“Somme newe tydyngis for to lere, Somme newe thinge, Y not what, Tydyngs other this or that, Of love, or suche thinges glad.”[299] {225} In this he had full satisfaction; his dream took another turn, and he was led towards the place he wanted, where things glad were to be found, a temple not of fame, but of tales and tidings, of noise and merriment: “And theroute come so grete a noyse, That had hyt stonde upon Oyse, Men myght hyt have herd esely To Rome, Y trowe sikerly.” The noise went up to the sky from innumerable apertures, for “This hous hath of entrees As feele (many) as of leves ben on trees, In somer whan they grene ben.” Never for one instant is the place quiet nor silent; it is always “Filde ful of tydynges, Other loude or of whisprynges; And over alle the houses angles, Ys ful of rounynges and of jangles, Of werres, of pes, of mariages, Of restes, of labour and of viages.” War and peace, and love and travels, all this he was to make in after-time the subject of his “Canterbury Tales,” and he represents himself in this earlier poem as if coming to the well and spring of all tales, placed somewhere in the land of dreams and fancy, yet surrounded by people who were neither fanciful nor dreamy creatures, but bony beings, on the contrary, with strong muscles and alert tongues, and the dust of the road to Rome or the East on their feet; surrounded, in fact, by these very roamers we are now trying to call up one by one from the past, and who receive in the “House of Fame” such an apotheosis as befits their quaint if rather questionable character. Good Chaucer {226} lends a willing ear, and the ways of speech of these people are carefully preserved in his verse for those who after him may find interest in them. In this manner they spoke: every person, says the poet, “Every wight that I saugh there Rouned (muttered) in eche others ere, A newe tydynge prevely, Or elles tolde alle oppenly Ryght thus, and seyde; ‘Nost not thou That ys betyd, late or now?’ —‘No,’ quod he, ‘Telle me what.’ And than he tolde hym this and that, And swore therto that hit was sothe; ‘Thus hath he sayde’ and ‘Thus he dothe,’ And ‘Thus shal hit be’ and ‘Thus herde Y seye.’” And the delight is that the tale repeated by many is always new, for it is never exactly the same; the fib fattens as it grows old, so that it may serve your pleasure many a time and oft: “Whan oon had herde a thinge ywis, He come forthright to another wight, And gan him tellen anon ryght, The same thynge that him was tolde, Or hyt a forlonge way was olde, But gan sommewhat for to eche (increase) To this tydynge in this speche More than hit ever was . . . As fire ys wont to quyk and goo From a sparke sprongen amys, Tille alle a citee brent up ys.”