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.
"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!"