DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS.

A TALE FROM CHAUCER,

BY LEIGH HUNT.

ARGUMENT.-Three dissolute wretches, mad with excess, go forth to kill DeathThey meet him in the guise of an old man, and are informed by himself where they may find him-Continuing their search they come upon a great heap of gold, which turns out to be the destruction of all three.

The bare outline of this striking and very complete story is in the old Italian collection of tales, called the "Cento Novelle Antiche;" but the colouring and treatment belong to the great poet, whose verses no moderniser could venture to recast, except in the reverential and apologetical hope of helping to extend his name, and inducing more readers to become acquainted with the originals.

IN Flanders once there liv'd a company
Of foolish youth, a lawless set of three,
That, haunting every place of foul repute,
And giddy with the din of harp and lute,
Went dancing, and sat dicing, day and night,
And eat and drank beyond their nature's might,
And thus upon the devil's own altar laid
The bodies and the souls that God had made.

So frightfully they swore at every word,

They seem'd to think the Jews had spar'd our Lord,
That tore his body; and the worse they swore,

And scoff'd, and sinn'd, they did but laugh the more.
Their doors were ever turning on the pin,
With singing-girls and fruit-girls coming in,
Sellers of cakes and such like; every one
A devil's own help, to see his business done,
And kindle and blow the fires of wickedness
Out of the cursed fuel of excess.

These wretches, who had lost one night at play,
Were drinking still by the sad light of day,
When hearing a bell go for some one dead,
They swore, and call'd the vintner's boy and said,
"Who's he that has become cold meat to-night?

Go, ask his name; and see you bring it right."

Nay," said the boy, "ye know him, sirs, full well;
A big-mouth'd, red-hair'd man; ye call'd him Hell.
Last evening he was sitting, bolt upright,

Too drunk to speak, when in there came a wight
Whom men call Death, that slayeth high and low,
And with his staff he fell'd him at a blow,
And so, without one word, betook him hence.-
He hath slain heaps, during the pestilence.--
And, sirs, they say, the boldest man had best
Beware how he invite so grim a guest,
Or be prepar'd to meet him, night and day;-
'Tis what, long since, I've heard my mother say."

'Aye," quoth the vintner, every word you hear Is true as gospel. He hath slain this year,

Not a mile hence, over against Church-lane,

Both old and young, knight, yeoman, priest, and swain.
I trow his dwelling must be nigh the place;
God grant we meet not with his dreadful face."

"God grant a fig's end," exclaim'd one; "how now! Who feareth his old jowl? By God, I vow To hunt the villain out, by stile and street. Let's pledge our word, we three, and go and meet This rascal, this false thief, and stop his breath This very night, and be the death of Death."

The word was pledg'd; the ruffians, raging hot
With loss and drink, set out for that same spot
The vintner spoke of, stagg'ring as they went,
And roaring oaths, in which they tore and rent
The body of the Lord; and all their breath
They gather'd then, and shouted, "Death to Death!"

The drunkards had not gone full half a mile,
When as they were about to cross a stile,
They met a poor old man, who gave them way,
And bow'd, and said, "God save ye, sirs, I pray."

The foremost, with an air 'twixt clown and earl For dignity of wrath, cried, "How now, churl? Why art thou thus wrapp'd up, all save thy face? Why liv'st so long, in such a sorry case?"

The old man began looking steadfastly
Upon the speaker's visage, eye to eye,
And said, "Because I cannot find a man,
Though I should walk from here to Hindostan,
No, not the poorest man, nor the least sage,
Who would exchange his youth for mine old age;
And therefore must I keep mine old age still,
As long as it shall please the Almighty's will.
Death will not take me, sirs, for all my prayers;
And thus, alas! I roam with my white hairs,
And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,
I knock with mine old staff, early and late,
And say to her, Dear mother, let me in.
Lo! how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin.
Alas! when shall I rest my weak old head?
Mother, full gladly would I change the bed
In which I have so long a watcher been,
Yea, for a hair-cloth shroud to wrap me in.
But yet to me she will not do that grace;
For which full pale and wrinkled is my face.
But, sirs, in you it is no courtesy
To mock an old man, whosoe'er he be,
Much less a harmless man in deed and word.
The scripture, as in church ye may have heard,
Saith, To an old man, hoar upon his head,
Ye shall bow down.' Therefore let this be said
By poor me now ;-Unto an old man do
Nought that ye wish might not be done to you

In your own age, should ye so long remain.
So God be with you, sirs, by hill and plain.
I must go onward, where I have to go."

Nay, nay, old churl: by God, thou shalt not so,"
Cried t'other, as the sire had fain been gone;
"Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John.
Thou spak'st but now of that false villain, Death,
That stoppeth here a world of honest breath.
Tell us, as surely as thou art his spy,
Where we may find him; or by Calvary,
And Absalom, and all the crows i' the air,
We'll hang thee up by thine own canting hair.
Thou art his harbourer, thou false old thief,
Hating and slaying all in the green leaf."

"Sirs," quoth the sire, " since ye'll have no delay
In finding Death, turn up this crooked way;
For in that wood I left him; and he'll shrink
From no man's sight, whatever ye may think.
See ye that oak? 'tis there ye'll meet with Death:
And so the Lord, that gave up his sweet breath
To save us all, mend you," said the old man.

Fast as they could for drink, the villains ran,
And reach'd the oak; and there, with wonder, found
Of florins of fine gold, right plump and round,
Well nigh a good eight bushel. What a sight!
Judge if the search for Death seem'd half so bright!
Down by the hoard they sat them; and the worst
Of all the three was he that spoke the first.

