place, of the Canterbury Tales. Perhaps in the entire range of
ancient and modern literature there is no work that so clearly
and freshly paints for future times the picture of the past;
certainly no Englishman has ever approached Chaucer in the
power of fixing for ever the fleeting traits of his own time. The
plan of the poem had been adopted before Chaucer chose it;
notably in the "Decameron" of Boccaccio -- although, there, the
circumstances under which the tales were told, with the terror
of the plague hanging over the merry company, lend a grim
grotesqueness to the narrative, unless we can look at it
abstracted from its setting. Chaucer, on the other hand, strikes
a perpetual key-note of gaiety whenever he mentions the word
"pilgrimage;" and at every stage of the connecting story we
bless the happy thought which gives us incessant incident,
movement, variety, and unclouded but never monotonous
joyousness.

The poet, the evening before he starts on a pilgrimage to the
shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, lies at the Tabard Inn, in
Southwark, curious to know in what companionship he is
destined to fare forward on the morrow. Chance sends him
"nine and twenty in a company," representing all orders of
English society, lay and clerical, from the Knight and the Abbot
down to the Ploughman and the Sompnour. The jolly Host of
the Tabard, after supper, when tongues are loosened and hearts
are opened, declares that "not this year" has he seen such a
company at once under his roof-tree, and proposes that, when
they set out next morning, he should ride with them and make
them sport. All agree, and Harry Bailly unfolds his scheme: each
pilgrim, including the poet, shall tell two tales on the road to