When he perceaved well

The newes was true to him was brought, Upon his knees he fell,

And then S. Peter he be sought,
That he would stand his friend in this,
To helpe to ayd those servauntes his,
And he would do as much for him;
But Peter sent him to Saint Simme.
So then he snuft,

The fryers all about he cuft;

He roarde, he cryde;

The priests they durst not once abide.

The Cardnalles then they beginnes

To stay and take him in their arme. He spurnd them on the shinnes,

Away the[y] trudgd for feare of harme. So there the Pope was left alone. Good Lord, how he dyd make his mone! The stooles against the walles he threwe, And me out of his nose he blewe.

I hopt, I skipt,

From place to place about I whipt:

He swore, he tare,

Till from his crowne he pold the heare.

He courst me so about

In the house I could finde no rome.
Loth was I to go out,

And shrind my selfe under a brome.
Then by and by downe he was set;
With anger he was one a swet:
He rubde his elbowe on the wall,
So fell a ralying on Saint Paule.
Fye, fye, bloud, harte!

He scratchd him selfe till he dyd smart.
Poll nose, rube eye,

Grash the teth, drawe mouth awrye.

He wept and wrong his handes,

Yea, worse and worse began to fret:

Thus raging still he standes;

Then out at doore I dyd me get.

I was not sooner gone from thence,
But worse and worse was his pretence.
The post he plucked from the house,
He left no harbour for a mouse.

Thus now the Popes mad,
Because no better lucke they had;

Forlorne, molest,

That they so ill their meate digest.

When I had vewed all,

To bring this newes my winges I spred.
To this parplict is he fall,

I wish some would go hold his head;
For certainely he doth yll fare;
Yet for the same I do not care,

For God his power will convince,

And ayd with right his beloved prince.
Then, Pope, radge thou:

The God in heaven hath made a vowe

To kepe all his.

That God is just, our stay he is.

Finis. Qd. Thomas Preston.

Imprinted at London in Fletestrete at the Signe of the Faulcon by Wylliam Griffith and are to be solde at his shoppe in Saint Dunstanes Churchyard. 1570.

Cay of Charlton.

THE family of Cay, of Charlton-hall, Northumberland, or, as the name was originally spelt, Key, has the following traditional story related of the loss of its antient patrimony:-At a remote period, the head of the family having quarrelled with another gentleman, they agreed to settle their dispute by combat within the pound-field of Alnwick. Having procured the key, they locked themselves in, and threw it over the wall. Key killed his antagonist, leaped over the wall, and made his escape on foot to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which was at that time without the jurisdiction of the Marchers. This murder and flight constituting march or border treason, Key's possessions were forfeited, and he spent his life in great indigence at Newcastle. His son or grandson, however, found means to be bound apprentice to a brewer in Newcastle; and for several generations they pursued that business, the family continuing to this day freemen of the corporation of brewers and bakers there.-Burke's Commoners.

A VISIT TO COCKEN HALL.

BY

GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER.

N the Midsummer holidays of the year 1775, I started, in high glee, on a tour to the North of England; my father being, as usual, both quartermaster and pay

master.

We travell❜d leisurely, and in a zig-zag direction, passing through Oxford and Woodstock. Hence we pursued our winding way through Warwickshire, Staffordshire, Derbyshire, and Lancashire, till we entered Yorkshire ;-but, as I am not writing an Itinerary, and as most of the towns, and places of note, in this serpentine tour, are familiar to everybody, (though marvellous, then, to me,) I say no more of them, than that, at Stratford upon Avon, I was more delighted with a cold round of beef, at the White Lion, than inspired by the birth-place of our great dramatick Bard.

Still we went northward;-first to Stockton upon Tees,-a cheerful town;-then to Durham, the capital of the Bishoprick,-a strange-upand down Episcopal City; and, (if you include the straggling suburbs,) partly picteresque, partly mean and ugly ;-and, about four miles further, to Cocken Hall, a famed seat of romantick beauty, then belonging to Mr. Carr. To this place my father had been invited; and we reach'd it safely, notwithstanding the ford which you had then to pass, before you could arrive at the mansion. I need not describe the nature of a ford;-every body knows that, if you deviate from it, you slip into deeper water,-which is an extremely wet event, any how, but particularly perilous in a post-chaise. The post-boys, however, assured us that there was not the least danger; because, (which we thought a very odd reason,) a horse, a cart, and a butcher, -the butcher sitting in the said cart, and driving the said horse,had all been swept away by the flood, two days ago:-they argued, therefore, that we had now nothing to apprehend, as such an accident was never known to happen oftener than once or twice a year. This logick we did not think quite convincing,-for we were then just midway in the passage, and the horses up to their girths in a rapid river. We found nobody at Cocken, but Mr. Carr, his wife Lady Mary Carr, and his devoted companion, Peter,-an army Captain on half

pay; whose surname it seemeth not meet that I should register;suffice it to say, that, being a man of little substance, he deem'd it politick, seeing his own pecuniary deficiencies, to seek out a man of better substance than himself, and to bocome his shadow; accordingly Squire Carr and Captain Peter were inseparables; upon the usual terms of agreement, which are tacitly understood between two such worthies,-ostentation on one side, and adulation on the other.

