We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,

Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us.

After that will you refuse to consent with me that the last word upon this play should be of its greatness? All these people, whatever of righteousness they lack, are great. They have the very aura of greatness.

And they are great, of course, not in their dealing with affairs, with the destinies of Rome or of Egyptfor it is by their neglect or misprision or mishandling of these that they come to misfortune and allow meaner men, calculators, to rise by their downfall: but great as the gods are great, high-heartedly, carelessly. Note how finely, when the whole stake has been thrown and lost, they sit down to their last earthly banquet. They seem in their passion to stand remote above circumstance. They are indifferent to consistency. Says Enobarbus, when Antony will leave for Rome

Under a compelling occasion let women die: it were pity to cast them away for nothing; though, between them and a great cause, they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment.

Yet she plays as largely with real death. She

hath pursued conclusions infinite

Of easy ways to die.

-and the way she finally chooses is most regal. Like the gods too, these people are exempt of shame: as absolutely above it as Zeus, father of gods and men, who could be ridiculous enough in his amours and yet, when

all is said, remains a very grand gentleman. They are heroic souls in this disorderly house of Alexandriaeven to pretty mischievous Charmian. Hear her, as she closes Cleopatra's eyes and stands up herself, as the Guard bursts in, to take the stroke. Hear her and mark her last word

Charmian.

First Guard.

Charmian.

Charmian.

So, fare thee well.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close;
And golden Phoebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;
I'll mend it, and then play.

Enter the Guard, rushing in.

Where is the queen?

Speak softly, wake her not.

First Guard. Cæsar hath sent

Too slow a messenger.
[Applies an asp.

O, come apace, dispatch: I partly feel thee. First Guard. Approach, ho! All's not well: Cæsar's be

guiled.

Second Guard. There's Dolabella sent from Cæsar; call him. First Guard. What work is here! Charmian, is this well done?

Charmian.

It is well done, and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings.

Ah, soldier!

[Dies

L

A GOSSIP ON CHAUCER (1)

ET me begin with a few lines from Browning's little poem, How it Strikes a Contemporary

I only knew one poet in my life:

And this, or something like it, was his way.

You saw go up and down Valladolid,

A man of mark, to know next time you saw.

His very serviceable suit of black

Was courtly once and conscientious still,

And many might have worn it, though none did:

The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads,

Had purpose, and the ruff, significance . . .

You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself
Against the single window spared some house
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick

Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognizance of men and things,

If any beat a horse, you felt he saw;

If

any cursed a woman, he took note;

Yet stared at nobody,-you stared at him,
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know you and expect as much.

I

.

Through Aldgate Street, London, on any day between 1374 and 1385 there passed, to and from his work, a stoutish man soberly clad, with a forked beard, a whimsical elvish face, and eyes which, while bent on the cobbles, somewhow noted everybody and everything that passed. "Thou lookest," he wrote of himself, "as thou woldest fynd an hare, for evere upon the ground I se thee stare." The shyest of men to accost! Noting his fellows in this subdolent way, he exchanges greetings with few. His daily work takes him down to the riverside and the wharves, for he is a Comptroller of the Customs and Subsidy of wools, skins and tanned hides in the Port of London: where, all day long, for the usual fees, he has to examine bills of lading and draw up the rolls of receipts with his own hand, always at desk or moving among the merchandise. That downcast eye is vigilant here, too. One John Kent, having tried to smuggle some wool to Dordrecht, finds the whole consignment seized and sold by auction, and Geoffrey Chaucer for that is the Comptroller's name pockets seventy-one pounds four shillings and sixpence as his share of John Kent's fine.

At nightfall ledgers are closed; and this man, with the same quick step as he came, and in a like abstraction, threads his way back to Aldgate, where his lodgings are over the gateway itself, on the city wall, and where lighting his lamp or candle, he is lost in quite other books, not ledgers: until, as he reads or writes, in a dream, Jove's eagle stands over his shoulder and ad

monishes that Jove has pity of this wandered service in scholarship. "And for this cause," says Jove's eagle—

And for this cause he hath me sent
To thee: now herkne, by thy trouthe!
Certeyn, he hath of thee routhe,
That thou so longé trewely
Hast served so ententifly

His blindé nevew Cupido,
And fair Venus goddesse also,
Withoutė guerdoun ever yit,

And nevertheles hast set thy wit-
Although that in thy hede ful lyte is-
To make bokės, songès, dytees,

In ryme, or elles in cadence,
As thou best canst, in reverence
Of Love, and of his servants eke,
That have his servise soght, and seke;
And peynest thee to preyse his art,
Although thou haddest never part;
Wherfor, al-so God me blesse,
Joves halt hit greët humblesse
And vertu eek, that thou wolt make
A-night ful ofte thyn heed to ake,
In thy studié so thou wrytest,

And evermo of love endytest.

Wherfor, as I seyde, y-wis,
Jupiter considereth this,

And also, beau sir, other thinges;
That is, that thou hast no tydinges
Of Love's folk, if they be glade,
Ne of noght elles that God made;
And noght only fro fer contree
That ther no tyding comth to thee,
But of thy verray neyghebores,
That dwellen almost at thy dores,

Thou herest neither that ne this;