We may add here—to defend our great man’s character—that alchemy was believed in by many men of exceptional mental power. Roger Bacon, discoverer of gunpowder and the magnifying glass, is perhaps the greatest name among them; and vain as seemed much of their toil with crucibles and furnaces, alembics and aludels, we owe a great deal to the first meritorious alchemists, who really paved the way to modern chemistry.
There is no reason to suppose Chaucer had any vice likely to affect his pocket; but alchemy was the scientific mania of the day, and high and low were ready to risk fortune and health in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, the way to manufacture gold. And, at the same time, there is no other sufficient reason for the extreme poverty which the poet had fallen into.
The two Roundels and the Virelai have been asserted and denied to be the work of Chaucer, but there is no clear evidence for either side. They may well be a portion of those many lost ‘ditties and songs glad’ with which Gower said ‘the land fulfilled is over all,’ written ‘in the floures of his youth.’ The second Roundel seems, on the other hand, to belong to his later life, when he so often alluded to his corpulence. As to the Virelai, this species of lyric was nery fashionable in Chaucer’s time. It is skilful work, each stanza rhyming six lines together (which I have failed to follow in the translation).
Good Counsel of Chaucer.
Fle fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse,mob, honesty
Suffice the thy good, though hit be smale,thee, it
For horde hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse,hoards, uncertainty
Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle.deceived everywhere
Savour no more then the behove shalle;taste
Rede[199] well thy self, that other folke canst rede,
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.without fear
Peyne the not eche croked to redresse,
In trust of hire that turneth as a balle,[200]
Grete rest stant in lytel besynesse.great peace lies, meddling
Bewar also to spurne ayein an nalle,[201]awl
Stryve not as doth a croke[202] with a walle:crock
Deme[203] thyselfe that demest others dede,
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.
That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse,
The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle;
Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse.here
Forth, pilgrime!—forth, best, out of thy stalle!beast
Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle!
Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede,give up, desire
And trouthe shal the delyver, hit ys no drede.
Fly from the crowd, and dwell with truthfulness
Contented with thy good, though it be small;
Treasure breeds hate, and climbing dizziness,
The world is envious, wealth beguiles us all.
Care not for loftier things than to thee fall;
Counsel thyself, who counsel’st others’ need,
And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.
Pain thee not all the crooked to redress,
Trusting to her who turneth as a ball,
For little meddling wins much easiness.
Beware lest thou do kick against an awl,
Strive not as doth a clay pot with a wall:
Judge thou thyself, who judgest others’ deed,
And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.
All that is given take with cheerfulness,
To wrestle in this world is to ask a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth!—forth, beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God for all!
Cast by ambition, let thy soul thee led,
And truth thee shall deliver, without dread.
Notes by the Way.
We have Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s authority, as well as internal evidence, for believing that this pathetic little poem expresses Chaucer’s feelings at the time of his expulsion from the Customs offices, the beginning of his period of misfortunes, and was written immediately after the calamity. We seem to gather scattered hints of recent ‘wrestlings’ before the blow came—vain attempts to elevate, and purify, and carry out reforms, to make straight crooked paths. Lost labour—pain thee not all the crooked to redress!—trusting to fortune (money being requisite to reform): for those who value peace of mind should let sleeping dogs lie. We seem to catch the echoes of stormy times, of personal recrimination, envy, hatred, and malice, against a ‘climbing’ man, protected by Court favour for many prosperous years, but at length within the reach of foes when that protection waxed powerless. Chaucer may, like many another man, have made no enemies till he was high enough to stand in some one’s light, prosperous enough to be dangerous; but his month of power in Parliament ruined him. It is pretty certain that some vote of his, while sitting for Kent, caused his dismissal from office. It was a case of win all or lose all, and he lost. To fight against such odds were as idle as undignified: surely, indeed, but courting worse injuries, ‘kicking against an awl.’ When the weak and the strong strive together, it is the weak who suffers. The criticism upon others, which had failed to do good, were now best turned philosophically upon himself. That which the fountain gave forth returns again to the fountain, as a poet 500 years later has said. It is impossible, in reading these melancholy and stately lines, not to feel that they ring true, and betray the half-sarcastic disappointment of a well-meaning man, the resignation of a religious man, and the faith in right-dealing bringing its own reward of a thoroughly honest man.
It is probable that the loss to Chaucer in a pecuniary sense was very severe; and the suddenness of the blow may account for much of his after poverty.[204] The loss may have come at a time when he had debts which it would be very hard to pay out of a diminished income—debts which may have hampered his whole after-life. His appointment of a deputy to the office of Clerk of the King’s Works, in 1391, and his subsequent resignation of the office, appear to me to hint at ill-health, as may his death a year after getting his lease for fifty-three years of the tenement in Westminster, where he died.
The last verse of this poem is the most remarkable of the three. Full of just contempt for his enemies’ aspersions, and of hearty trust in the power of truth to set things right, he rises suddenly into a passion of aspiration. Trying to be content with adversity, he is angry with himself for feeling it so deeply. To wrestle in this world is but courting an overthrow. But this is not our Home, this is but a desert leading to a higher state. Forth, pilgrim! gird up thy loins with fresh vigour to journey on. Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of the stall of narrow hopes and interests! look higher, and thank thy God for all. To cast by all the soul’s lets and hindrances—to be led by the higher self—that is the pilgrim’s longing, and that is the sublimest hope of the human heart.