedly awaited the Omillennium,O when *esus would return to 6arth, end human misery, and inaugurate 1,555 years of peace and prosperity. 3cholars have long pointed out the link between Duritanism and capitalism: $oth rest on ambition, hard work, and an intense striving for success. %lthough individual Duritans could not know, in strict theological terms, whether they were OsavedO and among the elect who would go to heaven, Duritans tended to feel that earthly success was a sign of election. ,ealth and status were sought not only for themselves, but as welcome reassurances of spiritual health and promises of eternal life. ?oreover, the concept of stewardship encouraged success. he Duritans interpreted all things and events as symbols with deeper spiritual meanings, and felt that in advancing their own profit and their community)s well&being, they were also furthering 7od)s plans. hey did not draw lines of distinction between the secular and religious spheres: %ll of life was an expression of the divine will && a belief that later resurfaces in ranscendentalism. In recording ordinary events to reveal their spiritual meaning, Duritan authors commonly cited the $ible, chapter and verse. History was a symbolic religious panorama leading to the Duritan triumph over the ;ew ,orld and to 7od)s kingdom on 6arth.

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he first Duritan colonists who settled ;ew 6ngland exemplified the seriousness of .eformation Ahristianity. /nown as the ODilgrims,O they were a small group of believers who had migrated from 6ngland to Holland && even then known for its religious tolerance && in 1-52, during a time of persecutions. =ike most Duritans, they interpreted the $ible literally. hey read and acted on the text of the 3econd $ook of Aorinthians && OAome out from among them and be ye separate, saith the =ord.O (espairing of purifying the Ahurch of 6ngland from within, O3eparatistsO formed underground OcovenantedO churches that swore loyalty to the group instead of the king. 3een as traitors to the king as well as heretics damned to hell, they were often persecuted. heir separation took them ultimately to the ;ew ,orld. he (utch possessed ;ew ;etherland, later to be called ;ew York, for '5 years. $ut thev were not a migrating people. Aoloni>ing offered them neither political nor religious advantages that they did not already enjoy in Holland. In addition, the (utch ,est India Aompany found it difficult to retain competent officials to administer the colony. in 1--', with a revival of $ritish interest in colonial activity, the (utch settlement was taken by con"uest. =ong after this, however, the (utch continued to exercise an important social and economic influence. heir sharp&stepped, gable roofs became a permanent part of the scene, and their merchants gave the city its bustling commercial atmosphere. he (utch also gave ;ew York a style of life "uite different from that in Duritan $oston. In ;ew York, holidays were marked by feasting and merrymaking. %nd many (utch traditions & such as calling on one)s neighbors on ;ew Year)s (ay and celebrating the visit of 3aint ;icholas at Ahristmastime & survived for many years. ,ith the transfer from (utch authority, an 6nglish administrator, .ichard ;icolls, set about remodeling the legal structure of ;ew York. He did this so gradually and with such wisdom that he won the respect of (utch as well as 6nglish. own governments had the autonomous characteristics of ;ew 6ngland towns, and in a few years there was a workable fusion between residual (utch law and customs and 6nglish practices. $y 1-4- nearly #5,555 people lived in the province of ;ew York. In the rich valleys of the Hudson, ?ohawk, and other rivers, great estates flourished. enant farmers and small independent farmers contributed to the agricultural development of the region. .olling grasslands supplied feed for cattle, sheep, horses, and pigsN tobacco and flax were plantedN and fruits, especially apples, grew in abundance. he fur trade also contributed to the growth of the colony. <rom %lbany, !#! kilometers north of ;ew York Aity, the Hudson .iver was a convenient waterway for shipping furs to the busy port. In contrast to ;ew 6ngland and the middle colonies were the predominantly rural southern settlements, Birginia, ?aryland, the Aarolinas, and 7eorgia. *amestown, in Birginia, was the first 6nglish colony to survive in the ;ew ,orld. =ate in (ecember 1-5-, a group of about a hundred men, sponsored by a =ondon coloni>ing company, had set out in search of great adventure. hey dreamed of finding goldN homes in the wilderness were not their goal. %mong them, Aaptain *ohn 3mith emerged as the dominant figure, and despite "uarrels, starvation, and Indian attacks, his will held the little colony together through the first years. In the earliest days, the promoting company, eager for "uick returns, re"uired the colonists to concentrate on producing lumber and other products for sale in the =ondon market, instead of permitting them to plant crops for their own subsistence. %fter few disastrous years the company eased its re"uirements and distributed land to the coionists. In 1-1!, a development occurred that revolutioni>ed the economy of Birginia. his was the discovery of a method of curing Birginia tobacco to make it palatable to the 6uropean taste. he first shipment of this tobacco reached =ondon in 1-1', and within a decade it had become Birginia)s chief source of revenue.

21 8

he cultivation of tobacco exhausted the soil after several crops. $reaking new ground, planters scattered up and down the numerous waterways. ;o towns dotted the region, and even *amestown, the capital, had only a few houses. hough most settlers had come to Birginia to improve their economic position, in ?aryland the neighboring colony, religious as well as economic motives led to settlement. ,hile seeking to establish a refuge for Aatholics there, the Aalvert family was also interested in creating estates that would bring profits. o that end, and to avoid trouble with the $ritish government, the Aalverts encouraged Drotestant as well as Aathoiic immigration. In social structure and in government the Aalverts tried to make ?aryland an aristocratic land in the ancient tradition, which they aspired to rule with all the prerogatives of kings. $ut the spiritof independence ran strong in this frontier society. In ?aryland, as in the other colonies, the authorities could not circumvent the settlers) stubborn insistence on the guarantees of personal liberty established by 6nglish common law and the natural rights of subjects to participate in government through representative assemblies. ?aryland developed an economy very similar to that of Birginia. (evoted to agriculture with a dominant tidewater class of great planters, both colonies had a back country into which yeomen farmers steadily filtered. $oth suffered the handicaps of a one&crop system. %nd before the midpoint of the 12th century, both were profoundly affected by black slavery. In these two colonies the wealthy planters took their social responsibilities seriously, serving as justices of the peace, colonels of the militia, and members of the legislative assemblies. $ut yeomen farmers also sat in popular assemblies and found their way into political office. heir outspoken independence was a constant warning to the oligarchy of planters not to encroach too far upon the rights of free men. $y the late 10th and early 12th centuries, the social structure in ?aryland and Birginia had taken on the "ualities it would retain until the Aivil ,ar. 3upported by slave labor, the planters held most of the political power and the best land, built great houses, adopted an aristocratic way of life, and kept in touch with the world of culture overseas. ;ext in the socioeconomic scale were the farmers, placing their hope for prosperity in the fresh soil of the back country. =east prosperous were the small farmers, struggling for existence in competition with slave&owning planters. in neither Birginia nor ?aryland did a large trading class develop, for the planters themselves traded directly with =ondon. It was reserved for the Aarolinas, with Aharleston as the leading port, to develop into the trading center of the south. here the settlers "uickly learned to combine agriculture and commerce, and the marketplace became a major source of prosperity. (ense forests also brought revenueN lumber, tar, and resin from the longleaf pine provided some of the best shipbuilding materials in the world. ;ot bound to a single crop as was Birginia, the Aarolinas also produced and exported rice and indigo. $y 10+5, more than 155,555 people lived in the two colonies of ;orth and 3outh Aarolina. In the south, as everywhere else in the colonies, the growth of the back country had special significance. ?en seeking greater freedom than could be found in the original tidewater settlements pushed inland. hose who could not secure fertile land along the coast, or who had exhausted the lands they held, found the hills farther west a bountiful refuge. 3oon the interior was dotted with thriving farms. Humble farmers were not the only ones who found the hinterland attractive. Deter *efferson, for example, an enterprising surveyor&father of homas *efferson, third Dresident of the :nited 3tates&settled in the hill country by ac"uiring 1-5 hectares of land for a bowl of punch. =iving on the edge of the Indian country, making their cabins their fortresses, and relying on their own sharp eyes and trusty muskets, frontiersmen became, of necessity, a sturdy, selfreliant people. hey cleared tracts in the wilderness, burned the brush, and cultivated mai>e and wheat among the stumps. he men wore buckskin, the women garments of cloth they had spun at home. heir food was venison, wild turkey, and fish. hey had their own amusements&great barbecues, housewarmings for newly married couples, shooting matches, and contests where "uilted blankets were made.

