Part 35

Master Dicky, my dear, You have nothing to fear, Your proceedings I mean not to check, sir; Whilst the weather benumbs, We should pick up our crumbs, So, I prithee, make free with a _peck_, sir.

I’m afraid it’s too plain You’re a villain in _grain_, But in that you resemble your neighbours, For mankind have agreed It is right to _suck seed_, Then, like you, _hop the twig_ with their labours.

Besides this, master Dick, You of trade have the trick, In all _branches_ you traffic at will, sir; You have no need of shops For your samples of _hops_, And can ev’ry day take up your _bill_, sir.

Then in foreign affairs You may give yourself _airs_, For I’ve heard it reported at home, sir, That you’re on the best terms With the _diet of Worms_, And have often been tempted to _Rome_, sir.

Thus you feather your nest In the way you like best, And live high without fear of mishap, sir; You are fond of your _grub_, Have a taste for some _shrub_, And for _gin_--there you understand _trap_, sir.

Tho’ the rivers won’t flow In the frost and the snow, And for fish other folks vainly try, sir; Yet you’ll have a treat, For, in cold or in heat, You can still take a _perch_ with a _fly_, sir.

In love, too, oh Dick, (Tho’ you oft when love-sick On the course of good-breeding may trample; And though often henpeck’d, Yet) you scorn to neglect To set all mankind an _eggsample_.

Your _opinions_, ’tis true, Are flighty a few, But at this I, for one, will not grumble; So--your breakfast you’ve got, And you’re off like a _shot_, Dear Dicky, your humble _cum tumble_.[87]

[87] Examiner Feb. 12, 1815.

* * * * *

And who gave thee that jolly red nose? Brandy, cinnamon, ale, and cloves, That gave me the jolly red nose.

OLD SONG.

THE BISHOP OF BUTTERBY.

A SKETCH, BY ONE OF HIS PREBENDARIES.

_For the Table Book_

I remember reading in that excellent little periodical, “The Cigar,” of the red nose of the friar of Dillow, which served the holy man in the stead of a lantern, when he crossed the fens at night, to visit the fair lady of the sheriff of Gloucestershire. Whether the nose of the well-known eccentric now under consideration ever lighted his path, when returning from Shincliffe feast, or Houghton-le-spring hopping--whether it ever

“Brightly beam’d his path above, And lit his way to his ladye love”--

this deponent knoweth not; but, certainly, it ever nose could serve for such purposes, it is that of Hut. Alderson, which is the reddest in the city of Durham--save and excepting, nevertheless, the nose of fat Hannah, the Elvet orange-woman. Yes Hut. thou portly living tun! thou animated lump of obesity! thou hast verily a most jolly nose! Keep it out of my sight, I pray thee! Saint Giles, defend me from its scorchings! there is fire in its mere pictorial representation! Many a time, I ween, thou hast mulled thine ale with it, when sitting with thy pot companions at Morralies!

Hutchinson Alderson, the subject of the present biographical notice, is the well-known bellman of the city of Durham. Of his parentage and education I am ignorant, but I have been informed by him, at one of his “visitations,” that he is a native of the place, where, very early in life, he was “bound ’prentice to a shoemaker,” and where, after the expiration of his servitude, he began business. During the period of the threatened invasion of this nation by the French, he enlisted in the Durham militia; but I cannot correctly state what office he held in the regiment; the accounts on the subject are very conflicting and contradictory. Some have informed me he was a mere private, others that he was a corporal; and a wanton wag has given out that he was kept by the regiment, to be used as a beacon, in cases of extraordinary emergency. Certain it is that he was in the militia, and that during that time the accident occurred which destroyed his hopes of military promotion, and rendered him unable to pursue his ordinary calling--I allude to the loss of his right hand, which happened as follows:--A Durham lady, whose husband was in the habit of employing Alderson as a shoemaker, had a favourite parrot, which, on the cage door being left open, escaped, and was shortly afterwards seen flying from tree to tree in a neighbouring wood. Alderson, on being made acquainted with the circumstance, proceeded with his gun to the wood, where, placing himself within a few yards of the bird, he fired at it, having previously poured a little water into the muzzle, which he thoughtlessly imagined would have the effect of bringing down the bird, without doing it material injury; but, unhappily, the piece exploded, and shattered his right hand so dreadfully, that immediate amputation was rendered necessary.

