NELL COOK!: A LEGEND OF THE "DARK ENTRY."

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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, &c.
Sc	ene—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.

ARK! 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 shouldst 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;

Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look,
And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine.—He called her 'Nelly

Cook.'

"For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was

famous still;

She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wond'rous

skill:

Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely

brown'd,

Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the 'Precinct'

round;

"And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air,
And earthward bent her modest look—yet was she passing

fair;

And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave

people shook:

—They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook.

"One day, 'twas on a Whitsun-Eve—there came a coach and

four;—

It pass'd the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopp'd before the

Canon's door;

The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way,—
Each panting steed relax'd its speed—out stept a Lady gay.

"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,'—the Canon

then did cry,

And to his breast the Lady prest—he had a merry eye,—
'Now, welcome! Welcome! dearest Niece! in sooth, thou'rt

welcome here,

'Tis many a day since we have met—how fares my Brother

dear?'—

"'Now, thanks, my loving Uncle,' that Lady gay replied:
'Gramercy for thy benison!'—then 'Out, alas!' she sighed;
'My father dear he is not near; he seeks the Spanish

Main;

He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again!'—

"'Now, welcome! welcome; dearest Niece; come lay thy

mantle by!'

The Canon kissed her ruby lip—he had a merry eye,—
But Nelly Cook askew did look,—it came into her mind
They were a little less than 'kin,' and rather more than

'kind.'
* * * * *

"Three weeks are gone and over—full three weeks and a

day,

Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady

gay;

On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare,
And they quaff good store of Bordeaux wine,—so dainty is

their fare.

"And fine upon the virginals is that gay Lady's touch,
And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any

such;

But is it '0 Sanctissima!' she sings in dulcet tone?
Or 'Angels ever bright and fair?'—Ah, no! —it's 'Bob-

bing Joan!'
* * * * *

"The Canon's house is lofty and spacious to the view;
The Canon's cell is ordered well—yet Nelly looks askew;
The Lady's bower is in the tower,—yet Nelly shakes her

head—

She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed!

* * * * *

"Six weeks were gone and over—full six weeks and a day,
Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay!
From which, I fear, it's pretty clear that Lady rest had

none;

Or, if she slept in any bed—it was not in her own.

"But where that Lady pass'd her nights, I may not well

divine,

Perhaps in pious oraisons at good St. Thomas' Shrine,
And for her father far away breathed tender vows and

true—

It may be so—I cannot say—but Nelly look'd askew.

"And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were lock'd

in sleep,

She'd listen at the Canon's door,—she'd through the key-

hole peep —

I know not what she heard or saw, but fury fill'd her

eye—

—She bought some nasty Doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a

pie!
* * * * *

"It was a glorious summer's-eve—with beams of rosy red
The Sun went down—all Nature smiled—but Nelly shook

her head!

Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell—
—Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell!

"'Now here's to thee, mine Uncle! a health I drink to

thee!

Now pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoi-

sie!'—

The Canon sigh'd—but, rousing, cried, 'I answer to thy

call,

And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal!'

"'Tis early dawn—the matin chime rings out for morning

pray'r—

And Prior and Friar is in his stall—the Canon is not

there!

Nor in the small Refect'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he—
All wonder—and the Sacristan says, 'Lauk-a-daisy-me!'

"They've search'd the aisles and Baptistry—they've

search'd above—around—

The 'Sermon House'—the 'Audit Room'—the Canon is

not found.

They only find that pretty Cook concocting a ragout,
They ask her where her master is—but Nelly looks askew.

"They call for crow-bars—'jemmies' is the modern name

they bear—

They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar—but what a

sight is there!—

The Canon's head lies on the bed—his Niece lies on the

floor!

—They are as dead as any nail that is in any door!

"The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back!
His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and

black!—

The livid spot is on her cheek,—it's on her neck of snow,
And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'Well—here's a

pretty Go!'
* * * * *

"All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll,
A knell is rung, a requiem's sung as for a sinful soul,
And there's a grave within the Nave; it's dark, and deep,

and wide,

And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side!

