'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 whispered now throughout the sacred fane ; And a Niece, whose father's far away, upon the Spanish Main; The Sacristan, he says no word to indicate 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 mentioned 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 played, 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 seemed 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 peeped 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 Bargrave's por. trait 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 sad untimely death!

No matter who-no matter what condition, age, or sex, But some "get shot," and some get drowned," and some get broken necks;

Some "get run over by a coach ;-and one beyond the seas
"Got" scraped to death by oyster-shells among the Caribbees!

'Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first!—it is averred That two were hanged on Tyburn tree for murdering of the third! Charles Storey, too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they tell,

*

Been gibbetted 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 called at morning tide, and Master Tom was there ;
He looked 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 greatcoat on, they pause before they part
To tell a long and prosy tale,-perchance their own may smart

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 moonlight!-
So bless the Queen and her Royal Wean,-and the Prince whose
hand she took,—

And bless us all, both great and small,-and keep us from Nell Cook!

*

THE LATE THOMAS HILL, ESQ.

POOR 'Tom Hill!'- for by that familiar appellation he was ever spoken of by all who knew and loved him—is gone from among us. We say not that a 'star has fallen from Heaven,' yet has one of the kindliest of spirits taken its flight from earth; one than which none ever existed composed of gentler elements, or more attuned to all social affections. No individual, perhaps, who has shared the common lot of humanity during the year which has just closed upon us, will be more extensively or more sincerely regretted than Mr. Hill; for in the literary, and theatrical world especially, no one was better known or more beloved.

Mr. Hill was born at Lancaster, in May, 1760, and came very early in life to London, where he carried on an extensive business as a drysalter, at Queenhithe. While thus actively engaged, however, he found leisure to cultivate a taste for literature, and accumulated a very fine collection of old books, chiefly old poetry, which afterwards, when misfortunes overtook him, was valued at about six thousand pounds,-a noble library! He was also the especial and

* Mr. Hill died at his chamber in the Adelphi, Dec. 20, and was buried in the catacombs under St. Martin's Church, Dec. 28, ult.

generous patron of two unfriended poets, Bloomfield and Kirke White.* "The Farmer's Boy" of the former was read and admired by him in manuscript, and was recommended to a publisher. By his influence in society, moreover, the public attention was drawn to

its merits.

Mr. Hill established a clever periodical publication called The Monthly Mirror, which brought him much into connection with dramatic poets, actors, and managers. He never omitted witnessing the first representation of any new play when in town. At his house in Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, but more especially at his cottage at Sydenham, he was delighted to collect around him the most brilliant wits, poets, actors, dramatists, and other men of genius of his time. John and Charles Kemble used generally to dine at his house in Henrietta Street on the first night of any new play in which they took a part, and went thence to the theatre. Many yet remain who well remember the agreeable symposia at his rural villa. Mrs. Mathews, in her entertaining Memoirs of her gifted husband, makes the following remarks on these social meetings:

"I might aptly have quoted, in allusion to the happy days in which I shared at the 'Merry Bachelor's' cottage at Sydenham for so many years, the lines in one of O'Keefe's operas,

Of all the days that I have seen,

I dearly love but one day

And that's the day that comes between

The Saturday and Monday;'

for then our little carriage was in readiness, early in the afternoon, to convey us to this rustic dwelling--all simplicity without, all brilliancy within. There, hebdomadally, were found a knot of the first talents of the day; and, amongst the perpetual advantages I derived. from being the wife of a clever man, I was allowed the delight of always being a partaker of these intellectual treats. Our excellent and kind friend, Mr. Thomas Hill's well-regulated hospitality was the theme of everybody's praise and pleasure who ever visited him; and, with the one exception just made, his house was the resort of the highest order of intellect and literary acquirement. The accommodation of Mr. Hill's house and table did not, luckily, admit of more than could conduce to their mutual pleasure. Each party was well chosen and assorted, never exceeding a dozen; and I had the honour to occupy the only spare room, all other guests, who were too fastidious to be content with the accommodation of the neighbouring inn, returning to town. Now and then a lady would share my short interval of drawing-room retirement; but this did not so often occur as it otherwise would, had the distance from London been less, or the cottage possessed more accommodation in the way of beds. Thus five times out of six I was the only lady; and I monopolised all the advantage of such a position, being pressed always to outstay custom, and afterwards seldom finding myself waiting tea. for the gentlemen, whose courtesy was strained to answer generally the first