For some time after this calamity, Alderson’s chief employment consisted in taking care of gentlemen’s horses, and cleaning knives. He was then appointed street-keeper; and, during the short time he held that office, discharged its duty in a very impartial manner--I believe to the entire satisfaction of all the inhabitants. He has also, at different periods, been one of the constables of the parish of Saint Mary le Bow. About the year 1822, the office of bellman to the city of Durham became vacant, by resignation, upon which Hut. immediately offered himself as a candidate; and, from there being no opposition, and his being a freeman, he was installed by the unanimous voice of every member of the corporation, and he has accordingly discharged the duties of bellman ever since. It is in that capacity our artist has represented him in the cut at the head of the present sketch. But Hut. Alderson is the wearer of other dignities.

About three miles from Durham is a beautiful little hamlet, called Butterby, and in ancient deeds _Beautrove_,[88] and _Beautrovensis_, from the elegance of its situation; and certainly its designation is no misnomer, for a lovelier spot the imagination cannot picture. The seclusion of its walks, the deep shade of its lonely glens, and the many associations connected with it, independently of its valuable mineral waters, conspire to render it a favourite place of resort; and, were I possessed of the poetic talent of veterinary doctor Marshall, I should certainly be tempted to immortalize its many charms in a sonnet. Butterby was formerly a place of considerable note; the old manor-house there, whose haunted walls are still surrounded by a moat, was once the residence of Oliver Cromwell, whose armorial bearings still may be seen over one of the huge, antique-fashioned fire-places. In olden time, Butterby had a church, dedicated to saint Leonard, of which not a _visible_ vestige is remaining; though occasionally on the spot which antiquaries have fixed upon as its site, divers sepulchral relics have been discovered. Yet, to hear many of the inhabitants of Durham talk, a stranger would naturally believe that the hamlet is still in possession of this sacred edifice; for “Butterby-_church_” is there spoken of, not as a plate adorning the antiquarian page, nor even as a ruin to attract the gaze of the moralizing tourist, but as a real, substantial, _bonâ fide_ structure: the fact is, that, in the slang of Durham, (for the modern Zion[89] has its slang as well as the modern Babylon,) a Butterby church-goer is one who does not frequent any church; and when such an one is asked, “What church have you attended to-day?” the customary answer is, “I have been attending service at Butterby.” About the year 1823, there appeared in one of the London journals an account of a marriage, said to have been solemnized at Butterby-church, between two parties who never existed but in the fertile brain of the writer of the paragraph, “By the Rev. Hutchinson Alderson, rector.” From that time, Hut. Alderson began to be designated a clergyman, and was speedily dubbed A. M. Merit _will_ rise, and therefore the A.M. became D.D., and Alderson himself enjoyed the waggery, and insisted on the young gentlemen of the place touching their hats, and humbling themselves when his reverence passed.

Not content with the honours which already, like laurel branches, had encircled his brow, Hut. aspired to still greater distinction, and gave out that Butterby was a bishop’s see, that the late parochial church was a cathedral, and, in fine, that the late humble rector was a lordly bishop--THE RIGHT REVEREND HUTCHINSON ALDERSON LORD BISHOP OF BUTTERBY, or HUT. BUT. Having thus dubbed himself, he next proceeded to the proper formation of his cathedral; named about ten individuals as prebends, (among whom were the writer of this sketch, and his good friend his assistant artist,) chose a dean and archdeacon, and selected a few more humble individuals to fill the different places of sexton, organist, vergers, bell-ringers, &c., and soon began, in the exercise of his episcopal functions, to give divers orders, oral and written, respecting repairs of the church, preaching of sermons, &c. The last I recollect was a notice, delivered to one of the prebends by the bishop in _propriâ personâ_, intimating that, owing to the church having received considerable damage by a high flood, he would not be required to officiate there till further notice.

