The picture of patience carried to the extreme in the wife and of brutal violence in the husband is so out of harmony with our present views that it is somewhat difficult to read the story with patience. We are wrong, however, in taking it in this spirit, and Professor Hales has so beautifully expressed the true motive of this mediæval picture that I feel I cannot do better than transfer to these pages his remarks in the publication of the Chaucer Society containing _Originals and Analogues of some of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales_:[2]—“Now, it is the characteristic of the unsophisticated mediæval litterateur that he deals with one idea at a time. It would often lead to a highly injurious conclusion to attach at all equal a moral importance or rather any moral importance to the subordinate parts of what he sets forth. The central lesson is kept well in view; the others must look to themselves. The principal figure is brought into relief with enthusiasm; on the mere surroundings and background little or no care is spent.... And so in the story of Griselda: if we would read it in the spirit of the day when it became current we should not vex ourselves into any righteous indignation against the immediate author of her most touching distresses. The old story does not make the marquis a monster in human shape; indeed, it represents him as a man of a noble and lovable nature; if he is not so, then even in the end Griselda reaps no earthly reward in permanently securing his admiration and love. And yet this marquis perpetrates inexpressible cruelties; he is a very wolf, ruthlessly teasing and tearing the gentlest of lambs. The explanation is in accordance with what has just been said: the patience of Griselda is the one theme of the tale, and nothing else is to be regarded. In relation to her the marquis has no moral being; he is a mere means of showing forth her supreme excellence; a mere mechanical expedient. He is no more morally than a thorn in the saint’s footpath, or a wheel, or a cross. Surely it is vain to be wroth with him. Who rages against the mere fire that enfolds the martyr, or the nails that pierce the hands of a crucified Believer? Indeed, nothing in the tale is of any ethical moment but the carriage of the heroine herself. The eyes and the heart of the old century when she first appeared were fastened devoutly on that single form, and let all else go by. She is wifely obedience itself, nothing else. Before that virtue all other virtues bow. It enjoys a complete monopoly, an absolute sway. Other moral life is suspended in this representation of it. She has but one function; for her there is but one sin possible, and that is to murmur. She is all meekness, all yielding, all resignation. Footnote 2: Part ii. 1875, p. 174.