mentioned lady Elizabeth Hastings, and lady Catherine Jones; the former of these ladies appears to have been, on various occasions, her munificent patroness.

Biographical Fœminium-Ballard's Lives of illustrious British
Ladies, &c.

STOB-CROSS.

FROM SURTEES' HISTORY OF DURHAM.

FEW fields to the south of Stob-cross, near Cornforth, in the county of Durham, stands a ruined dove-cote, shaded by a few straggling ashes, and haunted by a brood of wood pigeons. Here a poor girl put herself down for love, in the homely phrase of the country, on the very spot of her appointment, with her traitor lover; and her spirit still hovers round the cote, the scene of her earthly loves and sorrows, in the form of a milk-white dove, distinguished from its companions by three distinct crimson spots on the breast. The poor maid was laid in the church-yard "allowed her virgin strewments and the bringing home of bell and burial." The traitor, "he, the deceiver, who could win maiden's heart, ruin and leave her," drowned himself some years after in the Floatbeck, and being buried where four roads meet with a stake or stob driven through his body, left the name of the transaction to Stob-cross.

Then might the pitying bard the tale repeat
Of hapless village love in ages past;

How the pale maid, the victim of deceit,
Sunk like the primrose in the northern blast,
See where the ring-doves haunt yon ruined tower,
Where Ivy twines amidst the ashen spray;
There still she hovers round the lonely bower,
Where anguish closed her melancholy day.
A dove she seems distinguish'd from the rest,
Three crimson blood-drops stain her snowy breast.
Superstitions of the North.

INCIDENT AT SEA.

N consequence of a violent storm of wind from the S. W. on the 23rd of January 1795, Thomas Hutchinson, of Stockton, was driven to sea in the afternoon, in a small open boat, which was taking in white sand from the bed of the river Tees, near Clement's Beacon. The waves running very high, he soon lost sight of land, and never recovered it again in his boat. He continued alone in this perilous situation all the succeeding night, and the whole of the next day. He never experienced darkness during the night; the white surf, in a state of constant agitation, affording him sufficient light to lave the water from his boat. His mind was not particularly depressed; as this severe labour, the probable means of his preservation, was the constant and sole object of his attention. On the evening of the 24th, he was taken up at sea. Holy Island being the nearest land, by the Argo, of Sunderland, which had been driven out of Whitby Roads by the same gale. He never saw the vessel which preserved him till she had almost run him down. What renders this providential escape more wonderful is, that the boat sunk within ten minutes after he had left her.-Brewster's Stockton.

The following verses, which appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine, for March 1796, are supposed to have been written by Thomas Hutchinson, on the occasion of his miraculous preservation.

T

HE foaming billows, loudly raging,
Swell before the rising storm;

Destruction all my thoughts engaging--
Good Heav'n preserve my boat from harm!
Ah! my anchor, small and tender,
Slides before the swelling breeze;
Save, oh! save me, life's Defender!
See, we leave the friendly Tees!

Tremendous rolls the mighty ocean,

Waves on waves still higher rise;
Scarce my vessel bears the motion;
Lo she strikes the frowning skies.

Now from this wat'ry ridge she's ready To launch into the vast profound, My heart and hand no longer steady Feel her beat the hollow ground.

With fainting voice I call assistance,
Call-but there is none to hear-
Every help is at a distance;

My drooping soul's appall'd with fear; All around my eye-balls flashing

Seek some distant mountain's brow; Nought I hear but torrents dashing; Nought but Heav'n can save me now.

See! my boat with water filling

Soon must sink beneath the wave! The dreadful thought my fancy chilling

Lends my arm the strength to lave: A little lighten'd by my labour,

Hope revives within my breast, Hope, a kind and friendly neighbour, Soothes the mourning soul to rest.

But, with horror, day declining

Leaves me here in darkness bound; Now adieu to grief and pining,

Here a wat❜ry grave I've found; "O thou Sun," I cry, and, starting, Anxious gaze upon the skies,

"I see thy friendly beams departing, "But who, alas! will see thee rise?"

Night comes on-but darkness never
Eclipses all the genial light,

The white surf aids my fond endeavour,
And joyful cheers my aching sight.
Once more Hope, with angel feature,
Sinks into my tortur'd breast;
Heav'n, preserve thy humbled creature,
And lead him to a port of rest.

All hail the sign! the beaming morning Glances o'er the rolling wave,

Its rays, the silver surge adorning,
Gives earnest of the power to save.
My little skiff still braves the motion,
Still she drives before the gale;
My eyes I dart along the ocean,
In hopes to spy a passing sail.

Dreadful still is all around me,

No glimpse of cheerful shore is nigh,
Death in hideous forms surrounds me,
Hear, oh! hear my earnest cry!
Alone, exhausted, tempest-driv'n.
Here my labours all must end;
Protect my wife, all righteous Heav'n!
And be to my poor babes a friend !

Deep sighs within my bosom heaving,
Although no tears bedew my cheek,
Tell the sharpen'd pang at leaving
All I love their lot to seek :

Ah! while I gaze, my eye-balls straining-
Is it a sail that glads my sight?
It is and Heav'n has heard my 'plaining
Before another dreadful night.

Words I want to speak my feeling;
See, they cast the friendly rope!
Here, in water humbly kneeling,
Thanks for this is more than hope!
Now on-board the ship arriving,
How my flutt'ring thoughts rejoice;

Joy and fear together striving--
And do I hear a human voice ?

And can I see without emotion,
While on this safe deck I tread,
My little boat sink in the ocean,
Through various perils hither led?
"Tis gone-and ye, who hear my story,
Join in praise to Heav'n above;
To HIM alone be pow'r and glory,

To us benevolence and love!

HE village of Brancepath, pleasantly situated at the distance of four miles and three quarters south-west by west of Durham, is said to have derived its name (a corruption of Brawn's-path) from a brawn of vast size, which in ancient times laid waste the surrounding country. After committing many ravages, it was at length destroyed by Hodge of Ferry," whose prowess is celebrated in the "Superstitions of the North," whence the two following

stanzas are extracted:

"The muse may sing how in a northern wood
In olden time, a bristled brawn was seen,
Of giant size, which long the force withstood
Of knight well arm'd with club or dagger keen.

"And how, when Dian held her nightly reign

And silv'ry moon-beams slept on Vedra's breast,
The monster scour'd along the silent plain,

And, roaring loud, disturbed the peasant's rest.'

27

Brancepath Castle, the magnificent residence of William Russell,