A cathedral is nothing without a tutelary saint, and accordingly Butterby-church has been dedicated to saint Giles. Several articles have been written, and privately circulated, descriptive of the splendid architecture of this imaginary edifice; every arch has had its due meed of approbation, and its saint has been exalted in song, almost as high as similar worthies of the Roman catholic church. A legend has been written--I beg pardon, _found_ in one of the vaults of Bear-park,--containing an account of divers miracles performed by saint Giles; which legend is doubtless as worthy of credit, and equally true, as some of Alban Butler’s, or the miracles of prince Hohenlohe and Thomas à Becket. Happening to have a correct copy of the composition to which I allude, I give it, with full persuasion that by so doing I shall confer a signal obligation on the rest of my brother prebends, some of whom are believers in its antiquity, though, I am inclined to think, it is, like the _ancient_ poems found in Redcliffe-church, and published by the unfortunate Chatterton--all “_Rowley_ powley,” &c. I have taken the liberty to modernize the spelling.

SAINT GILES

_His Holie Legend_:

WRITTEN IN LATIN, BY FATHER PETER, MONK OF BEAUPAIRE, AND DONE INTO ENGLISH THIS YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1555, BY MASTER JOHN WALTON, SCHOOLMASTER, ST. MAGDALENE HER CHAPEL YARD DURHAM: AND DEDICATED TO OUR GOOD QUEEN MARY, WHOM GOD LONG PRESERVE.

1.

O did ye ne’er hear of saint Giles, The saint of fam’d Butterby steeple. There ne’er was his like seen for miles, Pardie, he astonied the people! His face was as red as the sun, His eyne were a couple of sloes, sir, His belly was big as a tun, And he had a huge bottle nose, sir; O what a strange fellow was he.

2.

Of woman he never was born, And wagers have been laid upon it; They found him at Finchale one morn, Wrapp’d up in an heavenly bonnet: The prior was taking his rounds, As he was wont after his _brick_fast, He heard most celestial sounds, And saw something in a tree stick fast, Like a bundle of dirty old clothes.

3.

Quite frighten’d, he fell on his knees, And said thirteen aves and ten credos, When the thing in the tree gave a sneeze, And out popp’d a hand, and then three toes: Now, when he got out of his faint, He approach’d, with demeanour most humble, And what should he see but the saint, Not a copper the worse from his tumble, But lying all sound wind and limb.

4.

Says the prior, “From whence did you come, Or how got you into my garden?” But the baby said nothing but mum-- And for the priest car’d not a _farden_: At length, the saint open’d his gob, And said, “I’m from heaven, d’ye see, sir. Now don’t stand there scratching your nob, But help me down out of the tree, sir, Or I’ll soon set your convent a-blaze!” 5.

The prior stood quite in a maze, To hear such an infant so queerly call, So, humbling himself, he gave praise To our lady for so great a miracle: Saint Giles from the bush then he took, And led him away to the priory; Where for years he stuck close to his book, A holie and sanctified friar, he Was thought by the good folks all round.

6.

In sanctity he pass’d his days, Once or twice exorcis’d a demoniac; And, to quiet his doubts and his fears, Applied to a flask of old Cogniac; To heaven he show’d the road fair, And, if he saw sinner look glum or sad, He’d tell him to drive away care, And say, “Take a swig of good rum, my lad, And it will soon give your soul ease.”

7.

In miracles too the saint dealt, And some may be seen to this minute; At his bidding he’d make a rock melt, Tho’ Saint Sathanas might be in it: One evening when rambling out, He found himself stopp’d by the river, So he told it to turn round about, And let him go quietly over, And the river politely complied!

