“That renounced Poet,
  Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,
  On Fame’s eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled":[1]

               “Him that left half-told
  The story of Cambuscan bold;
  Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
  And who had Canace to wife":[2]

  “That noble Chaucer, in those former times,
  Who first enriched our English with his rhymes,
  And was the first of ours that ever broke
  Into the Muse’s treasures, and first spoke
  In mighty numbers."[3]

Tradition here first assumes that semblance of probability which rendered it current for three centuries.  Edward the Third—­resplendent name in the constitutional history of England—­is supposed to have been so deeply impressed with Chaucer’s poetical merits, as to have sought occasion for appropriate recognition.  Opportunely came that high festival at the capital of the world, whereat

  “Franccis Petrark, the laureat poete,
  ... whos rethorike swete
  Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie,"[4]

received the laurel crown at the hands of the Senate of Rome, with a magnificence of ceremonial surpassed only by the triumphs of imperial victors a thousand years before.  Emulous of the gorgeous example, the English monarch forthwith showered corresponding honors upon Dan Chaucer, adding the substantial perquisites of a hundred marks and a tierce of Malvoisie, a year.  To this agreeable story, Laureate Warton, than whom no man was more intimately conversant with the truth there is in literary history, appears in one of his official odes to yield assent:—­

  “Victorious Edward gave the vernal bough
  Of Britain’s bay to bloom on Chaucer’s brow: 
  Fired with the gift, he changed to sounds sublime
  His Norman minstrelsy’s discordant chime."[5]

The legend, however, does not bear inquiry.  King Edward, in 1367, certainly granted an annuity of twenty marks to “his varlet, Geoffrey Chaucer.”  Seven years later there was a further grant of a pitcher of wine daily, together with the controllership of the wool and petty wine revenues for the port of London.  The latter appointment, to which the pitcher of wine was doubtless incident, was attended with a requirement that the new functionary should execute all the duties of his post in person,—­a requirement involving as constant and laborious occupation as that of Charles Lamb, chained to his perch in the India House.  These concessions, varied slightly by subsequent patents from Richard ii. and Henry IV., form the entire foundation to the tale of Chaucer’s Laureateship.[6] There is no reference in grant or patent to his poetical excellence or fame, no mention whatever of the laurel, no verse among the countless lines of his poetry indicating the reception of that crowning glory, no evidence that the third Edward was one whit more sensitive to the charms of the Muses than the third William, three hundred years after.  Indeed, the condition with which the appointment of this illustrious custom-house officer was hedged evinced, if anything, a desire to discourage a profitless wooing of the Nine, by so confining his mind to the incessant routine of an uncongenial duty as to leave no hours of poetic idleness.  Whatever laurels Fame may justly garland the temples of Dan Chaucer withal, she never, we are obliged to believe, employed royal instrument at the coronation.