me tell you he is a wonderful man.” “What!”
said the Host, “is he a scholar?” “Far
greater than a scholar,” replied the servant;
“he has a wondrous power. Why, he could
turn the whole ground from here to Canterbury to solid
gold!” “Good heavens!” returned the
Host, “you don’t say that? Then why
on earth does he hide his light under a bushel like
this and go about practically in rags? I should
have expected such a man to have at least a decent
coat on his back.” “Ah,” said
the yeoman, “if you ask that question I will
tell you a secret. My master is wise: of
that there is no doubt; but anything carried to excess,
as philosophers say, is a vice, and in him wisdom
has led to folly.” “Where do you live?”
asked the Host. “In the suburbs of a town—among
the haunts of thieves and malefactors generally.”
“What gives your face that strange sallow colour?”
asked the Host. “It is bending over the
fire and blowing it. All day long we are at our
work, puffing and blowing, stoking and raking, and
as reward of it all—nothing! We cozen
men of their gold in pretence that we can make one
pound into two, and we always fail.” All
this while the canon had been edging up to his servant
to hear what he was saying, for like all men with
guilty consciences he was always afraid of being talked
about. He now told him to be silent. The
Host was too interested to have the talk cut short.
“Go on,” said he, “take no notice
of him.” “No more I will,” said
the yeoman. When the canon saw that his servant
was going to disclose his secrets, in very shame he
turned and rode away.
“Now,” said the yeoman, “I can speak
plainly. The fiend take him, and him who first
introduced me to him! Such a life have I led with
him. For seven years I have dwelt with this canon
and I am no whit the nearer to approving his science.
For when I first came I was a bit of a dandy about
my clothes, and now look at me, I might wear a stocking
on my head instead of a cap—and all my complexion
is spoilt with puffing away at his fire. The
heat has spoilt my eyesight, and what reward have
I?—A heap of debts I shall never get quit
of this side the grave. I will tell you what
we do—and it is a craft in which the Devil
has some share, and the elves more. This is the
sort of recipe we use: ’Take five or six
ounces of silver, with piment, [*] bone ash, and iron
filings and grind these into fine powder. Put
all together in an earthen pot, add salt and pepper,
cover with a lid and cement with clay to make all
air-tight.’ Then, this is what happens.
I blow the fire, and suddenly, bang! the whole thing
explodes. ’Now how did that happen?’
everyone asks. The first says it was too long
on the fire, and the next that the pot was badly made
(then I tremble, because that is my job), and another
that the real fault lay with the fire because it was
oak wood and not beech, and so the talk goes on till
my master quiets them. ’We must take greater
precautions next time. These misfortunes will
occur in the present state of our knowledge.
Well, it’s no good crying over spilt milk.
Let us sweep the floor and see if we can recover any
of the ingredients, and then we will make another
attempt.’
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