8.

To Butterby often he’d stray, And sometimes look in at the well, sir; And if you’ll attend to the lay, How it came by its virtues I’ll tell, sir: One morning, as wont, the saint call’d, And being tremendously faint then, He drank of the stuff till he stall’d, And out spake the reverend saint then, My blessing be on thee for aye!

9.

Thus saying he bent his way home, Now mark the event which has follow’d, The fount has from that time become A cure for sick folks--for its hallow’d: And many a pilgrim goes there From many a far distant part, sir, And, piously uttering a prayer, Blesses the saint’s pious heart, sir, That gave to the fount so much grace.

10.

At Finchale his saintship did dwell, Till the devil got into the cloister, And left the bare walls as a shell, And gulp’d the fat monks like an oyster. So the saint was enforced to quit, But swore he’d the fell legions all amuse, And pay back their coin every whit, Tho’ his hide should be flay’d like Bartholemew’s, And red as Saint Dunstan’s red nose.

11.

Another church straight he erected, Which for its sanctity fam’d much is, Where sinners and saints are protected, And kept out of Belzebub’s clutches: And thus in the eve of his days He still paternosters and aves sung, His lungs were worn threadbare with praise, Till death, who slays priors, rest gave his tongue And sent him to sing in the spheres!

12.

It would be too long to tell here Of how, when or where, the monks buried him. Suffice it to say, it seems clear That somewhere or other they carried him. His odd life by death was made even, He popp’d off on one of Lent Sundays, His corpse was to miracles given, And his choristers sung “De profundis Clamavi ad te Domine!”

_Finis coronat opus._

Such is the extraordinary legend of saint Giles, which I leave the antiquaries to sit in judgment on, and with which I quit the subject of Butterby-church, wishing that its good bishop may long continue in peaceful possession of the see, and in full enjoyment of all the honours and revenues connected therewith.

As relating to Butterby, I may be allowed perhaps to mention, that this place has afforded considerable amusement to many young men of wit and humour. About twenty years ago, the law students, then in Durham, instituted what they called the “Butterby manor court,” and were in the habit of holding a sham court at a public-house there. A gentleman, who is now in London, and one of the most eminent men in the profession, used to preside as steward; and was attended by the happy and cheerful tenantry, who did suit and service, constituted a homage, and performed other acts and deeds, agreeable to the purpose for which they were duly and truly summoned, and assembled.

Hitherto, little has been said respecting the personal appearance and character of Hut. Alderson, and therefore, without further circumvolution, I hasten to add, that he is fifty years of age “and upwards,” of the middle size and rather corpulent, of a very ruddy countenance, is possessed of a vast fund of anecdote, and is at all times an agreeable and humorous companion. He may generally be seen parading the streets of Durham, as represented by my brother prebend. Considering his humble rank in society, he is well-informed; and if he has any failing, it is what has given the beautiful vermilion tint to that which, as it forms the most prominent feature in _his_ appearance, is made one of the most prominent features of _my_ memoir. As a crier, I never liked him--his voice is too _piano_, and wants a little of the _forte_.

In religion, Hut. is a stanch supporter of the establishment, and regularly attends divine service at St. Mary-le-Bow, where “his reverence” is allowed an exalted seat in the organ gallery, in which place, but for his services, I fear my friend, Mr. Weatherell, the organist, would have difficulty in drawing a single tone from the instrument. His aversion to dissenters is tremendous, and he is unsparing in his censure of those who do not conform to the church; yet, notwithstanding this, both Catholics and Unitarians unaccountably rank amongst his prebends. In politics, he is a whig of the old school, and abominates the radicals. At elections, (for he has a vote both for county and city, being a leaseholder for lives, and a freeman,) he always supports Michael Angelo Taylor and Mr. Lambton. He prides himself on his integrity, and I believe justly, for he is one that will never be bought or sold; if thousands were offered to him to obtain his vote, he would spurn the bribe, and throw the glittering ore in the faces of those who dared to insult his independent spirit.

