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« Thence to Darlington, where I boused,
Till at length I was espoused;
Marriage feast and all prepared,
Not a fig for th' world I cared :
All night long by th' pot I tarried,

As if I had not been marry'd.” About the year 1644, he became possessed, on the death of his wife's nephew, of half the family estate at Nesham. He seems to have lost his first wife, and the property along with her; as he is said to have removed in the latter part of his life, to Appleton, near Catterick, in Yorkshire, upon what his biographer calls “an employment, or rather a second marriage.” He lived to an advanced age, and dying there, May 4, 1673, was buried at Catterick, leaving behind him the character of a well bred gentleman, and a good neighbour.”Guide to Dinsdale.

The author of that curious production, Drunken Barnaby, is now fully ascertained to be Richard Braithwaite, of Burnishead, in Westmoreland, esq. author of various other works, not anonymous. He is here at least relating a piece of his own history, for he was married at Hurworth, May 4, 1617, to Frances daughter of James Lawson, of Nesham abbey, esq. by Jane, daughter of sir John Conyers. He out-lived his wife, and wrote her epitaph.

“ Near Darlington was my dear darling borne,
“ Of noble house, which yet bears honor's forme,
“ Teese, seated Sockburn, where by long descent
“ Conyers was lord.”

Sharp's Bishoprick Garland.

LISTON

When this popular actor was performing in the company of Mr. Stephen Kemble, a dispute arose between the manager and the performers, respecting the arrangements adopted by the former for playing on alternate nights at Newcastle, Shields, Sunderland, &c., by which the latter were much harassed. A rebellion being likely to ensue, Mrs. K. was understood to have said, that the company might leave as soon as they chose, “for there were actors to be got on every hedge.” Shortly after, Liston and some others, walking along the road from Newcastle to Shields, perceived a post-chaise at some distance behind them, which they knew was conveying Mrs. K. to the place of their destination. Immediately, Mr. Liston clambered among the bushes to the top of the hedge; and when the chaise came

up, Mrs. K. astonished at seeing him in such a situation, cried out, “Mr. Liston, what are you doing there?”—“ Looking for actors ma'am,” replied he, “but I can't find a single sprout.” It is needless to add that he was instantly invited to enter the chaise.

On another occasion, as he was walking between Newcastle and Sunderland, he was overtaken by one of the coaches which ran on that road (then and long after proverbial for the slowness of their motion), when the driver asked him if he was for a ride? “No, I thank you,” said he, with all the quaintness which he can so happily assume, “ I am in a hurry."—Northern John Bull.

Fragment of Herses,

ON THE GIVING UP OF THE EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND TO

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

BEING “THE COPIE OF A RYME MADE BY ONE SINGLETON, A GENTLEMAN OF LANCASHIRE, NOW [1572] PRISONER AT YORK FOR RELIGION.”

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DOLEFULL time of wepying tears
To woeful plaintes do best agree,

But nowe suche time my song requires
As never erst was wont to bee.
Such heavie hap of cruel spite
More than my hand and pen can write.

I lothe to tell howe nowe of late
That cruell Scotland hath procurde
The slander of their realme and state
By promise broken most assurde:
Which shameful act from mynde of man
Shall not departe, do what they can

The noblest Lord of Percie kinde,
Of honour and possessions faire,
As God to him the place assigned,
To Scottishe ground made his repaire;
Who, after promise manifolde,
Was last betrayed for English gold.

Who shall hereafter trust a Scott,
Or who will do that nation good,
That so themselves do stayne and blott
In selling of such noble blood,
Let Lords of this a mirror make
And in distresse that land forsake,

Their lordes and limmors are forlorne,
Their people cursd of each degree,
Their faith and promise all to-torne,
And rumor ring it to the skie,
How they for money sold their gest
Unto the shambles like a beast.

Loughlevin now is lost for aye,
Sithe Duglasse did so fowle a dede;
Thus will all men hereafter saye:
When we are gone they shall it nede,
That Scotland is a cursed ground,
The like I know cannot be found.

The Pearcie's stocke, an ancient foe
To Scottish lowndes in fielde,
Yet did he still relieve their woe
If once the man did yeilde
Unto his prince and contrie's praise,
As noblemen have noble ways.

O cruel envie with thy stinge,
O great desire of heapes of golde,
Yet shulde before have weighed this thinge,
The cause of mischiefe manifolde;
For envie makes men doe amisse;
Croked covetise did all this.

