that prophecy of Merlin's, which predicted that neither Edward Prince of Wales nor the Duke of Clarence should wear the crown, but that it should fall to the House of Lancaster.

About half a mile from Spireham-land-the ancient Spiria of Antoninus-and a mile from Newbury in Berkshire, the traveller in going from London passes over the river Kennet to the village of Dunnington: a steep ascent leads to what is still called the Castle Hill;' and from this eminence a view over several counties may be enjoyed. In the days when the learned Camden wrote, 'Dunnington Castle,' a small but neat edifice, stood entire on this hill, and, having windows on all sides, commanded the charming prospect around. This house or castle-most country houses belonging to gentry were called castles in those days-was originally built by Sir Richard Adderbury, who founded an hospital, which he called God's House, beneath it. To this abode Chaucer retreated. In it he chiefly passed the last two years of his busy life; and here he had leisure to prepare himself for a world which he ever contemplated in all the loving warmth of a faith as true as ever imperfect man cherished; here, in the delicious park which then encircled his home he wrote poems; here he planted trees; his poems and his trees were the delight of his age. His trees survived him till the time of Evelyn, who described them in his 'Sylva.' Three oaks, he tells us, were planted by Chaucer-the King's oak, the Queen's oak, and Chaucer's oak. Of the latter Evelyn has left a very particular description.

The revolution which placed Henry the Fourth on the throne affected severely the now shattered fortunes of Chaucer. All King Richard's acts during the last twenty-one years being annulled, Chaucer was obliged to repair to the metropolis to plead his cause, and to petition for the continuance of various grants allotted to him by Richard the Second. He was now, for the period in which he lived, at a very advanced age—

CHAUCER'S DEATH.

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seventy-two-and he might with more propriety than his patron, John of Gaunt, have been called time-honoured,' since the Duke of Lancaster was only fifty-nine at the time of his death. It is supposed that this last arduous journey hastened Chaucer's death. Yet his suit proved propitious; and it is even asserted by Dryden that Henry the Fourth made him his poet laureate. No such office, however, as we are told by Selden, existed before the reign of Edward the Fourth. Chaucer had, it is, at all events, apparent, gained the favour of Henry, as he had enjoyed that of the king's father. But disease rather than natural decay summoned him from all dependence upon temporal power. He met his doom with the constancy of a great nature; his noble intellect was spared to him to the last hour. As he lay in weakness and suffering, he composed what an old writer has expressively endorsed (in the Cottonian MSS.) as 'a balade made by Göffrey Chaucer upon his dethebedde, lying in his grete anguysse.' Some years ago we should have hesitated to give this short but beautiful poem in its original text; but the present taste for all that is ancient will lead a reader to prefer the words of Chaucer to those of their modern translator; and in so doing we are justified by Warton's observations relative to another poem: that Pope's elegant imitation of Chaucer's 'Dream' has upon him the same effect as a walk amid the modern monuments placed in Westminster Abbey.

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CANTERBURY TALES.'

'Paine the not eche crokid to redresse
In trust of her that tournith as a balle,
Grete rest standith in litil businesse,
Beware also to spurre again a nalle,
Strive not as doithe a crocke with a walle,
Denieth thyself that deniest other's dede,
And trouthe shall the delivir it is no drede.'

"That the is sent receive in buxomnesse;
The wrastlyng of this world askith a falle,
Here is no home, here is but wildirnesse
For the pilgrim for the best out of the stalle,
Loke upon high, and thanke thy God of all;
Veiwith thy trust and let thy ghost the lede

And trouthe shall the delivir, it is no drede.'

With these noble thoughts in his heart, with these words trembling on his feeble lips, Geoffrey Chaucer expired. He died on the 29th of October, 1400, and was buried in the great south cross aisle of Westminster Abbey, not in the cloister, as has been asserted. He died surrounded by friends; for he carried out throughout life one great principle, that of never losing an opportunity of benefiting those whom he respected. His was a genial, communicative nature: pedantry and reserve, the great drawbacks to intimacy with the gifted, were never experienced by the lesser lights who were assembled around the honoured, the beloved Geoffrey Chaucer.

