CHAPTER XI.
(But all his craft ye must not wot of me,
And somewhat help I yet to his working,)
That all the ground on which we ben riding,
Till that we come to Canterbury town,
He can all clean turnen so up so down,
And pave it all of silver and of gold.
The Canon’s Yeoman’s Prologue—Canterbury Tales.
The artist commenced his narrative in the following terms:—
“I was bred a blacksmith, and knew my art as well as e’er a black-thumb’d, leathern-apron’d, swart-faced knave of that noble mystery. But I tired of ringing hammer-tunes on iron stithies, and went out into the world, where I became acquainted with a celebrated juggler, whose fingers had become rather too stiff for legerdemain, and who wished to have the aid of an apprentice in his noble mystery. I served him for six years, until I was master of trade—I refer myself to your worship, whose judgment cannot be disputed, whether I did not learn to ply the craft indifferently well?”
“Excellently,” said Tressilian; “but be brief.”
“It was not long after I had performed at Hugh Robsart’s, in your worship’s presence,” said the artist, “that I took myself to the stage, and have swaggered with the bravest of them all, both