21 9

%lready lines of cleavage were discernible between the settled regions of the %tlantic seaboard and the inland regions. ?en from the back country made their voices heard in political debate, combatting the inertia of custom and convention. % powerful force deterring authorities in the older communities from obstructing progress and change was the fact that anyone in an established colony could easily find a new home on the frontier. hus, time after time, dominant tidewater figures were obliged, by the threat of a mass exodus to the frontier, to liberali>e political policies, land&grant re"uirements, and religious practices. Aomplacency could have small place in the vigorous society generated by an expanding country. he movement into the foothills was of tremendous import for the future of %merica. 1f e"ual significance for the future were the foundations of %merican education and culture established in the colonial period. Harvard Aollege was founded in 1-#- in ?assachusetts. ;ear the end of the century, the Aollege of ,illiam and ?ary was established in Birginia. % few vears later, the Aollegiate 3chool of Aonnecticut 8later to become Yale Aollege9 was chartered. $ut even more noteworthy was the growth of a school system maintained by governmental authority. In 1-'0 the ?assachusetts $ay Aolony, followed shortly by all the other ;ew 6ngland colonies except .hode Island provided for compulsory elementary education. In the south, the farms and plantations were so widely separated that community schools like those in the more compact northern settlements were impossible. 3ome planters joined with their nearest neighbors and hired tutors for their childrenN other children were sent to 6ngland for schooling. In the middle colonies, the situation varied. oo busy with mater1al progress to pay much attention to educational matters, ;ew York lagged far behind. 3chools were poor, and only sporadic efforts were made by the royal government to provide public facilities. he Aollege of ;ew *ersey at Drinceton, /ing)s Aollege 8now Aolumbia :niversity9 in ;ew York Aity, and hueen)s Aollege 8now .utgers9 in ;ew $runswick, ;ew *ersey, were not established until the middle of the 12th century. 1ne of the most enterprising of the colonies educationally was Dennsylvania. he first school there, begun in 1-2#, taught reading, writing, and keeping of accounts. hereafter, in some fashion, every huaker community provided for the elementary teaching of its children. ?ore advanced training&in classical languages, history, literature&was offered at the <riends Dublic 3chool, which still operates in Dhiladelphia as the ,illiam Denn Aharter 3chool. he school was free to the poor, but parents who could were re"uired to pay tuition. In Dhiladelphia, numerous private schools with no religious affiliation taught languages, mathematics, and natural science, and there were night schools for adults. ,omen were not entirely overlooked, for private teachers instructed the daughters of prosperous Dhiladelphians in <rench, music, dancing, painting, singing, grammar, and sometimes even bookkeeping. he intellectual and cultural development of Dennsylvania reflected, in large measure, the vigorous personalities of two men: *ames =ogan and $enjamin <ranklin. =ogan was secretary of the colony, and it was in his fine library that young <ranklin found the latest scientific works. In 10'+, =ogan erected a building for his collection and be"ueathed both building and books to the city. <ranklin contributed even more to the intellectual activity of Dhiladelphia. He formed a club known as the *unto, which was the embryo of the %merican Dhilosophical 3ociety. His endeavors led, too, to the founding of a public academy that later developed into the :niversity of Dennsylvania. He was also a prime mover in the establishment of a subscription library&which he called >the mother of all !orth American subscription libraries%> In the south, volumes of history, 7reek and =atin classics, science, and law were widely exchanged from plantation to plantation. Aharleston, 3outh Aarolina, already a center for music, painting, and the theater, set up a provincial library before 1055. In ;ew 6ngland, the first immigrants had brought their own little libraries and continued to import books from =ondon. %nd as early as the 1-25s, $oston booksellers were doing a thriving business in works of classical literature, history, politics, philosophy, science, theology, and belles lettres% he desire for learning did not stop at the borders of established communities. 1n the frontier, the hardy 3cotch&Irish, though living in primitive cabins, were firm devotees of scholarship, and they made great efforts to attract learned ministers to their settlements.

22 0

=iterary production in the colonies was largely confined to ;ew 6ngland. Here attention was concentrated on religious subjects. 3ermons were the most common products of the press. % famous Ohell and brimstoneO minister, the .everend Aotton ?ather, authored some '55 works, and his masterpiece, Magnalia "hristi Americana, was so prodigious that it had to be printed in =ondon. In this folio, the pageant of ;ew 6ngland)s history is displayed by the region)s most prolific writer. $ut the most popular single work was the .everend ?ichael ,igglesworth)s long poem, The .ay of .oom, which described the =ast *udgment in terrifying terms. Aambridge, ?assachusetts, boasted a printing press, and in 105' $oston)s first successful newspaper was launched. 3everal others soon entered the field, not only in ;ew 6ngland but also in other regions. In ;ew York, freedom of the press had its first important test in the case of Deter \enger, whose !ew Work 'eekly +ournal, begun in 10##, was spokesman for opposition to she government. %fter two years of publication, the colonial governor could no longer tolerate \enger)s satirical barbs and had him thrown into prison on a charge of libel. \enger continued to edit his paper from jail during his nine&month trial, which excited intense interest throughout the colonies. %ndrew Hamilton, a prominent lawyer defending him, argued that the charges printed by \enger were true and hence not libelous. he jury returned a verdict of not guilty, and \enger went free. his landmark decision helped establish in %merica the principle of freedom of the press. In all phases of colonial development, a striking feature was the lack of controlling influence by the 6nglish government. (uring their formative period, the colonies were, to a large degree, free to develop as circumstances dictated. he 6nglish government had taken no direct part in founding any of the colonies except 7eorgia, and only gradually did it assume any part in their political direction. he fact that the /ing had transferred his immediate sovereignty over the ;ew ,orld settlements to stock companies and proprietors did not, of course, mean that the colonists in %merica would necessarily be free of outside control. :nder the terms of the Birginia Aompany and ?assachusetts $ay charters, complete governmental authority was vested in the companies involved, and it was expected that these companies would be resident in 6ngland. Inhabitants of %merica, then, would have no more voice in their government than if the /ing himself had retained absolute rule. In one way or another, however, exclusive rule from the outside was broken down. he first step was a decision by the =ondon 8Birginia9 Aompany to grant Birginia Aolonists representation in the government In 1-12 the Aompany issued instructions to its appointed governor providing that free inhabitants of the plantations should elect representatives to join with the governor and an appointive council in passing ordinances for the welfare of the colony. his proved to be one of the most far&reaching events in the entire colonial period. <rom then on, it was generally accepted that the colonists had a right to participate in their own government. In most instances, the /ing, in making future grants, provided in the charter that freemen of the colony involved should have a voice in legislation affecting them. hus, charters awarded to Aecil Aalvert of ?aryland, ,illiam Denn of Dennsylvania, the proprietors of the Aarolinas, and the proprietors of ;ew *ersey specified that legislation should be with Othe consent of the freemen.O In only two cases was the self&government provision omitted. hese were ;ew York, which was granted to Aharles II)s brother, the (uke of York, later to become /ing *ames IIN and 7eorgia, which was granted to a group of Otrustees.O In both instances the provisions for governance were short& lived, for the colonists demanded legislative representation so insistently that the authorities soon yielded. %t first, the right of colonists to representation in the legislative branch of the government was of limited importance. :ltimately, however, it served as a stepping stone to almost complete domination by the settlers through elective assemblies, which first sei>ed and then utili>ed control over financial matters. In one colony after another, the principle was established that taxes could not be levied, or collected revenue spent & even to pay the salary of the governor or other appointive officers & without the consent of the elected representatives. :nless the governor and other colonial officials agreed to act in accordance with the will of the popular assembly, the assembly refused to appropriate money for vital functions. hus there were instances of recalcitrant governors who were voted either no salary at all or a salary of one penny. In the face of this threat, governors and other appointive officials tended to become pliable to the will of the colonists.

22 1

In ;ew 6ngland, for many years, there was even more complete self&government than in the other colonies. If the Dilgrims had settled in Birginia, they would have been under the authority of the =ondon 8Birginia9 Aompany. However, in their own colony of Dlymouth, they were beyond any governmental jurisdiction. hey decided to set up their own political organi>ation. %board the ?ayflower, they adopted an instrument for government called the L?ayflower AompactM to >combine oursel#es together into a ci#il body politic for our better ordering and preser#ation%%% and by #irtue hereof StoT enact, constitute, and frame much 0ust and eGual laws, ordinances, acts, constitutions, and offices%%% as shall be thought most meet and con#enient for the general good of the colony%%%%> %lthough there was no legal basis for the Dilgrims to establish a system of self& government, the action was not contested and, under the compact, the Dlymouth settlers were able for many years to conduct their own affairs without outside interference. % similar situation developed when the ?assachusetts $ay Aompany, which had been given the right to govern, moved bodily to %merica with its charter, and thus full authority rested in the hands of persons residing in the colony. he do>en or so original members of the company who had come to %merica at first attempted to rule autocratically. $ut the other colonists soon demanded a voice in public affairs and indicated that refusal would lead to a mass migration. <aced with this threat, the company members yielded, and control of the government passed to elected representatives. 3ubse"uent ;ew 6ngland colonies & ;ew Haven, .hode Island, and Aonnecticut & also succeeded in becoming self&governing simply by asserting that they were beyond any governmental authority and then setting up their own political system modeled after that of the Dilgrims of Dlymouth. he assumption of self&government in the colonies did not go entirely unchallenged. $ritish authorities took court action against the ?assachusetts charter and in 1-2' it was annulled. hen all the ;ew 6ngland colonies were brought under royal control with complete authority vested in an appointive governor. he colonists strenuously objected and, after the .evolution of 1-22 in 6ngland, which resulted in the overthrow of *ames II, they drove out the royal governor. .hode Island and Aonnecticut, which now included the colony of ;ew Haven, were able to reestablish their virtually independent position on a permanent basis. ?assachusetts, however, was soon brought again under royal authority, but this time the people were given a share in the government. %s in the case of other colonies, this OshareO was gradually extended until it became virtual dominance, effective use being made here as elsewhere of control over finances. 3till, governors were continually instructed to force adherence to policies that conformed to overall 6nglish interests, and the 6nglish Drivy Aouncil continued to exercise a right of review of colonial legislation. $ut the colonists proved adept at circumventing these restraints. $eginning in 1-+1, the 6nglish government, from time to time, passed laws regulating certain aspects of colonial economic life, some beneficial to %merica, but most favoring 6ngland. 7enerally, the colonists ignored those that they deemed most detrimental. %lthough the $ritish occasionally tried to secure better enforcement, their efforts were invariably short&lived, and the authorities returned to a policy of Osalutary neglect.O he large measure of political independence enjoyed by the colonies naturally resulted in their growing away from $ritain, becoming increasingly O%mericanO rather than O6nglish.O his tendency was strongly reinforced by the blending of other national groups and cultures that was simultaneously taking place. How this process operated and the manner in which it laid the foundations of a new nation were vividly described in 102! by <rench&born agriculturist *. Hector 3t *ohn Aravecoeur: >'hat then is the American, this new man-> he asked in his Letters /ro. an A.eri+an Far.er >;e is either a <uropean, or the descendant of a <uropean, hence that strange mi/ture of blood, which you fid in no other country%%%%%%%%% , could point out to you a family whose grandfather was an <nglishman, whose wife was .utch, whose son married a 3rench woman, and whose present four sons ha#e now four wi#es of different nations% 4e is an American, who, lea#ing behind him all his ancient pre0udices and manners recei#es new ones from the new mode of life he has embraced, the new go#ernment he obeys, and the new rank he holds%%%>