The Scottes have done the worst they maye,
And now did frame some grief therefore.
But whatsoever they thinke or saye

MS. Cotton. Calig. B. IV. p. 343. Tesmond, a Sadler in Yorke, cut of a pece of ye Earle of Northumberland's bearde after he was executed and wrapt it up in a piece of papier and with these words followinge

The heare of y good Earle of Northumberland & Percie.
This is ye heare of ye bearde of y® good Earle of Northumberland.

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F the hosts of travellers and tourists

who hurry up the banks of the Tyne from the eastern to the western part of the island, how few are there who

even aware of the existence of this most romantic and secluded spot ! And yet it may be safely asserted that the whole north of England, that rich land of promise to the southern tourist, does not comprise a scene of more sin

gular beauty, independent of its associations with the troubled history of the past. Leaving the Tyne at Haydon Bridge the traveller proceeds on the road towards Whitfield and Alston, passing close by Langley castle a stronghold of the once potent earls of Derwentwater. After gaining the summit of the hill which terminates the pleasing wooded ravine which has hitherto conducted him, he enters upon a flat dreary waste which offers an unpromising prelude to the scenes that are to follow. Having however traversed this he approaches the steep hill of Cupola bank, which forms the eastern side of the river Allen. But the traveller who descends that hill without casting one wondering gaze at the scene suddenly disclosed beneath his feet may certainly resign all pretensions to a love of natural beauty. It is a prospect of the most charming description. On the west, the streams of the east and west Allen issue from the wild heathy mountains which bound the distant horizon, and after pursuing their devious course for many miles, from sources not very remote from each other, they unite near the foot of the hill upon which the traveller is supposed to be resting. The course of the latter stream is seen for some distance winding through the well wooded and pleasing vale of Whitfield, which in itself forms a very attractive picture. Soon after the union of the streams, the banks of the river Allen on both sides become much more abrupt, more richly wooded, more rocky and more singular in their character. Immediately beneath, the river is seen pursuing a most varied course at an immense depth, between banks, the summits and sides of which are covered with the most luxuriant wood. But the view down the river towards the north is the most particularly striking. The eye follows with delight the ever changing and ever beautiful course of the Allen to its junction with the river Tyne, a few miles distant, and at length reposes upon the distant and singularly

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formed rocks of Sewing Shields. A long deep winding ravine, filled with this beautiful forest, occasionally permitting the exposure of rugged rocks and bold projections, through which the river sometimes hurries on in noisy ripples, and sometimes winds slowly round a circular valley, resembling the bed of some ancient lake, but now covered with green and forming a beautiful relief to the darker landscape around.*

But the most attractive feature in the scene is the ruined remnant of Staward Peel (or Fort]. Situated on a bold escarpment of the right bank, and exposing its old grey ruin, and the wall which now encloses a verdant space, the gaze of the spectator is at once arrested, and he is carried back to the stirring events which caused its erection. This was not the fortress of the strong and the proud, from whose massive portals the border Baron issued upon his ruinous and ruthless raid. It was the castle of the weak and the poor. Let it not on that account lose one of its charms in the mind of the spectator. Subject to the constant incursions of the ruthless Scots for so many generations, the inhabitants of Tynedale and the Borders were compelled to adopt in their daily habits and pursuits, and in their most permanent arrangements relating to their property, a regularly organized system of defence. Holding their lands by a species of military tenure they were legally leagued together in perpetual union for the purposes of mutual protection. The far distant need-fire or beacon light proclaimed the approach of foes long before the havoc could begin.

“A sheet of flame, from the turret high,
Waved like a blood flag on the sky;

All flaring and uneven;
And soon a score of fires, I ween,
From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen;
Each with warlike tidings fraught;
Each from each the signal caught;
Each after each they glanced to sight,
As stars arise

upon

the night,
They gleamed on many a dusky tarn,
Haunted by the lonely earn;
On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid.”

• In wandering about this interesting spot which changes its forms with every devious step, the continental traveller cannot fail to be reminded of the romantic ravines of the Tyrol, or the wooded gorges of the Pyrenees. It is not wonderful that the Swiss peasant who, some years ago, accompanied his master through this country, should on the first burst of the view from Cupola bank, be irresistibly called back to the scenes of his native country, and exclaim with uplifted hands, “ Ah! my Fatherland, my own Fatherland.”

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