extensively, and could speak Latin, French, and Italian with
fluency. He knew Petrarch and other eminent Italians. One is
amazed that in such an age he could have written so well, for he
had no great models to help him in his own language. If
occasionally indecent, he is not corrupting. He never deliberately
disseminates moral poison; and when he speaks of love, he treats
almost solely of the simple and genuine emotions of the heart.

The best criticism that I have read of Chaucer's poetry is that of
Adolphus William Ward; although as a biography it is not so full or
so interesting as that of Godwin or even Morley. In no life that I
have read are the mental characteristics of our poet so ably
drawn,--"his practical good sense," his love of books, his still
deeper love of nature, his naivete, the readiness of his
description, the brightness of 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