22 2

5illia. Bra /or

<AF$B-ADFI=

,illiam $radford was elected governor of Dlymouth in the ?assachusetts $ay Aolony shortly after the 3eparatists landed. He was a deeply pious, self&educated man who had learned several languages, including Hebrew, in order to Osee with his own eyes the ancient oracles of 7od in their native beauty.O His participation in the migration to Holland and the Mayflower voyage to Dlymouth, and his duties as governor, made him ideally suited to be the first historian of his colony. His history, 1f )lymouth )lantation 81-+19, is a clear and compelling account of the colony)s beginning. His description of the first view of %merica is justly famous: $eing thus passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles...they had now no friends to welcome them nor inns to entertain or refresh their weatherbeaten bodiesN no houses or much less towns to repair to, to seek for succor...savage barbarians...were readier to fill their sides with arrows than otherwise. %nd for the reason it was winter, and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms...all stand upon them with a weatherbeaten face, and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild and savage hue. $radford also recorded the first document of colonial self&governance in the 6nglish ;ew ,orld, the O?ayflower Aompact,O drawn up while the Dilgrims were still on board ship. he compact was a harbinger of the (eclaration of Independence to come a century and a half later. Duritans disapproved of such secular amusements as dancing and card&playing, which were associated with ungodly aristocrats and immoral living. .eading or writing OlightO books also fell into this category. Duritan minds poured their tremendous energies into nonfiction and pious genres: poetry, sermons, theological tracts, and histories. heir intimate diaries and meditations record the rich inner lives of this introspective and intense people. $nne *r"dstreet 5'/ 1612!16726 he first published book of poems by an %merican was also the first %merican book to be published by a woman && %nne $radstreet. It is not surprising that the book was published in 6ngland, given the lack of printing presses in the early years of the first %merican colonies. $orn and educated in 6ngland, %nne $radstreet was the daughter of an earl)s estate manager. 3he emigrated with her family when she was 12. Her husband eventually became governor of the ?assachusetts $ay Aolony, which later grew into the great city of $oston. 3he preferred her long, religious poems on conventional subjects such as the seasons, but contemporary readers most enjoy the witty poems on subjects from daily life and her warm and loving poems to her husband and children. 3he was inspired by 6nglish metaphysical poetry, and her book The Tenth Muse $ately &prung Op in America 81-+59 shows the influence of 6dmund 3penser, Dhilip 3idney, and other 6nglish poets as well. 3he often uses elaborate conceits or extended metaphors. O o ?y (ear and =oving HusbandO 81-029 uses the oriental imagery, love theme, and idea of comparison popular in 6urope at the time, but gives these a pious meaning at the poem)s conclusion:
,f e#er two were one, then surely we% ,f e#er man were lo#ed by wife, then theeE ,f e#er wife was happy in a man, "ompare with me, ye women, if you can% , priDe thy lo#e more than whole mines of gold 1r all the riches that the <ast doth hold% My lo#e is such that ri#ers cannot Guench, !or ought but lo#e from thee, gi#e recompense% Thy lo#e is such , can no way repay,

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The hea#ens reward thee manifold, , pray% Then while we li#e, in lo#e let s so perse#ere That when we li#e no more, we may li#e e#er%

Ed+"rd #" lor 5'/ 1644!17296 =ike %nne $radstreet, and, in fact, all of ;ew 6ngland)s first writers, the intense, brilliant poet and minister 6dward aylor was born in 6ngland. he son of a yeoman farmer && an independent farmer who owned his own land && aylor was a teacher who sailed to ;ew 6ngland in 1--2 rather than take an oath of loyalty to the Ahurch of 6ngland. He studied at Harvard Aollege, and, like most Harvard&trained ministers, he knew 7reek, =atin, and Hebrew. % selfless and pious man, aylor acted as a missionary to the settlers when he accepted his lifelong job as a minister in the frontier town of ,estfield, ?assachusetts, 1-5 kilometers into the thickly forested, wild interior. aylor was the best&educated man in the area, and he put his knowledge to use, working as the town minister, doctor, and civic leader. ?odest, pious, and hard&working, aylor never published his poetry, which was discovered only in the 14#5s. He would, no doubt, have seen his work)s discovery as divine providenceN today)s readers should be grateful to have his poems && the finest examples of 10th&century poetry in ;orth %merica. aylor wrote a variety of verse: funeral elegies, lyrics, a medieval Odebate,O and a +55&page Metrical ;istory of "hristianity 8mainly a history of martyrs9. His best works, according to modern critics, are the series of short Dreparatory ?editations.

Mi+hael 5iggles1orth <AD!A-AIBF=


?ichael ,igglesworth, like aylor an 6nglish&born, Harvard&educated Duritan minister who practiced medicine, is the third ;ew 6ngland colonial poet of note. He continues the Duritan themes in his best&known work, The .ay of .oom 81--!9. % long narrative that often falls into doggerel, this terrifying populari>ation of Aalvinistic doctrine was the most popular poem of the colonial period. his first %merican best&seller is an appalling portrait of damnation to hell in ballad meter. It is terrible poetry && but everybody loved it. It fused the fascination of a horror story with the authority of *ohn Aalvin. <or more than two centuries, people memori>ed this long, dreadful monument to religious terrorN children proudly recited it, and elders "uoted it in everyday speech. It is not such a leap from the terrible punishments of this poem to the ghastly self&inflicted wound of ;athaniel Hawthorne)s guilty Duritan minister, %rthur (immesdale, in The &carlet $etter 812+59 or Herman ?elville s crippled Aaptain %hab, a ;ew 6ngland <aust whose "uest for forbidden knowledge sinks the ship of %merican humanity in Moby .ick 812+19. 8Moby .ick was the favorite novel of !5th&century %merican novelist ,illiam <aulkner, whose profound and disturbing works suggest that the dark, metaphysical vision of Drotestant %merica has not yet been exhausted.9 =ike most colonial literature, the poems of early ;ew 6ngland imitate the form and techni"ue of the mother country, though the religious passion and fre"uent biblical references, as well as the new setting, give ;ew 6ngland writing a special identity. Isolated ;ew ,orld writers also lived before the advent of rapid transportation and electronic communications. %s a result, colonial writers were imitating writing that was already out of date in 6ngland. hus, 6dward aylor, the best %merican poet of his day, wrote metaphysical poetry after it had become unfashionable in 6ngland. %t times, as in aylor)s poetry, rich works of striking originality grew out of colonial isolation. Aolonial writers often seemed ignorant of such great 6nglish authors as $en *onson. 3ome colonial writers rejected 6nglish poets who belonged to a different sect as well, thereby cutting themselves off from the finest lyric and dramatic models the 6nglish language had produced. In addition, many colonials remained ignorant due to the lack of books. he great model of writing, belief, and conduct was the $ible, in an authori>ed 6nglish translation that was already outdated when it came out. he age of the $ible, so much older than the .oman church, made it authoritative to Duritan eyes.

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;ew 6ngland Duritans clung to the tales of the *ews in the 1ld estament, believing that they, like the *ews, were persecuted for their faith, that they knew the one true 7od, and that they were the chosen elect who would establish the ;ew *erusalem && a heaven on 6arth. he Duritans were aware of the parallels between the ancient *ews of the 1ld estament and themselves. ?oses led the Israelites out of captivity from 6gypt, parted the .ed 3ea through 7od)s miraculous assistance so that his people could escape, and received the divine law in the form of the en Aommandments. =ike ?oses, Duritan leaders felt they were rescuing their people from spiritual corruption in 6ngland, passing miraculously over a wild sea with 7od)s aid, and fashioning new laws and new forms of government after 7od)s wishes. Aolonial worlds tend to be archaic, and ;ew 6ngland certainly was no exception. ;ew 6ngland Duritans were archaic by choice, conviction, and circumstance.