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To do justice to his great acquirements, to enumerate his various productions, would be indeed difficult. Let us in this work regard him as the poet of social life only; taking the most famous of his works-his Canterbury Tales'—as a speci men of that literature which applies itself not to the learned alone, not alone to the pious, not exclusively to the philosopher, but to the mass of that portion of mankind who revel in the delights of fancy. In the compass of the 'Canterbury Tales,' he has, as Dryden tells us, taken the various manners and humours, as we now call them, of the whole English nation.

THE TABARDE INN.

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The plan of the Canterbury Tales' requires, indeed, a comprehensive nature to carry it out; so that, at first sight, one would be apt,' says an able writer, 'to pronounce it absolutely impracticable, from a persuasion that it must surpass the powers of any single mind to paint the different lineaments, and call out to view the faculties of every man.' A company of pilgrims bound to visit the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, lodge at the Tabarde Inn in Southwark. They are strangers to each other; but assemble at supper, as was then the custom, in the same room. A common cause breaks down restraints; and the wayfarers on the same pious intent must needs relieve their tedious journey by some device which shall, without raising disputations, pass the long hours of travel. The landlord was the first to propose a remedy against weariness; nor was his interference likely to be unacceptable; neither was any proposition from so eminent a personage apt to be slighted by his customers. The landlord, even so late as the days of Shakspeare, presided over the guest-table, and was often the life of the numerous party whom it was his interest to amuse. Inns were, in the days of Chaucer, few, but on a very large scale; capable of holding two or three hundred persons, though poorly and even miserably furnished. The landlord of the 'Tabarde' was a loquacious, sharp-witted man, who, if he could not induce his devout guests to 'take their own ease in their own inne,' was desirous of bringing them back to it in cheerfulness of spirit. He suggested that, as they went along, each pilgrim should be obliged to tell two stories,-one as he went, the other as he returned; and, that whoever should, in the opinion of the company, tell the best tale, should be entitled to a good supper at the general expense. His recommendation being assented to, mine host was constituted the guide and governor of the party, who were to set out on the following morning.

It is in the delineation of the various characters that com

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CHAUCER'S PLAN IN HIS POEM.

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pose the pilgrimage that Chaucer Was shown himself so consummate a master of his art. Dryden truly said of him 'that he followed nature everywhere, but was never so bold as to go beyond her.' The Decameron of Boccaccio was, at that time, the delight of all the polite world, and Chaucer intended, in the Canterbury Tales,' to imitate the plan of that work.

Boccaccio, taking up his tales at that period when the plague begins to abate in Florence, supposes that ten young persons have retired to a country house; where, instead of playing at chess after dinner, it was proposed that each should tell a story. Chauger's plan comprehends more than that of his favourite author. The various modes of life, different views, and antecedent histories of a company of pilgrims afforded an admirable scope for his genius; and, with many imperfections, the result was admirable in its

way.

All his pilgrims,' Dryden remarks, are severally distinguished from each other, and not only in their inclinations but in their very physiognomies and persons. Baptista Porta could not have described their natures better, than by the marks which the poet gives them. The matter and manner of their tales and of their telling are so suited to their different educations, humours, and callings, that each of them would be improper in any other mouth. Even the grave and serious characters are distinguished by their several sorts of gravity; their discourses are such as belong to their age, their calling, and their breeding; such as are becoming of them, and of them only. Some of his persons are vicious, and some virtuous; some are unlearned (or as Chaucer calls them lewd), and some are learned. Even the ribaldry of the low characters is different: the Reeve, the Miller and the Cook, are several men, and distinguished from each other, as much as the mincing Lady Prioress, and the broad-speaking gap-toothed Wife of Bath. But enough of this: there is such a variety of