Not only this, but Wyclif by his translation opened an easy English pathway into the arcana of sacred mysteries, which in all previous time--save for exceptional parts, such as the paraphrase of Cædmon, or the Ormulum, or the Psalter of Aldhelm and other fragmentary Anglo-Saxon versions of Scripture--had been veiled from the common people in the dimness of an unknown tongue. But from the date of Wyclif’s translation--forward, forever--whatever man, rich or poor, could read an English ordinance of the King, or a bye-law of a British parish, could also--though he might be driven to stealthy reading--spell his way back, through the old aisles of Sacred History, where Moses and the prophets held their place, and into the valleys of Palestine, where Bethlehem lay, and where Christ was hung upon the tree. _Chaucer._ Now we come to a Poet of these times; not a poet by courtesy, not a small poet, but a real and a great one. His name is Chaucer. You may not read him; you may find his speech too old-fashioned to please you; you may not easily get through its meaning; but if you do, and come to study him with any warmth, the more you study him the more you will like him. And this--not because there are curious and wonderful tales in his verse to interest you; not because your passion will be kindled by any extraordinary show of dramatic power; but because his humor, and gentleness, and grace of touch, and exquisite harmonies of language will win upon you page by page, and story by story. He was born--probably in London--some time during the second quarter of the fourteenth century;[40] and there is reason to believe that an early home of his was in or near Thames Street, which runs parallel with the river,--a region now built up and overshadowed with close lines of tall and grimy warehouses. But the boy Chaucer, living there five hundred and more years ago, might have caught between the timber houses glimpses of cultivated fields lying on the Southwark shores; and if he had wandered along Wallbrook to Cheapside, and thence westerly by Newgate to Smithfield Common--where he may have watched tournaments that Froissart watched, and Philippa, queen of Edward III., had watched--he would have found open country; and on quiet days would have heard the birds singing there, and have seen green meadows lying on either side the river Fleet--which river is now lost in sewers, and is planted over with houses.