Sa.(el Se1all <ADFE-AI!B=

6asier to read than the highly religious poetry full of $iblical references are the historical and secular accounts that recount real events using lively details. 7overnor *ohn ,inthrop)s +ournal 810459 provides the best information on the early ?assachusetts $ay Aolony and Duritan political theory. 3amuel 3ewall)s .iary, which records the years 1-0' to 10!4, is lively and engaging. 3ewall fits the pattern of early ;ew 6ngland writers we have seen in $radford and aylor. $orn in 6ngland, 3ewall was brought to the colonies at an early age. He made his home in the $oston area, where he graduated from Harvard, and made a career of legal, administrative, and religious work. 3ewall was born late enough to see the change from the early, strict religious life of the Duritans to the later, more worldly Yankee period of mercantile wealth in the ;ew 6ngland coloniesN his .iary, which is often compared to 3amuel Depys)s 6nglish diary of the same period, inadvertently records the transition. =ike Depys)s diary, 3ewall)s is a minute record of his daily life, reflecting his interest in living piously and well. He notes little purchases of sweets for a woman he was courting, and their disagreements over whether he should affect aristocratic and expensive ways such as wearing a wig and using a coach.

Mary Ro1lan son <+7AD!F-+7ADI#=


he earliest woman prose writer of note is ?ary .owlandson, a minister)s wife who gives a clear, moving account of her 11&week captivity by Indians during an Indian massacre in 1-0-. he book undoubtedly fanned the flame of anti&Indian sentiment, as did *ohn ,illiams)s The 9edeemed "apti#e 810509, describing his two years in captivity by <rench and Indians after a massacre. 3uch writings as women produced are usually domestic accounts re"uiring no special education. It may be argued that women)s literature benefits from its homey realism and common&sense witN certainly works like 3arah /emble /night)s lively +ournal 8published posthumously in 12!+9 of a

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daring solo trip in 105' from $oston to ;ew York and back escapes the baro"ue complexity of much Duritan writing.

*otton MatherR <ADD!-AIE#=


;o account of ;ew 6ngland colonial literature would be complete without mentioning Aotton ?ather, the master pedant. he third in the four&generation ?ather dynasty of ?assachusetts $ay, he wrote at length of ;ew 6ngland in over +55 books and pamphlets. ?ather)s 105! Magnalia "hristi Americana S<cclesiastical ;istory of !ew <nglandT , his most ambitious work, exhaustively chronicles the settlement of ;ew 6ngland through a series of biographies. he huge book presents the holy Duritan errand into the wilderness to establish 7od s kingdomN its structure is a narrative progression of representative %merican O3aints) =ives.O His >eal somewhat redeems his pompousness: OI write the wonders of the Ahristian religion, flying from the deprivations of 6urope to the %merican strand.O

Roger 5illia.s <+7 ADB!-AD#!=


%s the 1-55s wore on into the 1055s, religious dogmatism gradually dwindled, despite sporadic, harsh Duritan efforts to stem the tide of tolerance. he minister .oger ,illiams suffered for his own views on religion. %n 6nglish&born son of a tailor, he was banished from ?assachusetts in the middle of ;ew 6ngland)s ferocious winter in 1-#+. 3ecretly warned by 7overnor *ohn ,inthrop of ?assachusetts, he survived only by living with IndiansN in 1-#-, he established a new colony at .hode Island that would welcome persons of different religions. % graduate of Aambridge :niversity 86ngland9, he retained sympathy for working people and diverse views. His ideas were ahead of his time. He was an early critic of imperialism, insisting that 6uropean kings had no right to grant land charters because %merican land belonged to the Indians. ,illiams also believed in the separation between church and state && still a fundamental principle in %merica today. He held that the law courts should not have the power to punish people for religious reasons && a stand that undermined the strict ;ew 6ngland theocracies. % believer in e"uality and democracy, he was a lifelong friend of the Indians. ,illiams)s numerous books include one of the first phrase books of Indian languages, A *ey ,nto the $anguages of America 81-'#9. he book also is an embryonic ethnography, giving bold descriptions of Indian life based on the time he had lived among the tribes. 6ach chapter is devoted to one topic && for example, eating and mealtime. Indian words and phrases pertaining to this topic are mixed with comments, anecdotes, and a concluding poem. he end of the first chapter reads:
,f nature's sons, both wild and tame, ;umane and courteous be, ;ow ill becomes it sons of :od To want humanity%

In the chapter on words about entertainment, he comments that Oit is a strange truth that a man shall generally find more free entertainment and refreshing among these barbarians, than amongst thousands that call themselves Ahristians.O ,illiams)s life is uni"uely inspiring. 1n a visit to 6ngland during the bloody Aivil ,ar there, he drew upon his survival in frigid ;ew 6ngland to organi>e firewood deliveries to the poor of =ondon during the winter, after their supply of coal had been cut off. He wrote lively defenses of religious toleration not only for different Ahristian sects, but also for non&Ahristians. OIt is the will and command of 7od, that...a permission of the most Daganish, *ewish, urkish, or %ntichristian

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consciences and worships, be granted to all men, in all nations...,O he wrote in The ?loody Tenet of )ersecution for "ause of "onscience 81-''9. he intercultural experience of living among gracious and humane Indians undoubtedly accounts for much of his wisdom. Influence was two&way in the colonies. <or example, *ohn 6liot translated the $ible into ;arragansett. 3ome Indians converted to Ahristianity. 6ven today, the ;ative %merican church is a mixture of Ahristianity and Indian traditional belief. he spirit of toleration and religious freedom that gradually grew in the %merican colonies was first established in .hode Island and Dennsylvania, home of the huakers. he humane and tolerant huakers, or O<riends,O as they were known, believed in the sacredness of the individual conscience as the fountainhead of social order and morality. he fundamental huaker belief in universal love and brotherhood made them deeply democratic and opposed to dogmatic religious authority. (riven out of strict ?assachusetts, which feared their influence, they established a very successful colony, Dennsylvania, under ,illiam Denn in 1-21.

A.eri+an Te-ts
In igeno(s %eo"le's Literat(re

Tsalagi <*herokee= Stories


#he *e"r M"n
1ne springtime morning a Aherokee named ,hirlwind told his wife goodbye and left his village to go up in the 3moky ?ountains to hunt for wild game. In the forest he saw a black bear and wounded it with an arrow. he bear turned and started to run away, but the hunter followed, shooting one arrow after another into the animal without bringing it down. ,hirlwind did not know that this bear possessed secret powers, and could talk and read the thoughts of people. %t last the black bear stopped and pulled the arrows out of his body and gave them to ,hirlwind. OIt is of no use for you to shoot at me,O he said. OYou can)t kill me. Aome with me and I will show you how bears live.O O his bear may kill me,O ,hirlwind said to himself, but the bear read his thoughts and said: O;o, I will not hurt you. OHow can I get anything to eat if I go with this bearEO ,hirlwind thought, and again the bear knew what the hunter was thinking, and said: OI have plenty of food.O ,hirlwind decided to go with the bear. hey walked until they came to a cave in the side of a mountain, and the bear said: O his is not where I live, but we are holding a council here and you can see what we do.O hey entered the cave, which widened as they went farther in until it was as large as a Aherokee town& house. It was filled with bears, old and young, brown and black, and one large white bear who was the chief. ,hirlwind sat down in a corner beside the black bear who had brought him inside, but soon the other bears scented his presence. O,hat is that bad smell of a manEO one asked, but the bear chief answered: O(on)t talk so. It is only a stranger come to see us. =et him alone.O he bears began to talk among themselves, and ,hirlwind was astonished that he could understand what they were saying. hey were discussing the scarcity of food of all kinds in the mountains, and were trying to decide what to do about it. hey had sent messengers in all directions, and two of them had returned to report on what they had found. In a valley to the south, they said, was a large stand of chestnuts and oaks, and the ground beneath them was