"Kirke White became a contributor to the Monthly Mirror, and was thus introduced to Mr. Thomas Hill, the proprietor of that work, a gentleman who was himself a lover of English literature, and who possessed one of the most copious collections of English poetry in existence. This encouragement induced him about the close of the year 1802 to commit a little volume of poetry to the press."-SOUTHEY's Life of Kirke White.

summons from the drawing-room. What happy days were those! -days of unmixed pleasure, laid up in grateful memory of the friend who dispensed so much happiness to my early years, although only for the sake of my dear husband, whom he had known from his boyhood. Those who, like myself, have survived the Sydenham Sundays, will, like me, remember them with retrospective gratification; for, though I was the only one present that did not contribute to the treat, yet those who did were not without their reward."

In his friend, Mr. Hook's clever novel, "Gilbert Gurney," we find the following sketch, which will be instantly identified as a portrait of Mr. Hill.

"His plump rosy cheeks were purpled with warmth and kindness as he held out his hand to take mine, and protested that I was the very man he wanted most particularly to see. Hull was a very extraordinary person. He knew the business of everybody in London better than the people themselves. He happened to know everything that was going forward in all circles-mercantile, political, fashionable, literary, or theatrical; in addition to all matters connected with military and naval affairs, agriculture, finance, art and science -everything came alike to him-to his inquiring eye no mystery continued undiscovered ;-from his attentive ear no secret remained concealed. He was plump-short-with an intelligent countenance, and near-sighted-with a constitution and complexion fresh enough to look forty, at a time when I believed him to be at least four times the age; we had a joke against him in those days as to his antiquity, in which he heartily and good-naturedly joined, until at last we got him to admit-and I almost think, believe-that he sold gunpowder to King Charles the Second, and dined more than once with the witty Lord Rochester.

"Wanted you to come and meet a few friends at my cottage at Mitcham,' said Hull-all plain and simple-good wine, I promise you, and pleasant company-but you are such a fellow, my dear friend. Pooh, pooh! don't tell me-there's no catching you-eh, I say—I have heard all about the cakes, the cow, and the Countess, the Pandeans in the pavilion, and the dead dace in the drawing-room.''What do you mean?' said I, not imagining it possible that events which had so recently occurred should have already obtained such publicity. O you dog,' said Hull, 'I happen to know-my dear Gurney -it's no use trying to hoax me-I say-Daly did it--he, he!—you know it-eh! Not I. upon my honour,' said I; which was truedo you know Daly?'-'Know hiin!' exclaimed my friend-know Daly-why, my dear sir, I have known him these forty years.''Daly' said I, 'why he is not thirty years old!'-'Perhaps not forty,' said Hull; but I knew his father more than forty years ago. dined with Daly yesterday at his lodgings?'-'I did,' said I, staring; 'but how did you find that out?'-' Find it out, my dear friend!' re plied Hull, 'I do nothing in the world but find out. I saw the boiled leg of lamb and spinach which you had for dinner-eh!—wasn't it so?'-'Do you dine with him frequently?' said I.- Never, my dear friend; never dined with him in my life,' said Hull; but I know where he gets his hock-six guineas and a half the dozen. Come down to Mitcham; you shall taste some of the very same batch. Great creature, Daly-magnificent style, I'm told-splendid service of plate, and all that.'-'Plate!' said I.-'Superb,' said Hull. “I

You