Chaucer has not done laughing at himself, for he proceeds to tell in his own person the Tale of Melibeus—long, dull, and in prose. Did ever poet so trouble to hold himself up to ridicule? His sly eye roves over all his world and even over the animals—the Prioresse’s smale houndes, the fox, the crow, the chanticleer who reads Dan Cato and who quotes Latin, all supply him with mirth. But how he delights in making fun of his woman world. The Prioresse herself, the immortal Wife of Bath, and the fierce wife of the Host are all in turn butts for his quiet arrows. The termagant mistress Host is doughtier far than her husband.

Chaucer knows the frailty, the wrath, the vengeance of women: he knows too what they want above any earthly thing:—

But he knows better:—

It is quite true: the women themselves acknowledge it:—

But he hastens elsewhere to apologise:—

I can no harm of no woman divine.

The whole of the Pardoner’s Tale, prologue, tale, and epilogue, is a masterpiece of Chaucerian humour. The Pardoner in his prologue gives away his profession and pours ridicule upon himself; then he tells an excellent story, and with the very last word turns his own preaching into a farce. Indeed, all of Chaucer’s “church gallery” laugh at themselves or make us laugh at them; Friar, Pardoner, Summoner, Prioresse, Monk; only in pathetic and earnest contrast is the poor Parson, who wrought first and taught afterwards.

The descriptions in the Prologue teem with humorous touches. The Prioresse speaks excellent “Stratford” French; the Monk doesn’t care a plucked hen for the text that contemns the worldly prelate; “and I said his opinion was good.” The Friar’s eyes twinkle like stars when he has sung one of his love songs; the merchant always profits by money-exchange; the Clerk is as lean as a rake; the Lawyer seems busier than he is; the Sailor rides “as he could”; the Doctor believes in prescribing “gold” in sickness; the Wife of Bath has been five times married “withouten other companye in youthe”; the Miller (drunk) brings them out of town to the sound of a baggepipe; the Summoner has three words of Latin—which he ventures on when he has had his “strong wyn red as blood”; the Pardoner’s pockets are full of relics come from Rome al hot. Here are but a few phrases. It is as though the poet said, “Come, laugh with me: life is merry. Come, weep with me: life is sad. Come, love with me: life is short.”

For this is Chaucer’s secret: he loves; and it is this that makes him so lovable a poet. No student of the Canterbury Tales can escape from this reflection. Chaucer loves the Knight and the young Squire and the poor Parson. He loves and understands children, and in this respect he stands almost alone among the poets. The death of the little child in the Prioresses Tale wrings from him passionate tears; the girl Griselda, the child of Constance, are but two in his child gallery. He loves good women: he loves the Virgin Mary: and he loves Jesus Christ. Respect, admiration, even worship we find in many writers: in Chaucer they are all there, but above all Amor vincit omnia.