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covered with mast. Dleased at this news, a huge black bear named =ong Hams announced that he would lead them in a dance. ,hile they were dancing, the bears noticed ,hirlwind)s bow and arrows, and =ong Hams stopped and said: O his is what men use to kill us. =et us see if we can use them. ?aybe we can fight them with their own weapons.O =ong Hams took the bow and arrows from ,hirlwind. He fitted an arrow and drew back the sinew string, but when he let go, the string caught in his long claws and the arrow fell to the ground. He saw that he could not use the bow and arrows and gave them back to ,hirlwind. $y this time, the bears had finished their dance, and were leaving the cave to go to their separate homes. ,hirlwind went out with the black bear who had brought him there, and after a long walk they came to a smaller cave in the side of the mountain. O his is where I live,O the bear said, and led the way inside. ,hirlwind could see no food anywhere in the cave, and wondered how he was going to get something to satisfy his hunger. .eading his thoughts, the bear sat up on his hind legs and made a movement with his forepaws. ,hen he held his paws out to ,hirlwind they were filled with chestnuts. He repeated this magic and his paws were filled with huckleberries which he gave to ,hirlwind. He then presented him with blackberries, and finally some acorns. OI cannot eat acorns,O ,hirlwind said. O$esides you have given me enough to eat already.O <or many moons, through the summer and winter, ,hirlwind lived in the cave with the bear. %fter a while he noticed that his hair was growing all over his body like that of a bear. He learned to eat acorns and act like a bear, but he still walked upright like a man. 1n the first warm day of spring the bear told ,hirlwind that he had dreamed of the Aherokee village down in the valley. In the dream he heard the Aherokees talking of a big hunt in the mountains. OIs my wife still there waiting for meEO ,hirlwind asked. O3he awaits your return,O the bear replied. O$ut you have become a bear man. If you return you must shut yourself out of sight of your people for seven days without food or drink. %t the end of that time you will become like a man again.O % few days later a party of Aherokee hunters came up into the mountains. he black bear and ,hirlwind hid themselves in the cave, but the hunters) dogs found the entrance and began to bark furiously. OI have lost my power against arrows,O the bear said. OYour people will kill me and take my skin from me, but they will not harm you. hey will take you home with them. .emember what I told you, if you wish to lose your bear nature and become a man again. he Aherokee hunters began throwing lighted pine knots inside the cave. O hey will kill me and drag me outside and cut me in pieces,O the bear said. O%fterwards you must cover my blood with leaves. ,hen they are taking you away, if you look back you will see something.O %s the bear had foretold, the hunters killed him with arrows and dragged his body outside and took the skin from it and cut the meat into "uarters to carry back to their village. <earing that they might mistake him for another bear, ,hirlwind remained in the cave, but the dogs continued barking at him. ,hen the hunters looked inside they saw a hairy man standing upright, and one of them recogni>ed ,hirlwind. $elieving that he had been a prisoner of the bear, they asked him if he would like to go home with them and try to rid himself of his bear nature. ,hirlwind replied that he would go with them, but explained that he would have to stay alone in a house for seven days without food or water in order to become as a man again.

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,hile the hunters were loading the meat on their backs, ,hirlwind piled leaves over the place where they had killed the bear, carefully covering the drops of blood. %fter they had walked a short distance down the mountain, ,hirlwind looked behind him. He saw a bear rise up out of the leaves, shake himself, and go back into the cave. ,hen the hunters reached their village, they took ,hirlwind to an empty house, and obeying his wishes barred the entrance door. %lthough he asked them to say nothing to anyone of his hairiness and his bear nature, one of the hunters must have told of his presence in the village because the very next morning ,hirlwind)s wife heard that he was there. 3he hurried to see the hunters and begged them to let her see her long missing husband. OYou must wait for seven days,O the hunters told her. OAome back after seven days, and ,hirlwind will return to you as he was when he left the village twelve moons ago.O $itterly disappointed, the woman went away, but she returned to the hunters each day, pleading with them to let her see her husband. 3he begged so hard that on the fifth day they took her to the house, unfastened the door, and told ,hirlwind to come outside and let his wife see him. %lthough he was still hairy and walked like a bear on hind legs, ,hirlwind)s wife was so pleased to see him again that she insisted he come home with her. ,hirlwind went with her, but a few days later he died, and the Aherokees knew that the bears had claimed him because he still had a bear)s nature and could not live like a man. If they had kept him shut up in the house without food until the end of the seven days he would have become like a man again. %nd that is why in that village on the first warm and misty nights of springtime, the ghosts of two bears&&one walking on all fours, the other walking upright&&are still seen to this day.

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Cotton M"ther -5hat M(st I Do To Be Sa,e ;


The :reatest "oncern in the 'orld 4The 0ailer6 >brought them out, and said, &irs, what must , do to be sa#ed- And they said, ?elie#e on the $ord +esus "hrist, and thou shalt be sa#ed, and thy house> SActs 1U=35 31T ,hat ?ust I (o to $e 3avedE It is impossible to ask a more weighty huestionK It is deplorable that we hear it asked with no more <re"uency, with nor more %gony. he 3pirit of 3lumber which the Doison of the old 3erpent has brought upon the children of ?en is to be deplored exceedingly. %waken us out of this FterribleG stupidity, 1 7od of all 7race, lest we perish FeternallyG. ?y (esign is to bring in a 7ood and full %nswer to this ,eighty huestion, 1hK how hankful ought we to be, for the 7lorious 7ospel of the $lessed 7od, that makes us able to %nswer itK he 7ospel which we have in our hands, this a 7ospel of such astonishing ?ystery, of such Heavenly ?ajesty, and of such Aonsummate Durity, that it can be no other than the ,ord of 7odN It must be of a (ivine 1riginal. 1hK highly <avoured Deople, who know this *oyful 3oundK 1hK :navoidably and Inexcusably ,retched, if we disregard it. he (evils knew, hat those 6xcellent ?inisters of the =ord Daul and 3ilas, were come to Dhilippi, with a design to answer this ,eighty huestion. hey could not bear itN they feared it would issue in a (estruction upon their /ingdom there. hey stirred up the minds of some ,icked Deople, to abuse and .evile these ?inisters, and run them into Drison. 3ome ,icked Deople were afraid lest they should lose a little ?oney, by the coming of such ?inisters among themN and the (evils inspired these ?uckworms to use incessant 6ndeavours until they had made these ?inisters uncapable of Dreaching any more unto them. 1ur 7lorious =ord appeared for his <aithful 3ervants. hey 7lorified Him in the midst of their rials. hey 3ang His Draises under the 3tripes and the 3tocks which the 3atanic Darty inflicted on them. 1h, Datient 3ervants of the =ordK ,hat a symptom have you that you shall one (ay .eign in 7lory with HimE hese poor men 3ang unto the =ordN the =ord heard them, and sav)d themK % terrible 6arth"uake at ?idnight shook open the (oors of their Drison. he /eeper that had the now superseded keys of the Drison, was terrified. In his consternation, he falls down at the feet of his Drisoners, he treats them no longer as Drisoners, but rather as %ngels. He fervently puts to them the huestion, which, 1hK hat it were often heard with an e"ual fervency among usK ,hat must I do to be 3avedE 3ome =earned men think that the 7aoler had from the raditions of their Dhilosophers, conceived some Hope of a better =ifeN and seeing his =ife here in danger, he does, as distressed ,retches in the =ast minutes of their =ife use to do, Ary out for some help to make sure of a $etter =ife, 1r, more probably, the late words of the possessed Young ,oman in the own about these ?inistersN hese men are the 3ervants of the most High 7od, who show unto us the way of 3alvationN might run in his mind, and mind him of that 3alvation, and make him think, whether these men were not appointed of 7od, for the Instruction of others in the way to that 3alvation.

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here is a most important matter which must now be undertaken to be demonstrated. hat whereas there must be something done, by every man that would be saved, it should be the 3ollicitious In"uiry of every man ,hat must be done by him, that he may be 3aved. ,e will proceed upon the awakening (emonstrations of this thingN (emonstrations more powerful than any hunderbolts. 1hK that the issue might be, that the Hearers may be %wakened, with a mighty Impression upon their 3ouls to make the 6n"uiry ,hat must I do to be 3avedE I. You must know, that here is a 7reat 3alvation proposed unto the sinful Ahildren of menN %nd you must /now, and hink, hat there is ;othing of 3o 7reat Aoncernment for any man, as to obtain a part in that 7reat 3alvation. Indeed /nowledge is the first hing, that is necessary in order to 3alvationN %nd it is absolutely necessary, :nspeakable ;ecessary. FDrov. 1G ,e read Hosea ':-. of Deople (estroyed for the lack of /nowledge. %hK destructive Ignorance, what shall be done to chase thee out of the ,orldK % world which by thee is rendered a dark ,orld, the /ingdom of (arknessK he 1racles of ,isdom have assured us he 3oul without knowledge is not goodN hey assured us, hey who know not 7od shall have a Bengeance in flaming <ire, taken of themN hey have assured usN ) is =ife 6ternal, to know the only true 7od, and *esus Ahrist whom He hath sent. %n Ignorance of the FtrueG 7ospel, is attended with a long rain of :nknown, but very 6vil Aonse"uences. is the 7ospel of 3alvationN hey that are Ignorant of it must needs miss of 3alvation.

