Here, then, they are assembled on a perfect morning of English spring, with London streets awakening to life behind them, and the open road in front. Think of the dayspring from on high, the good brown earth and tender foliage, smoke curling up from cottage chimneys, pawing steeds, barking dogs, the cheerful stirrup-cup; every rider’s face set to the journey after his individual mood, when at last the Host had successfully gathered his flock—
| And forth we ride, a little more than pace, Unto the watering of Saint Thomas. |
That is, to the little brook which now runs underground near the second milestone on the Old Kent Road, remembered only in the name of St. Thomas’ Road and the Thomas à Becket Tavern. Up to this point the party had been enlivened by the Miller’s bagpipe, and Professor Raleigh has justly pointed out how many musicians there are in Chaucer’s company: the Squire; the Prioress with her psalms, “entuned in her nose full seemëly”; the Friar, who could sing so well to his own harp; the Pardoner, with his “Come hither, love, to me,” and the Summoner, who accompanied him in so “stiff” a bass. By St. Thomas’ watering, however, either the Miller is out of breath or the party are out of patience, for here the Host reins up, and reminds them of their promise to tell tales on the way. They draw cuts, and the longest straw (whether by chance or by Boniface’s sleight of hand) falls to the one man with whom none other would have disputed for precedence. The Knight, with ready courtesy, welcomed the choice “in God’s name,” and rode on, bidding the company “hearken what I say.” Let us not inquire too closely how far every word was audible to the whole thirty, as they clattered and splashed along. We may always be sure that enough was heard to keep the general interest alive, and it may be charitably hoped that the two nuns were among those who caught least.
The Knight’s tale was worthy of his reputation—chivalrous, dignified, with some delicate irony and many flights of lofty poetry. The Host laughed aloud for joy of this excellent beginning, and called upon the Monk for the next turn; but here suddenly broke in—
| The Miller, that for-dronken was all pale | |
| So that unnethe upon his horse he sat ... | [scarcely |
| And swore by armës and by blood and bones | |
| ‘I can a noble talë for the nonce | |
| With which I will now quit the Knightës tale.’ | |
| Our Hostë saw that he was drunk of ale | |
| And said, ‘abide, Robin, my lievë brother, | |
| Some better man shall tell us first another; | |
| Abide, and let us worken thriftily.’ | |
| ‘By Goddës soul,’ quoth he, ‘that will not I; | |
| For I will speak, or ellës go my way.’ | |
| Our Host answered: ‘Tell on, a devil way! | |
| Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.’ | |
| ‘Now hearken,’ quoth the Miller, ‘all and some! | |
| But first I make a protestatioun | |
| That I am drunk, I know it by my soun; | [sound |
| And therefore, if that I misspeak or say, | |
| Wite it the ale of Southwark, I you pray; | [blame |
| For I will tell a legend and a life | |
| Both of a carpenter and of his wife....’ |
The Reeve (who is himself a carpenter also) protests in vain against such slander of honest folk and their wives. Robin Miller has the bit between his teeth, and plunges now headlong into his tale as he had run in old times against the door—a “churlës tale,” but told with consummate dramatic effect, and recorded by Chaucer with a half-ironical apology—
| And therefore every gentle wight I pray For Goddës love, deem ye not that I say Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse Their talës allë, be they better or worse, Or ellës falsen some of my matère. And therefore, whoso list it not to hear, Turn over the leaf and choose another tale. |
The Miller’s story proved an apple of discord in its small way, but poetically effective in the variety which it and its fellows lent to the journey—
| Diversë folk diversëly they said, But for the mostë part they laughed and played; Nor at this tale I saw no man him grieve, But it were only Osëwold the Reeve, |
who, though chiefly sensible to the slur upon his own profession, lays special stress on the indecorum of the Miller’s proceeding. Some men (he says) are like medlars, never ripe till they be rotten, and with all the follies of youth under their grizzling hairs—