"God's life!" quoth he; "here's treasure! here's a day! Hush,-look about.-Now hark to what I say.

This store, that luck hath sent us, boys-ho! ho!

As freely as it came, shall it not go?

By God, it shall; and precious nights we'll spend.

Who thought friend Death could make so good an end!

But now, sirs, how to get the gold away?

That's the first thing. It can't be done by day,

For fear of those infernal thieves that pry

In every body's bundle going by.

Wherefore I hold that we draw lots, and he
To whom it falls, betake him suddenly

To town, and bring us victuals here, and wine,
Two keeping watch, till all the three can dine;
And then at night, to whatsoever hold

Be deem'd the best, we'll take the glorious gold."

:

The lots are drawn, the youngest rogue sets off,
And then spake one, after a little cough
"Thou knowest well, we two are of one mind;
Is it not so? and he but a mean hind.

'Twas always so. We were the merry men,

And he the churl and sot. Well, mark me then.
This heap of money, ravishing to see,

Is straightway to be shar'd amongst us three;
Nevertheless, if I could shape it so,

That straightway it were shar'd betwixt us two,
Were it not doing a friend's turn to thee ?"

"Ay, faith," said t'other, "could the thing so be: But how? He left the gold here with us two; He'll soon return;-what can we say or do?” "Shall it be counsel ?" said the first. "Suppose I tell thee what, wilt swear to keep it close?"

The other swore. "Then," argued he, "'tis done As easily as counting two to one.

He sitteth down; thou risest as in jest,

And while thou tumblest with him, breast to breast,

I draw my dirk, and thrust him in the side.
Thine follows mine; and then we two divide
The lovely gold. What say'st thou, dearest friend?
Lord! of our dicing there should be no end."

The friend agreed. The journeyer to the town
Meantime had in his breast roll'd up and down
The beauty of the florins new and bright.
"Christ Lord!" thought he; "what if I had a right
To all this treasure, my own self alone!
There's not a living man beneath the throne
Of God, that should be half so blest as I."
And thus he ponder'd, till the Enemy,

The Fiend, who found his nature nothing loth,
Whisper'd him, "Poison them :-they're villains both.
Sometimes they cheat thee; sometimes beat thee; oft
Carp at thy brains. Prove now, whose brains are soft!"

With speed a shop he seeketh, where is sold Poison for vermin; and a tale hath told

Of rats and polecats that molest his fowl.

Sir," quoth the shopman, "God so save my soul,
As thou shalt have a thing so pure and strong,
To slay the knaves who do thy poultry wrong,
That were the hugest creature on God's earth
To taste it, stricken would be all his mirth
From out his heart, and life from out his sense,
Ere he could drag his body a mile hence."

The cursed wretch, too happy to delay,
Grasping the box of poison, took his way
To the next street, and bought three flasks of wine;
And two he drugg'd, against his friends should dine,
And with a mark secured the harmless one,

To drink at night-time till his work was done;
For all that night he look'd to have no sleep,

So well he meant to stow his golden heap.
And so, thrice arm'd, and full of murderous glee,
Back to the murderous two returneth he.

What needeth more ? for even as their plan Had shap'd his death, right so hath died the man ; And even as the flasks in train were set,

His heirs and scorners fell into the net.

"Ace thrown," said one, smiling a smile full grim ; "Now for his wine, and then we'll bury him."

And seizing the two flasks, each held his breath, With eyes to heav'n, and deep he drank his death.

Revelations of London.

BY THE EDITOR.

FIRST SERIES.

AURIOL; OR, THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

BOOK THE SECOND.

IV.

THE PIT.

So bewildered was the poor iron-merchant by the strange and terrible events that had befallen him, that, though released by the two masked attendants, who left him, as before related, to seize Gerard Paston, he felt utterly incapable of exertion, and would probably have made no effort to regain his freedom, if his coat had not been vigorously plucked behind, while a low voice urged him to fly. Glancing in the direction of the friendly speaker, he could just discern a diminutive object standing within the entrance of a side passage, and reared up against the wall so as to be out of sight of Rougemont and his attendants. It was the monkey—or rather Old Parr-who, continuing to tug violently at his coat, at last succeeded in drawing him backwards into the passage, and then grasping his hand tightly, hurried him along it. The passage was wholly unlighted, but Mr. Thorneycroft could perceive that it was exceedingly circuitous, and winded round like a maze.

"Where are you taking me?" he inquired, attempting to stop.

"Ask no questions," rejoined the dwarf, pulling him along. "Do you want to be captured, and shut up in a cell for the rest of your life?" "Certainly not," replied Thorneycroft, accelerating his movements, "I hope there's no chance of it."

"There's every chance of it," rejoined Old Parr. "If you're taken you'll share Auriol's fate."

"Oh, Lord! I hope not," groaned the iron-merchant. "I declare you frighten me so much that you take away all power of movement. I shall drop in a minute."

"Come along, I say," screamed the dwarf. "I hear them close behind us."

And as he spoke, shouts, and the noise of rapidly-approaching footsteps resounded along the passage.

"I can't stir another step," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm completely done. Better yield at once.

"What, without a struggle?" cried the dwarf, tauntingly. "Think of your daughter, and let her thought nerve your heart. She is lost for if you don't get out of this accursed place.”

ever,

"She is lost for ever as it is," cried the iron-merchant, despairingly. "No-she may yet be saved," rejoined the dwarf. "Come on-come on-they are close behind us."

And it was evident from the increased clamour, that their pursuers were upon them.

Roused by the imminence of the danger, and by the hope of rescuing his daughter, Mr. Thorneycroft exerted all his energies, and sprang forward. A little farther on, they were stopped by a door. It was