the knights, looking at one another, thought each looked fairer than he had ever done before; but no one could speak a word for solemn awe. While they thus looked at one another in silence, the Holy Graal passed before them, covered with white samite. None could see the sacred dish itself, nor how it was borne along through the hall; but the sweetest fragrance filled the air, and each knight found before him just that kind of food which was most pleasant to him, and which best suited him. Then suddenly the light faded, and the holy vessel disappeared.

King Arthur offered thanks to God for the grace He had sent them, and for what He had shown them at this high feast of Pentecost; and then Sir Gawaine cried out that they had not seen the Graal itself, it was so closely covered; and he vowed that the next day he would set out and journey for a year and a day in quest of the Graal, so that he might win a sight of the holy vessel itself, and nearly the whole number of the knights joined him in this vow.

Then began the quest of the Holy Graal, which caused the breaking-up of the fellowship of the Table Round, for of all the knights who set forth on the quest, few lived to return. Some died after many adventures in distant lands; others grew weary of the search and sought their own ease in the countries where they found themselves; others, again, were loth to return home not having achieved the quest. Of them all Galahad alone attained to the full sight of the Graal, for he alone sought it with a pure heart, striving to draw near to God; and in him was the promise fulfilled-"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." But after Galahad had seen the Graal he said, "Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it might please Thee, Lord," for he had a great desire to depart and be with Christ. Then he bade farewell to Sir Percival and Sir Bors, who were with him, com

"Fair

mending them to God; and to Sir Bors he said, sir, salute me to Sir Launcelot, my father, and as soon as ye see him, bid him remember how unstable is this world." And kneeling down he began to pray, and then suddenly his soul departed to Jesus Christ, and a great multitude of angels bore his soul up to heaven.

There were days of terrible trial and sorrow for King Arthur after his knights were gone. The heathen in greater numbers were pouring into the land, the fellowship of the Round Table was no more, and, worst of all, those whom he most loved and trusted were false and treacherous to him. His foes gathered an army, and he met them with a few faithful followers. A desperate battle was fought, in which Arthur was defeated and sore wounded. Only two knights remained to him, and he begged one of them to carry him to the water-side, where a dark boat was seen with three queens in it. They took Arthur into the boat, and sailed away to the island of Avalon, where Glastonbury now stands.

The old legends used to say that Arthur did not die, but was always alive and ready to come forth whenever England needed him. And there is a sense in which this is quite true, for the Arthur of the romances was made to represent the highest idea existing at that time of all that is best and noblest in manhood; now as age after age passes on, we learn to know more and more of what God intended us to be, and we are no longer satisfied to be only like the Arthur of the old romances, so Arthur must come again and again, when England needs it, and represent a higher and higher form of manhood, thus ever stirring men to strive after what is better and better. We leave King Arthur now to rest awhile in the peaceful island-valley of Avalon, but we need not bid him farewell, for we shall meet with him again and again in our story of English Literature.

CHAPTER III.

CHAUCER (1328—1400).

THE story of our English Literature has not, until now, told us much about the English people. We have seen that the first English writers were men living apart from the busy, common life of the world in Religious Houses, and though they cared greatly for their fellow-men, and wrote earnest books for their instruction and help, yet they could know little of their daily work and business, and little of the joys of home, its merry laughter or its tender sorrows. In the Norman and early Plantagenet times, we have the chroniclers telling the story of kings and rulers, and the romance writers dreaming their bright dreams of knights. and ladies; but kings and rulers, knights and ladies, dwelt in a world of which the merchants, the shopkeepers, the workmen, and labourers knew little beyond the gay outside. Now, however, we are coming to a time when our English Literature begins to strike its roots down into the hearts and lives of the people; and henceforward we shall see how its range widens more and more, till all classes of persons and their interests are included in it. We can easily understand how it is just this which makes any literature strong and lasting, because when a writer speaks of things which only a few people know about and care for, such as the mere outside life and fashion of a certain time, a large number of persons will not be able to read his books, and after awhile they may drop out of sight altogether; but, on the other hand, if a writer speak with clearness and power of what we

all feel and understand, and which belongs to every one, and if he is also true to our common sense of what is right, or beautiful, or touching, or amusing, then not only can every one read his books at the time when they were written, but as long as the world lasts they will never grow old and dull, for every new generation will turn to them with the same delight that their forefathers felt when they first read them.

From the time when our literature begins to express more of the thoughts and feelings and interests of the nation generally, it becomes more and more connected with the life of the nation, and therefore with our history. The story of the life of the English nation, which we call English history, is a story of actions-it tells us what the English people did at various times; but the literature of the same time tells us what the English people were feeling and thinking about, and thus we can understand much better why such and such things were done. We may be able, perhaps, to see better this connection between literature and history, if we imagine what it would be to have a dumb companion, how often we should wonder why he did this or went there, and sometimes we might think him foolish or wrong in his actions. But, on the other hand, if we had a friend whom we loved, and who often spoke freely to us of his feelings and thoughts, and of the aims he set before him in life, we should readily understand his actions, and be able to judge them truly. Literature and history together are like such a friend; but history alone is almost like a dumb companion.

We take up the story of our. English Literature again somewhere in the middle of the fourteenth century, during the reign of Edward III. By this time the Normans and Saxons had become completely mixed together, so that there were no longer two distinct races living in England, but the two had grown into one nation, with one heart and soul. Now, too, there was but one language spoken in the

common talk of business or of home; the great stream of the First English and the smaller stream of Norman-French had become one, and we shall find that this is so much like the English which we speak to-day, that we can understand a great deal of it without any explanation. The old hatreds now were gone, and with the hatreds the misery and gloom which hatred always must bring with it, and there were love and joy and laughter in the land. The vigour of the people was no longer wasted in the enmity between the conquered and the conquerors, and they had grown strong to strive for freedom, to conquer foreign foes, and to carry on commerce and manufactures. The old English love of truth and duty rose into new life; and we shall find that sturdy voices did not fear to speak out boldly against the corruptions of the Church, the ignorant teaching and evil lives of some of those who professed to be followers of Christ and His Apostles, and to claim help and redress for the poor and oppressed.

In the midst of this time, probably in the year 1328,* there was born in London a little child, who was named Geoffrey Chaucer. His father was most likely a wine merchant, living near the Church of St. Aldermary, in Bow Lane, Cheapside. Very little is known of the life of Geoffrey Chaucer in his early days, but from what we know of him later, we may judge that he must have been a bright, happy boy, full of kindly love for all, with a keen delight in fun, and a hearty enjoyment of all the fair things which God has made for us in this world, making no fuss over trifles or grumbling at little hardships, and, best of all, with a heart turning to God in trust and love, and a strong sense of duty. Of this, however, he no doubt, like other English boys, said but little, and was in fact generally silent and shy in company.

* This date is disputed, but it is the one given on his tomb, and the arguments against it need not be entered on here.