suggests a striking difference between himself and the great Elizabethan epic poet who owes so much to him, when he declines to make as long a tale of the chaff or of the straw as of the corn, and to describe all the details of a marriage-feast seriatim: 

       ’The fruit of every tale is for to say: 
        They eat and drink, and dance and sing and play.’

This may be the fruit; but epic poets, from Homer downward, have been generally in the habit of not neglecting the foliage.  Spenser in particular has that impartial copiousness which we think it our duty to admire in the Ionic epos, but which, if truth were told, has prevented generations of Englishmen from acquiring an intimate personal acquaintance with the ’Fairy Queen.’  With Chaucer the danger certainly rather lay in the opposite direction.”

Now, if we are once interested in a story, small difficulties of speech or spelling will not readily daunt us in the time-honored pursuit of “what happens next”—­certainly not if we know enough of our author to feel sure he will come to the point and tell us what happens next with the least possible palaver.  We have a definite want and a certainty of being satisfied promptly.  But with Spenser this satisfaction may, and almost certainly will, be delayed over many pages:  and though in the meanwhile a thousand casual beauties may appeal to us, the main thread of our attention is sensibly relaxed.  Chaucer is the minister and Spenser the master:  and the difference between pursuing what we want and pursuing we-know-not-what must affect the ardor of the chase.  Even if we take the future on trust, and follow Spenser to the end, we cannot look back on a book of the “Faerie Queene” as on part of a good story:  for it is admittedly an unsatisfying and ill-constructed story.  But my point is that an ordinary reader resents being asked to take the future on trust while the author luxuriates in casual beauties of speech upon every mortal subject but the one in hand.  The first principle of good narrative is to stick to the subject; the second, to carry the audience along in a series of small surprises—­satisfying expectation and going just a little beyond.  If it were necessary to read fifty pages before enjoying Chaucer, though the sum of eventual enjoyment were as great as it now is, Chaucer would never be read.  We master small difficulties line by line because our recompense comes line by line.

Moreover, it is as certain as can be that we read Chaucer to-day more easily than our fathers read him one hundred, two hundred, three hundred years ago.  And I make haste to add that the credit of this does not belong to the philologists.

The Elizabethans, from Spenser onward, found Chaucer distressingly archaic.  When Sir Francis Kynaston, temp.  Charles I., translated “Troilus and Criseyde,” Cartwright congratulated him that he had at length made it possible to read Chaucer without a dictionary.  And from Dryden’s time to Wordsworth’s he was an “uncouthe unkiste” barbarian, full of wit, but only tolerable in polite paraphrase.  Chaucer himself seems to have foreboded this, towards the close of his “Troilus and Criseyde,” when he addresses his “litel book”—­