) is an 6rroneous and Dernicious Drinciple, hat a ?an may be 3aved in any .eligion, if he do but =ive according to it. he unerring and infallible 7ospel has expressly taught us otherwise FinG ! Aor. ':# OIf our gospel be hid, it is hid unto them that be lost.O It is not unseasonable here, and as 6arly as may be, to bring in that %dmonition. /nowledge, /nowledgeN o get good /nowledge, let that be the <irst Aare of them that would be 3aved. /nowledge, ) is a Drincipal thingN ?y Ahild, 7et /nowledgeN with all thy might, 7et understanding. 1hK hat this .esolution might immediately be made in the minds of all our peopleN I will get as much /nowledge as ever I canK he ,ord of 7od must be .ead and Heard with (iligence that so you may arrive to the /nowledge that is needful for you. he Aatechisms in which you have the ,ord of 7od fitted for your more early %pprehension of it must be diligently 3tudied. :nto all the other ?eans of /nowledge, there must be added, Humble and 6arnest 3upplications before the 7lorious =ord, You must cry to 7od for /nowledge, and lift up your Boice to Him for :nderstandingN Drefer it before 3ilver, $efore any 6arthy reasures. here may be some so very Ignorant, that they know not how to Dray. I would advise them to take the Hundred and ;ineteenth Dsalm. hey will find in it many a Drayer suited unto their circumstances, ake it, :se it, and particularly those Detitions in it: each me, 1 =ord, the way of thy 3tatutesN and =ord, each me 7ood *udgment and /nowledgeN and =ord, 7ive me :nderstanding, that I may know thy estimonies: 7ive me understanding and I shall =ive. ake 6ncouragement from that wordN and Dlead it before the =ord: *ames 1:+. If any of you lack of ,isdom, let him ask of 7od that giveth to all men =iberally, and upbraideth notN and it shall be given him. %nd now to pursue diverse 6nds at once, I am to tell you hat the ?ain hings which )tis necessary for you to know, are the things which concern 3alvation. ?ore DarticularlyN You must know, firstN <rom ,hat you do need 3alvation. %nd here, <irstN You are to know, hat the 1ne 6ternal and Infinite 7od who 3ubsisteth in hree Dersons which His ,ord call, he <ather and the 3on, and the Holy 3pirit Areated our <irst Darents, in an Holy and Happy 3tate, at the 6nd of the 3ix (ays, in which He Areated all things.

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$ut, our <irst Darents hearkening to the emptations of ,icked 3pirits, did 6at a <orbidden <ruitN and by that sin, they fell from 7od, and from their Holy and Happy 3tateN %nd their <all has bro)t their Ahildren with them, into a 3tate of 3in and ?isery, their 3in was our 3in, from their corrupt nature we are born into the world envenom)d with such a ;ature FheartG. he (eath FeternalG which the $roken =aw of 7od threatened unto themN is due to us all: % (eath which intends all ?isery, not only in this ,orld, but in %nother, where our 3ouls continue Immortal Flive foreverG, after they have left this world. hen you are to knowN hat there is a =aw given to us, which, is the 6verlasting .ule, according to which 7od re"uires us to glorify HimN a =aw of =ove to 7od and ?an, contained in our en Aommandments. $ut, that you daily break this =awN and that every $reach of it Incurs the ,rath of 7od who is of Durer 6yes than to behold 6vil and cannot look upon Ini"uity. =astly, you are to know, hat while you lie under the 7uilt of 3in, you are also under the .eign of 3in, and under the .eign of 3atan tooN % most woeful 1ppression from the ,orst 6nemies hat Aan $e. 7od is in Ill erms with you. He visits you not with His great consolations %ll hings are against youN he things that appear for your ,elfare, do but 6nsnare you, do but Doison you, do but produce your further (istance from 7od. Your very prosperity hurts youN Your %dversary lays the Ahains of (eath upon you. You are every moment in danger, of being sei>ed by the formidable *ustice of 7od for 6ternal $urnings. If you (ie :npardoned, you are sent among (evils. (amn)d unto tormentsN must undergo a strange Dunishment, and a long one which is .eserved in a <uture 3tate, for the workers of ini"uity Funrepentent sinnersG. 1hK 3innerN this, is thy =amentable Aase %nd /nowing this how canst thou do any other than make that 3ollicitious 6n"uiryN ,hat must I do to be 3avedE /nowing this error of the =ord. 1hK $e DerswadedK You must know secondly by ,hom you may have 3alvation. %nd hereN You are to know the great mystery of godliness 7od manifests in flesh. Your 3alvation depends on your knowing of such a 3aviour. ,e have not the least Intimation in the $ook of 7od, hat a unknown 3aviour will be ours. $ut it is dreadfully intimated, hat if Deople have no :nderstanding of Him, He that made them will not have mercy on them and He that formed them will shew them no <avour. You are then to knowN hat the 3on of 7od assumed the $lessed *esus, the 3inless and Holy 3on of a Birgin, into one person with Himself. %nd this %dmirable Derson, who is 7od and ?an in one Derson, has as our 3urety, fulfilled the =aw of 7od for usN answered the precept of it, in his .ighteous =ifeN answered the Denalty of it, in His grievious deathN suffered the Aross, and 6ndured the Aurse in our stead. You are to know herewithalN that this mighty and matchless and 1nly 3aviour of the world, who is also the 7ovenor of the ,orld, is .isen from the (ead, and is 6nthroned in the Heavens, and will return to rule and *udge the ,orldN but He will 3ave unto the utermost %ll that come unto 7od by Him. 1hK :ndone 3innerN canst thou hear of such a 3aviour and not make that 3ollicitious en"uiry, ,hat must I do, that I may have an Interest in the 1nly 3aviourE You must /now, hirdlyN ,hat shall be done for you if you find 3alvation. %nd hereN You are to know that no good thing shall be withheld from the 3aved of the =ord. ,onder wonder. $e swallowed up with wonderment, at this 7race, 1 self destroyed onesK

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here is Droposed unto You % deliverance from all the undesirable Aircumstances, into which you have .un, by your (eparture from 7od. It is proposed unto you, hat you shall ;o longer be the children of (eath, but be made the Ahildren of 7od. hat you shall be <orgiven and %ccepted with a .econciled 7od and be followed with perpetual estimonies of his <atherly =ove: hat ;o Ini"uity shall have (ominion over you, but you shall become the amiable emples, wherein He will dwell, with the sweet Influences of His 7ood 3pirit forever irradiating of you. It is propos)d unto youN hat your 3pirits, at your (issolution FdeathG shall put on the 7arments of =ight, and 6nter into the Deace a .est of an Heavenly Daradise: hat your $odies ere long by a .esurrection shall be .estored unto your 3pirits: but be the =ively, the =ovely, the most %greeable and 6verlasting ?ansions for them: hat you shall have a *oyful Dortion in the city of 7od, and have His marvelous kindness <orever doing unutterable things for you, in that strong city: here you shall at length be filled with all the <ulness of 7od and have 7od become %ll in %ll unto you for ever and ever. %ll this is contained in the 3alvation whereof You have a ender. 3alvation, ) is a comprehensive ,ord as Incomprehensible 7oodK 6ye has not seen, 6ar has not heard, no Heart can conceive, what is laid up in the 3alvation of 7od. 1hK .uin)d 3innerN why does it not now become thy 3ollicitous 6n"uiryN ,hat must I do that I may not lose the vast things whereunto I am invited by my 3aviourE hese are the things that must be known. %nd if these hings $e known, and 1wn)d, the plain Inference from them will be thisN hat the ?an is forsaken of .eason, :nworthy to be called a .easonable ?an, who is not very solicitously In"uisitiveN ,hat must I do to be savedE $ut now, )tis time to answer that great 6n"uiry, we will do it by calling in a 3econd Droposition. II. 3omething must be done by every man that would not forfeit all claim, .eject all Hope of the 7reat 3alvation. %nd this also must be known. You must /now ,hat must be done. %nd thereupon it shall be said unto youN *ob 1#:10. O,hen you know these things happy are you If you do them.O It is ;ot 6nough to /nowN here must be Dractice *oyn)d ,ith your knowledge. 3omething must be doneN 6lse it had never been said, Hebrews +:- OAhrist is the %uthor of eternal 3alvation, unto all them that 1bey himO, 3omething must be doneN 6lse we had never been toldN Hebrews -:4 O here are the things that accompany 3alvation.O ,e are often instructed in the 3acred ,ritings, hat there Is a ,ay, wherein alone 3alvation is to be 6xpected, % way called he way of =ifeN and, he way of truthN he way of the =ordN and the way of DeaceN and he way of 7ood menN and, he way of the .ighteous. In this way, 3omething must be done, here are 3teps to be taken that we may <nd this way, and /eep this way. is the 6verlasting wayN here is no %ltering of it. 3omething must be doneN <or we are sure, %ll men are not saved. here are some, who are Ahildren of Derdition, here are some, who are Bessels of wrathN there are some who go away into everlasting punishment, 3omething must be done, to distinguish you from that crooked 7eneration. ,e read, ?atthew 0:1' O;arrow is the way which leadeth unto life and <ew there be that <ind itO. Indeed there is ;othing to be done by us, to merit our 3alvation, $ut something must be done to secure our 3alvation. Indeed there is ;othing to be done by us, in our own strength. $ut something ?ust be done by us, thro) Ahrist who strengthens us. ?ore plainly, 1ur $lessedness now come not unto us, on the erms of a Aovenant of works, ) is not properly our doings, that is the condition of our $lessedness. ,e are to be 3aved, by aking rather than by (oing. he condition is receive and be saved. It is, approve, and be 3aved. 1r, $e

