I thought on Naseby--Marston Moor--on Worc'ster's "crowning fight;" 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._ FOOTNOTES: [36] Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de goût!--_Gil Blas._ * * * * * 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" 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 stair-case, 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_, etc. 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.