Just as Chaucer gave to each pilgrim his own individuality, so in every case he fitted the story to its teller. The knight had a tale of love, romance, and adventure; the clerk chose for heroine the patient, much-suffering Griselda; the prioress told of a child-martyr, and the poor parson, in earnest words, drew their thoughts upward to "that parfyt glorious pilgrimage which each and all must make to celestial Jerusalem." Chaucer did not live to finish all the tales he had planned out. In the year 1399 he had taken on a long lease a house at Westminster, which stood where now is Henry VII.’s chapel, and here he spent the last few months of his life, reading and writing contentedly to the end, in high favour at the Palace hard by, and the centre of a little group who loved and revered him. Probably the poor priest’s tale was his last bit of work, and that significantly ends with words concerning the pilgrimage of man to the Heavenly City, "To thilke life He bring us, that bought us with His precious blood. Amen." Chaucer’s wife had been dead many years, and of his children we know nothing, except that to his son Lewis he gave an astrolabe, an instrument for taking the height of the stars, and wrote for him a "little treatise" on the subject, in which he craves pardon for his "rude inditing and his superfluity of words," explaining that a child is best taught by simple words and much repetition. But we can never think of Chaucer as alone or solitary in his old age. Rather was the house at Westminster a pleasant haven of rest where he anchored surrounded by his many comrades and friends. So greatly honoured was he, that when he died it was at once decided to bury him in the Abbey. The verses with which I end have been called Chaucer’s Creed, and some say he repeated them just before his death. Certain it is that they guided his conduct through life. THE GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER Flee from the crowd and dwell with truthfulness, Contented with thy good, though it be small. Treasure breeds hate and climbing dizziness; The world is envious, wealth beguiles us all. Care not for loftier things than to thee fall, Counsel thyself, who counsel’st others’ need, And Truth shall thee deliver without dread. Pain thee not all the crooked to redress, Trusting to her who turneth as a ball; For little meddling wins much easiness. Beware lest thou dost kick against an awl! Strive not, as doth a clay pot with a wall. Judge thou thyself, who judgest others’ deeds, And Truth shall thee deliver without dread. All that is sent receive with cheerfulness: To wrestle with this world inviteth fall. Here is no home, here is but wilderness. Forth! pilgrim, forth! Forth, beast, out of thy stall! Look up on high, and thank thy God for all! Cast by ambition, let thy soul thee lead, And Truth shall thee deliver, without dread. [Illustration: CHAUCER’S TOMB.]