his imagery, the easy flow of his diction, the vividness with which he
describes character; his inventiveness, his readiness of illustration,
his musical rhythm, his gaiety and cheerfulness, his vivacity and
joyousness, his pathos and tenderness, his keen sense of the ridiculous
and power of satire, without being bitter, so that his wit and fun are
harmless, and perpetually pleasing.

He doubtless had great dramatic talent, but he did not live in a
dramatic age. His especial excellence, never surpassed, was his power of
observing and drawing character, united with boundless humor and
cheerful fun. And his descriptions of nature are as true and unstinted
as his descriptions of men and women, so that he is as fresh as the
month of May. In his poetry is life; and hence his immortal fame. He is
not so great as Spenser or Shakspeare or Milton; but he has the same
vitality as they, and is as wonderful as they considering his age and
opportunities,--a poet who constantly improved as he advanced in life,
and whose greatest work was written in his old age.

Unfortunately, we know but little of Chaucer's habits and experiences,
his trials and disappointments, his friendships or his hatreds. What we
do know of him raises our esteem. Though convivial, he was temperate;
though genial, he was a silent observer, quiet in his manners, modest in
his intercourse with the world, walking with downcast eye, but letting
nothing escape his notice. He believed in friendship, and kept his
friends to the end, and was stained neither by envy nor by pride,--as
frank as he was affectionate, as gentle as he was witty. Living with
princes and nobles, he never descended to gross adulation, and never
wrote a line of approval of the usurpation of Henry IV., although his
bread depended on Henry's favor, and he was also the son of the king's
earliest and best friend. He was not a religious man, nor was he an