"An Uncle—so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred

fane,—

And a Niece—whose father's far away upon the Spanish

Main—

The Sacristan, he says no word that indicates a doubt,
But he puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his

fingers out!

"And where doth tarry Nelly Cook, that staid and comely

lass?

Ay, where?—for ne'er from forth that door was Nelly

known to pass.

Her coif and gown of russet brown were lost unto the view,
And if you mention'd Nelly's name—the Monks all looked

askew!

* * * * *

"There is a heavy paving-stone fast by the Canon's door,
Of granite grey, and it may weigh some half a ton or more,
And it is laid deep in the shade within that Entry dark,
Where sun or moon-beam never play'd, or e'en one starry

spark.

"That heavy granite stone was moved that night, 'twas

darkly said,

And the mortar round its sides next morn seem'd fresh and

newly laid;

But what within the narrow vault beneath that stone doth

lie,

Or if that there be vault, or no—I cannot tell—not I!

"But I've been told that moan and groan, and fearful wail

and shriek

Came from beneath that paving-stone for nearly half a

week—

For three long days and three long nights came forth those

sounds of fear;

Then all was o'er—they never more fell on the listening

ear.
* * * * *

"A hundred years were gone and past since last Nell Cook

was seen,

When worn by use, that stone got loose, and they went and

told the Dean.—

—Says the Dean, says he, 'My Masons three! now haste

and fix it tight;'

And the Masons three peep'd down to see, and they saw a

fearsome sight.

'Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they

found—

It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve

feet round;

—A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well!
But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could

not tell,

"And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie,
And a mouldy piece of 'kissing-crust,' as from a Warden-pie!
And Doctor Jones declared the bones were female bones

and 'Zooks!

I should not be surprised,' said he, 'if these were Nelly

Cook's!'

"It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember

right,

Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons

brought to light;

And you may well in the 'Dean's Chapelle' Dean Bargave's

portrait view,

'Who died one night,' says old Tom Wright, 'in sixteen

forty-two!'

"And so two hundred years have passed since that these

Masons three,

With curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit

free;

That granite stone had kept her down till then—so some

suppose,—

—Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumb unto

their nose.

"But one thing's clear—that all the year, on every Friday

night,

Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet

Sprite:

On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried;
On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side!

"And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook

doth still pursue

Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may

rue;

Her fatal breath is fell as death! the Simoom's blast is

not

More dire—(a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot).

"But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly

cold,

Delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and

old,

And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal

breath,

He ever dies within the year some dire, untimely death!

"No matter who—no matter what condition, age, or

sex,

But some 'get shot,' and some 'get drown'd,' and some 'get'

broken necks;

Some 'get run over' by a coach;—and one beyond the

seas

'Got' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the

Caribbees!

"Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first!—it is

averred

That two were hang'd on Tyburn tree for murdering of the

third:

Charles Storey,* too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth

they tell,

Been gibbeted on Chartham Downs, had they not met

with Nell!

* In or about the year 1780, a worthy of this name cut the throat of a journeyman paper-maker, was executed on Oaten Hill, and afterwards hung in chains near the scene of his crime. It was to this place, as being the extreme boundary of the City's jurisdiction, that the worthy Mayor with so much naïveté wished to escort Archbishop M*** on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honour of "attending his Grace as far as the gallows."

"Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh! send me not, I

pray,

Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some

other way!

I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book,
For Heaven forfend that ever I foregather with Nell

Cook!"

* * * * * *

The class was call'd at morning tide, and Master Tom was

there;

He look'd askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and

chair.

He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his

eye,—

He had not e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and

cry.

Hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out

to dine,

They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by

nine;

For if when they've their great-coat on, they pause before

they part

To tell a long and prosy tale,—perchance their own may

smart!

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MORAL.

—A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in

town—

Don't keep a pretty serving-maid though clad in russet

brown!—

Don't let your Niece sing "Bobbing Joan!"—don't with a

merry eye,

Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie,— and don't eat too much

pie!!

And oh! beware that Entry dark,—especially at night,—
And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moon-

light!—

So bless the Queen and her Royal Weans,—and the Prince

whose hand she took,—

And bless us all, both great and small,—and keep us from

Nell Cook!

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