Such a family party was somewhat discouraging to my father, who had pledged himself to a weeks stay; the only consolation to be expected, was from her Ladyship, a most amiable and perfectly well bred woman*. The Squire was a deep-drinker,-my father a very shallow one; I did not drink at all;-Captain Peter, of course, drank as a shadow should do,—that is, glass after glass, and quart after quart, more or less, after the example, or rather ordonnance, of his substance. The substance had two modes of addressing the shadow, upon these occasions ;-first, by interrogation, secondly, by assertion; -as thus,-"Hav'nt we had enough to-night Peter, what say you?in this case, Peter answer'd and said,-A drop more, Mr. Carr, would be the death of me ;"-but, when, on the contrary, it was— We must have another bottle," Peter was sure to observe, (getting up, at the same time, to ring the bell,)—"it will do us a deal of good, Mr. Carr." I remark'd, however, that in the course of seven evenings, there was only one on which the Patron put the interrogative to Peter ;on all the other six, he peremptorily declared for another bottle,—and another, and another.

As to the conversation, (if conversation it can be call'd,) it was chiefly usurp'd by the Squire, and consisted of the narrative of his own youthful exploits, and of his travels abroad;-showing how he managed a horse, unmanageable by anybody else, in the Great Square of a Foreign Town;-how the Great Square was crowded with spectators; how the horse rear'd, and how the Ladies, living in the Great Square, waved their handkerchiefs at him out of the window ;and many a tale of the same sort, at which my father yawn'd, and the patient Peter express'd his admiration, as much as if he had not heard them a hundred times.

Now "this was worshipful Society!"—which did, in no small degrees of drinking and dulness, distress and bore my temperate and literary Sire. I was happily sent away, in decent time, to bed ;-but my poor pitiable parent had no escape from the dinner-table to the drawing-room; for her Ladyship, calmly submitting to the habits of

Lady Mary Carr was sister to the late Earl of Darlington, father of the present Marquess of Cleveland.

the Squire,--his protracted potations, and his embargo upon his guests,―retired very early to her chamber; where she must, I presume, have experienced much the same désagreméns as those of Mrs. Sullen, in the Comedy of the Beaux' Stratagem.*

Our morning's exercise was my father's great compensation for his sedantry infliction of the evening. The Squire, as might be expected, was no early riser:-the Shadow could not be look'd for without the Substance ;-therefore, while the Patron and Peter dozed beyond noon, we were enjoying the beautiful rides and drives in the grounds of Cocken Hall, and in excursions to their vicinities.

The Coal-waggon Roads, in the neighbourhood, were, then, reckon'd curious, although they are no longer so;-being nothing more than railways, common, now, throughout England.-These roads present a busy scene of commerce, near Newcastle; and are throng'd with carts going thither, laden from the collieries. I was much amused by seeing, when they arrived at a descent, the horse which drew them taken from the front, and placed in the rear, to keep them back,-in order to check the impetus of the machine's progress, which would otherwise be too great in going down hill.

This seemingly Irish operation, and the traffick going on, are a practical refutation of the two sayings, which express a reversal in the right order of things;-for here the honest folks literally prove that it is very good sense to "put the cart before the horse," and to "carry coals to Newcastle."

In our airings, we often pass'd Lumley Castle; so we did pass Lumley Castle, which is all I have to say about it.

Cocken Hall, four miles from the City of Durham, is so decidedly a Lion for travellers, in these northern latitudes of England, that a description of its attractions would be like repeating the bon mots of the excellent Mr. Joseph Miller. I say nothing, therefore, of its dingles and bushy dells," its wooded paths, under precipices bedeck'd with vines, by the side of the pellucid river Wear,—and its view of Finchale Abbey in ruins.

Having touch'd the northern extremity of our tour, the first place at which we stopp'd to dine and sleep, on our return southward, was Raby Castle, the seat of the Darlington family. This noble pile of building rears its lofty head, in all the baronial pride of fudal times,—

Mrs. Sullen, in talking of her husband, says, "he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel nightcap.-Oh! matrimony! matrimony! He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his shoulders, disorders the whole economy of my bed, leaves me half naked, and my whole night's comfort is the tuneful serenade of that wakeful nightingale, his nose." FARQUHAR.