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willing to be 3aved. ,e speak of (oing, in the =argest sense of the wordN and we still say, something must be done, that we may be 3aved. =et the huestion then come in. %nd, 1hK $ring it in with all the 3olicitude, which were proper for, the 7reatest Aoncern in the ,orld. ,H% ?:3 I (1 1 $6 3%B6(E I have seen this huestion 3candalously answered, in Damphlets that have been dispersed about our ;ation. he 1ne hing that is needful has been left unregarded, unmention)d. Derhaps the 1bservation of certain 3uperstitious Holidays has been recommended instead of that one thing. %las how have the souls of men been betrayed, by men unskilful in the word of righteousnessK How unskilfully, and unfaithfully have the methods of 3alvation been declared by many who pervert the 7ospel of AhristK ;ot so now I hopeK % pure gospel, a sound doctrine, must be pursu)d, You are now to be treated with nothing but wholesome ,ordsN nothing but the faithful sayings of 7od. I. %nd what $etter, what other %nswer can be given, 81ther <oundation can no man =ayK9 to this huestion, but what the %postles of 7od gave to it of oldE ,hen the poor man said what must I do to be 3aved, we read they said $elieve on the =ord *esus Ahrist, and thou shalt be saved. his is the 3um of the 7ospelN his is the Aharge given to the ?inisters of the 7ospelN ?ark 1-:1+, 1- ODreach the 7ospel to every Areature. He that believeth... shall be saved.O <aith in the =ord *esus Ahrist, who is the 1nly 3aviourN his, his must be found in all that will be saved. he faith, which is, % satisfaction of the mind in the way of 3alvation by a 7lorious Ahrist .evealed in the 7ospel. he <aith by which we deny our selves, and .ely on a 7lorious Ahrist, for all 3alvation. he <aith by which we .eceive a 7lorious Ahrist, and .est on Him for 3alvation as He is offered unto us. $ut How must this faith operate in all that would be savedE 1h 3etK Your Hearts to these thingsN they are not vain thingsN Your =ives, the very =ives of your 3ouls are concerned in them. If your Hearts may now fall in with these things, and form)d and shap)d according to the 6vangelical ?old of them lo, his (ay 3alvation is come unto your souls. 7lorious =ord, incline the hearts of our Deople, to do what must be done that so thy 3alvation may be bestow)d upon them. <irst this must be doneN You must come to be bitterly 3ensible, that you want FlackG a 7lorious Ahrist for your 3aviour. ,e read, *ohn 0:#0. OIf any ?an hirst let him come unto me.O ruly, no man will come to a Ahrist, until a hirst or a pungent and Dainful 3ense of the ,ant of a Ahrist be raised in him. You must feel the $urden of your sin, lying on youN and cry out, 1h) is a heavy $urden too heavy for meK You must see 7od %ngry with you, 3in $inding of you, Hell gaping for youN and utterly (espair of helping yourselves out of the confusion that is come upon you. You must be filled with sorrow, for what you have doneN with horror at what you are 6xpos)d unto. he Ary of your :neasy 3ouls must be thatN of .omans 0:!'. O1 wretched man that I am who shall deliver meKO You must be no strangers to such solilo"uies as theseN I have sinnedN I have sinned, and, woe is unto me, that I have sinned, I have lost the knowledge of 7od and lost the Image of 7od, and lost the <avour of 7od. ?y 3in renders me obnoxious to the Bengeance of 7od. =ust enchants me, enslaves meN 3atan yranni>es over me. I am in hourly Ha>>ard of an 6ternal $anishment from 7od, into 1uter (arkness, into the Dlace of (ragons. 1hK wretched man that I am: I can do nothing to deliver myself. I perish, I perish, except a 7lorious Ahrist be my deliverer. he (egree of this (istress on the minds of them that shall be saved is Barious. here is a Bariety in that Drepatory ,ork, which does distress the 6lect of 7od, in their coming to a 3aviour. Aonverts do sometimes needlessly (istress themselves, and 6ven deceive themselves, by insisting too much on the ?easure of this Dreparation. $ut so much of this ,ork, as will render us restless without a AhristN so much of this ,ork, as will render a whole Ahrist precious to us before there must be so much in our 6xperience, if we would be saved.

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3econdlyN his must be (oneN You must confess yourselves, :nable o (o %nything 6ffectually of yourselves, in coming to a glorious Ahrist, as your 3aviour. ,ith a fearful trembling of 3oul, you must make this DrofessionN =ord thou worketh in us to ,ill and to (o, of thy own good DleasureK Your Drofession must be that of 6ph !:2 O$y 7race are ye saved, thro) <aith and that not of yourselves it is the 7ift of 7od.O Your Drofession must be that of *ohn -:-+. O;o man can come, except it be given to him.O 1hK =ie at the <oot of 3overign 7race confessing and Imploring =ord, I am justly destroyed. If I do not sincerely renounce my sin, sincerely embrace my 3aviour. $ut I cannot, 1hK I cannotK I have deadly fetters upon my 3oulN I shall never answer thy gracious Aalls, except thy 3overign 7race enable me. 1hK huicken me: 1hK 3trengthen me: 1hK 6nable meN urn thou me and I 3hall be urned. Your Impotency must not now be made an 6xcuse for your Impenitency. Your Inability must %ffright you exceedingly. %ffect you 6xceedinglyN It may not 6xcuse you in a slothful ;egligence. You must ;ot .emain Aareless of doing anything, $ecause you can thoroughly do nothing. Having first Ary)d unto 7od, that He would help you to do what you have to do, you must now try to do itN now try, whether He do not help you to do it. hirdlyN his must be doneN You must %dmire, You must %dore, You must %ddress a 7lorious Ahrist, in all His offices for all His $enefits. 1hK Hear a Aompassionate .edeemer Aalling youN Isai. '+:!! O=ook unto me all ye 6nds of the 6arth, and be ye 3aved.O Aomply, .eplyN =ord, I look unto thee, I will be thine, 3ave me. %nd here, you are to .emember that the <irst hing you want is %ttonement and %cceptance with 7od. <or this Durpose you must behold a 7lorious Ahrist, as a Driest bringing a 3acrifice and making a .ighteousness for you %ccordingly. Your first %ddress to Heaven must be thisN =ord let my many and horrid sins be <orgiven me for the sake of that great 3acrifice, which thou hast had in the $lood of *esus Ahrist thy 3on, which Aleanseth from all sin. %nd =ord =et me who am a poor 3inner utterly hopeless of working out for myself a .ighteousness now stand before hee in the wondrous .ighteousness of that =ord, who is the Head of His church, and who has wrought out a 3potless .ighteousness for us. $ut .emember to (epend on this most sufficient 3acrifice and .ighteousness, not as hualified for it by any good hing to be observed in yourselves. (o not stay from it on a Drospect anon to come recommended unto it by some commendable goodness in yourselves first attained. ;o (epend, and Benture upon it, as 6ncouraged by no other hualification but thisN % most miserable 3innerN yet invited, yet Aompelled unto this ?ercy of the =ord. ,ellN If the <aith which has got thus far, be not a counterfeit, it wont stop here. You must behold a glorious Ahrist, as a Drophet, and a /ing. <aith has other errands unto the 3aviour besides that, of a desire to be *ustified. % true $eliever will not count himself saved, if he be not 3anctified, as well as justified. he 3aviour puts this demand unto youN ?atthew !5:#! ,hat will ye that I shall do unto youE You answerN 1, my great 3aviour I come unto thee that by thy being my 3acrifice and my .ighteousness and my %dvocate, 6verliving to make Intercession for me, I may be 3aved unto the :ttermost. $ut this must not be all. here must be this in the %nswer, 1 my 3aviour I come unto thee for Instruction: =et thy 3pirit with thy ,ord cause me to /now the hings of my Deace, and keep me from all (elusions. %nd there must be this in the %nswer, 1 my 3aviour I come unto thee for 7overnment: =et thy 3pirit of 7race, con"uer the 6nmity of my Heart against the things that are pleasing to 7od and make me a con"uerer over all my 3piritual %dversaries. his is that <aith, whereof the 6nd is the 3alvation of the 3oul. $elieve after this manner, and you believe to the 3aving of the 3oul. II. $ut we may carry on the %nswer, without being reproved for adding anything unto the words of 7od. % true <aith, will always have .epentance accompanying of it. .epentance unto lifeN is a (ead <aith which cannot show itN % (ead 3oul that has it not, % genuine <aith is always a .epenting <aith. ,e see the two sisters hand in handN %cts !5: !1 .epentance towards 7od and <aith toward our =ord *esus Ahrist. ,e constantly see it in the 6xperience of all the <aithful. ) is the (enomination of .epentanceN ! Aor 0:15. .epentance to 3alvation. It must be found in all the Aandidates of 3alvation.

