but Latin will serve his turn.  In front of all is a Miller, who has been drinking over-night, and is now but indifferently sober.  There is not a door in the country that he cannot break by running at it with his head.  The pilgrims are all ready, the host gives the word, and they defile through the arch.  The Miller blows his bagpipes as they issue from the town; and away they ride to Canterbury, through the boon sunshine, and between the white hedges of the English May.

Had Chaucer spent his whole life in seeking, he could not have selected a better contemporary circumstance for securing variety of character than a pilgrimage to Canterbury.  It comprises, as we see, all kinds and conditions of people.  It is the fourteenth-century England in little.  In our time, the only thing that could match it in this respect is Epsom down on the great race-day.  But then Epsom down is too unwieldy; the crowd is too great, and it does not cohere, save for the few seconds when gay jackets are streaming towards the winning-post.  The Prologue to the “Canterbury Tales,” in which we make the acquaintance of the pilgrims, is the ripest, most genial and humourous, altogether the most masterly thing which Chaucer has left us.  In its own way, and within its own limits, it is the most wonderful thing in the language.  The people we read about are as real as the people we brush clothes with in the street,—­nay, much more real; for we not only see their faces, and the fashion and texture of their garments, we know also what they think, how they express themselves, and with what eyes they look out on the world.  Chaucer’s art in this Prologue is simple perfection.  He indulges in no irrelevant description, he airs no fine sentiments, he takes no special pains as to style or poetic ornament; but every careless touch tells, every sly line reveals character; the description of each man’s horse-furniture and array reads like a memoir.  The Nun’s pretty oath bewrays her.  We see the bold, well-favoured countenance of the Wife of Bath beneath her hat, as “broad as a buckler or a targe”; and the horse of the Clerk, “as lean as is a rake,” tells tales of his master’s cheer.  Our modern dress is worthless as an indication of the character, or even of the social rank, of the wearer; in the olden time it was significant of personal tastes and appetites, of profession, and condition of life generally.  See how Chaucer brings out a character by touching merely on a few points of attire and personal appearance:—­

  “I saw his sleeves were purfiled at the hand
  With fur, and that the finest of the land;
  And for to fasten his hood under his chin
  He had of gold ywrought a curious pin. 
  A love-knot in the greater end there was;
  His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
  And eke his face as if it was anoint.”

What more would you have?  You could not have known the monk better if you had lived all your life in the monastery with him.  The sleeves daintly purfiled with fur give one side of him, the curious pin with the love-knot another, and the shining crown and face complete the character and the picture.  The sun itself could not photograph more truly.