I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of

mortal tread

Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty dead!

The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters pale,

With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail,

As from the stain'd and storied pane it danced with quivering gleam,

Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in the beam.

Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell,

And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell :
It died-and not a breath did stir;-above each knightly

stall

Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall.

I stood alone!-a living thing 'midst those that were no

more

I thought on ages past and gone-the glorious deeds of

yore

On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, The fatal Roses twined at length-on great Eliza's

reign.

I thought on Naseby-Marston Moor-on Worc'ster's

When on mine ear a sound there fell-it chill'd me with

affright,

As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin, "-This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!-Sir! please

put summut in!"

Cætera desiderantur.

That Seaforth's nervous system was powerfully acted upon on this occasion I can well believe. The circumstance brings to my recollection a fearful adventure-or what might perhaps have proved one-of my own in early life while grinding Gerunds at Canterbury. A sharp touch of the gout, and the reputed sanatory qualities of a certain spring in St. Peter's Street, then in much repute, had induced my Uncle to take up a temporary abode within the Cathedral "Precinct." It was on one of those temporary visits which I was sometimes permitted to pay on half-holidays, that, in self-defence, I had to recount the following true narrative. I may add, that this tradition is not yet worn out; a small maimed figure of a female in a sitting position, and holding something like a frying-pan in her hand, may still be seen on the covered passage which crosses the Brick Walk, and adjoins the house belonging to the sixth prebendal stall. -There are those whom I know who would, even yet, hesitate at threading the dark Entry on a Friday-" not," of course, "that they believe one word about "

E2

NELL COOK.

A LEGEND OF THE "DARK ENTRY."

THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY.

"From the 'Brick Walk' branches off to the right a long narrow vaulted passage, paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name of the 'Dark Entry.' Its eastern extremity communicates with the cloisters, crypt, and, by a private staircase, with the interior of the cathedral. On the west it opens into the 'Green-court,' forming a communication between it and the portion of the Precinct' called the 'Oaks.'"-A Walk round Canterbury, &c.

Scene. A back parlour in Mr. John Ingoldsby's house in the Precinct. -A blazing fire. -Mine Uncle is seated in a high-backed easy-chair, twirling his thumbs, and contemplating his list shoe. -Little Tom, the "King's Scholar," on a stool opposite. -Mrs. John Ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing a cabbage-rose (cauliflower?) in many-coloured worsteds. -Mine Uncle's meditations are interrupted by the French clock on the mantelpiece. - He prologizeth with vivacity.

"HARK! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby, -the clock is striking

nine!

Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine,

And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring

his coat,

And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie about his throat.

"And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has

said

That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed;

And well we know when little boys their coming home delay,

They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!"

"Now, nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray,

Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way;

I dread that Entry dark, with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite it's Friday night!-and then Nell

Cook hath pow'r!"

"And who's Nell Cook, thou silly child? and what's Nell Cook to thee?

That thou should'st dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entrée?"

-" Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things they tell

Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell!"

"It was in bluff King Harry's days, -and Monks and Friars were then,

You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns-no shirts,

-and no cravats,

And a cord was placed about their waist-they had no shovel hats!

"It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift,

And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope adrift;

There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk;

He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry

dark!

"The Canon was a portly man-of Latin and of Greek, And learned lore, he had good store, -yet health was on

his cheek.

The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye,

The beer was weak, yet he was sleek-he had a merry

eye.

"For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin,

The Canon's house it stood without; he kept good cheer within;