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,ell thenN <irstN his must be doneN You must heartily and bitterly $ewail all your 3ins. Your 1riginal 3in, your %ctual 3inN the monstrous %ggravation of your 3inN You must be convinced of it. % contrition must follow this convictionN ,ith a $roken heart you must cry out, Dsalm #2:12 OI will declare my ini"uity, I will be sorry for my 3in.O You must mourn for your 3in, and mourn for the 1ffence given to 7od by your 3in, as well as for the ?ischief done to yourselves: ?ourn, ?ourn, and never count that you have mourned enough. 3econdlyN his must be done You must make a Denitent Aonfession of your 3insN a .emorseful confession of them, %ll your known crimes, you must as particularly as you can, 6numerate with shame and grief before the =ord. You must be able to sayN Dsalm +1:#, OI acknowledge my ransgressions and my 3in is ever before me. Your %cknowledgement of your secret 3ins must be only to the =ord: but where your 3ins are /nown, where your ;eighbors have been either 3ufferers by, or ,itnesses of your ?iscarriages, they also should /now that you acknowledge them. hirdlyN his must be doneN 6very way of 3in must be %bhorr)d, must be %voided, must be <orsaken. %mendment is 6ssential to .epentance: 6xcept you reform you don)t repent. 3o you are warn)d of 7odN Drov. !2:1#. OHe that confesseth and forsaketh shall find mercy.O If you go on in any 6vident way of 3in you will find it a ,ay of (eath, a Dath of the (estroyerN it will bring to a (amnation that slumbereth not. Bery tremendous hings will be done to those 6nemies of 7od, who go on still in their trespasses. Have you done %missE You must say I will do so no more you must not persist in what you have done. %nd hence, if you have wrong)d another man in what you have done, you must Bigorously 6ndeavour all possible restitution, restitution, a hing too little understood, too little exhorted, too little practisedN restitution without which there can be no right repentance. his is the .epentance which is found in every true believerN It must be found in every one that would be saved. III. %nd, Holiness, HolinessN % patient continuance in will doing. here is ;o =ife in the <aith, which is not Droductive to an Holy =ifeN ) is not a <aith which will bring to everlasting =ife. If the 7race to $elieve on the =ord *esus Ahrist, be infused into the 3oul, the Habit of every other 7race is at the same Instant infused.

I will show you the ?otto on the 7olden 7ates of the Holy AityN Hebrews 1!:1'. O,ithout Holiness no man shall see the =ord.O %n Holy =ife, % =ife pressing after :niversal and Derpetual conformity to the .ules of HolinessN his, his is the .oyal Dath leading to salvationN Yea, tis no little part of our 3alvation. his must be doneN You must .esign yourselves up unto the Holy 3pirit of the =ordN Aonsent, .e"uest, 6ntreat, hat He would 6ternally take Dosession of you. <rom the (ust, cry unto HimN Dsalm 1'1:15. O hou art my 7od thy 3pirit is goodN lead me unto the land of .ectitude.O Ary unto HimN 1 3pirit of Holiness, .aise me out of the .uins that my 3in has brought upon me. Dossess me forever. Aause me to fear 7od, and =ove Ahrist, and hate 3in, and slight this ,orld and know myself, and make me meet for the Inheritance of the 3aints in =ightN $ring me to be one of them, I pray thee, I pray theeK here is a good <oundation of Holiness laid in this resignation. $ut then, his must be doneN You must =ivelily Dursue the (eath of 6very 3in. You must fly to the (eath of your 3aviour, as the purchase and the Dattern of so great a $lessingN but you must count no rouble too much to be undergone, that you may come at such a $lessing. his is that Holiness without which no man shall see the =ord. his must be done: You must set before yourselves the 6xample of your 3aviour: 3tudy how He was in the ,orldN 3tudy to walk as He walkedN mightily (elight in every stroke of .esemblance unto HimN Yea, tho) it be in 3ufferings that you resemble him. his is that Holiness, without which no man shall see the =ord.

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his must be doneN You must by a solemn (edication of yourselves, and your %ll unto the =ord, become the =ord)s. It must therefore be your (esire to have all your alents, all your Dosessions, and 6njoyments and Interests employ)d for the Honour of the =ord: and owning the =ord, as the great 7iver, and 1wner, the =ord Droprietor of all that you have, you must be ready to submit unto the will of 7od when he pleases with afflictive (ispensations to take any of it from you. his is the Holiness without which no man shall see the =ord. his must be doneN You must remember, hat the 6ye of the omnipotent 7od is upon you, You must often bring this to remembrance, 7od sees me, hears me, knows me, is ac"uainted with all my ways, % sense of your being under the ;otice of 7od, and of the %ccount unto which you will be called by 7od must make you afraid of incurring His (ispleasureN %fraid even of 3ecret ?iscarriages. his is that Holiness without which no man shall see the =ord. his must be done: You must make it your 6xercise to keep a conscience clear of 1ffence towards 7od and towards ?an. You must labour to be %c"uainted with your ,hole (utyN and your %c"uaintance with the ,ill of 7od must be followed with proportionable (esires and =abours after 1bedience to it. You must Dray always with all Drayer, with secret Drayer, with Household Drayer, with Dublic Drayer. You must have an High Balue for those two 3acraments of the ;ew estament, the $aptism and the 3upper of the =ord. You must religiously 1bserve the =ord)s (ay. You must Dreserve your own Dlace and =ife and $ed and ,ealth and ;ame: You must, with the same 3incerity, befriend your ;eighbours also in theirs. =ove your ;eighbours as yourselves, and (o as you would be (one unto. You must be especially and mightily conscientious of .elative Ahristianity. Aarry it well in all the .elations wherein the =ord has placed you, whether 3uperiors, or Inferiors, or 6"ualsN with such a Aarriage as may adorn the (octrine of 7od your 3aviourN such a Aarriage as may render your co& relatives the better for you. $riefly, You must (eny all :ngodliness and ,orldly =usts and =ive godily and soberly and righteously in the ,orld. his is that Holiness without which no man shall see the =ord. ?ethinks a most 1bvious Inference may be drawn from these hings, hat the ?inistry of the 7ospel must be attended, and not neglected, by them who would not neglect the great 3alvationN % most awful Inference, hat it is a dangerous hing to live without the means of 3alvation, which are in the ministry of the F rueG 7ospel ordinarily to be met withal. he ,ells of 3alvation are kept open in such a ministry. 1hK (o not undervalue the $lessings of those :pper 3pringsK here are men, who by the command of a glorious Ahrist, give themselves up unto the service of the 6vangelical ?inistry, and are the Dreachers of the 7ospel unto the rest of the world: %n order of men concerning whom our glorious =ord has promised ?atthew !2:!5, O=o, I am with you always to the end of the world.O If an %ngel should come from Heaven unto you as unto Aornelius, once to 3peak unto this huestion, ,hat must I do to be savedE He would un"uestionably say, .epair to such a ministry don)t think to live without it. ,e have settled the DointN ,ithout <aith we can have no 3alvation. $ut I assume: .omans 15:1', 10 OHow shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heardE %nd how shall they hear without a preacherE <aith cometh by hearing and hearing by the ,ord of 7od. 1hK hat the :ngospeli>ed Dlantations which live, I should rather say, which die, without the means of salvation, would consider of it. Your huestion is answered. 1 souls in Deril, I may now say unto youN I Aor. 1+:! OYou are saved if you keep in memory what I have preached unto you.O %nd yet I must say unto you, hat if after all, you trample upon these things, it will be good for you that you had never been bornN the very mention of them will dreadfully increase and inflame your condemnation. $ut the success of all must be left with the 7lorious 1ne.

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%nd 1 <ather of mercies, (o thou mercifully look down upon the 3oul that has heard these hings. (ispose and assist that soul, to do those 7ood hings, upon which thou hast promised the salvation of the soul. I Dray thee, I Dray theeK Awake up my soulB the awful day, ,s coming swiftly on, 'hen thou must lea#e this ;ouse of "lay, And fly to 'orlds unknown% 1hB do not pass thy $ife in .reams, To be surpriD'd by .eath= And drop unthinking down to 3lames, 'hen , resign my ?reath% !o= e#ery day thy "ourse re#iew, Thy real &tate to learn= And with an ardent Xeal pursue Thy :reat and "hief concern% 9ouDe all the man= thy 'ork is great, And all the man demandsE Thine ;ead, thine ;eart, thy ?reath, thy &weat, Thy &trength and both thine ;ands% 1hB let the important 'ork be done, .one whilst 'tis call'd to .ay% $est thou the time of ;ope out run, And rue the mad .elay% 9epent Smy soulT ?elie#e and )ray= ?id e#ery lust farewell% To thy 9edeemer haste away, And scape from .eath and ;ell% To whom .ear +esus, should , li#e To whom but Thee alone% Thou didst at first my being gi#e, And , am all Thine own% To Thee ,'ll then my self de#ote, My $ife and all my )ow'rs% <ach warm affection, busy thought, And all my passing ;ours% 1 $et those glorious ;opes refine, And ele#ate my &oul% To hea#enly Things my ;eart incline, And meaner +oys control% May 3aith and ;ope stretch all their wings, And bear me up on highE And as , mount may <arthly Things, ?elow unheeded lie% +<&O& my &a#iour and my :od, My $ife and &acrifice, My ;opes deep founded in thy ?lood, 9aise far abo#e the skies% )repare me, $ord, for thy 9ight ;and, Then come the 0oyful .ay= "ome .eath, and come "elestial band, To bear my &oul away% 3,!,& -----------------------------------------------------------

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