It may amuse the reader, if I offer the following as a specimen of the ridiculous interruptions Hut. meets with when crying.

THREE RINGS--_Ding dong! ding dong! ding dong!_

_Hut._ To be sold by auction--

_1 Boy._ Speak up! speak up! Hut.

_Hut._ Hod your jaw--at the Queen’s _heed_ in--

_2 Boy._ The town of Butterby.

_Hut._ I’ll smash your heed wi’ the bell--the Queen’s _heed_ in the _Bailya_--a large collection of--

_3 Boy._ Pews, pulpits, and organs.

_Hut._ I’ll rap your canister--of valuable--_buiks_ the property of--

_1 Boy._ The bishop of Butterby.

_Hut._ Be quiet, you scamp--of a gentleman from Lunnon--the buiks may be viewed any time between the hours of one and three, by applying to--

_2 Boy._ Tommy Sly--

_Hut._ Mr. Thwaites on the premises: the sale to commence at seven o’clock in the evening _prizizely_.

_All._ Huih! hooeh! hooeh!

_Hut._ I’ll smash some o’ your heeds wi’ the bell--I knaw thee, Jack!--mind, an’ I doant tell thee mither noo, thou daft fule!

This farce is usually acted every day in the streets of Durham; and to be truly enjoyed it should be witnessed. Having nothing more of my own to say, I shall conclude this sketch in the language of Rousseau.--“Voilà ce que j’ai fait, ce que j’ai pensé. J’ai dit le bien et le mal avec la mème franchise. Je n’ai rien tû de mauvais, rien ajouté de bon; et s’il m’est arrivé d’employer quelque ornement indifférent, ce n’a jamais été que pour remplir un ruide occasionné par mon défaut de mémoire; j’ai pu supposer vrai ce que je savois, avoir pu l’être jamais ce que je savois être faux.”[90]

R. I. P.

* * * * *

To show the high estimation in which the above character is held by the inhabitants of Durham and Northumberland, a correspondent relates, that on Saturday last a select party of gentlemen connected with the above counties, and chiefly of the legal and medical professions, dined at the Queen’s-head tavern, Holborn; where, after the healths of the king and royal family, a gentleman present proposed the health of “the Rev. Dr. Alderson, bishop of Butterby.” In the course of the introductory speech, allusion was made to Hut.’s many acquirements, and to his lustrous qualities as a living ornament of the ancient city of Durham. The toast was drunk amid the most enthusiastic applause, and a dignitary of “Butterby-church” returned thanks for the honour conferred on his exalted diocesan.

_March 12, 1827._

[88] Vide Mr. Dixon’s View of Durham.

[89] Ibid.

[90] Les Confessions, part. i. liv. i.

* * * * *

THE DRAYMAN.

_For the Table Book._

Lie heavy on him, _earth_! for he Laid many a _heavy load_ on thee.

_Epig._ 23, CHRISTMAS _Treat_.

The drayman is a being distinct from other men, as the brewer’s horse is distinct from other horses--each seems adapted to the other’s use: the one eats abundantly of grains, and prospers in its traces--the other drinks porter by the canful, and is hardly able to button his jerkin. Much of a drayman’s life is spent with his master’s team and barrels. Early rising is his indispensable duty; and, long ere the window-shutters of London shopkeepers are taken down, he, with his fellow stavesmen, are seen half way through the streets to the vender of what is vulgarly called “heavy wet.” Woe to the patience of a crowd, waiting to cross the roadway, when the long line, in clattering gear, are passing review, like a troop of unyielding soldiers. The driver, with his whip, looks as important as a sergeant-major; equipped in his coat of mail, the very pavement trembles with his gigantic tread.[91] Sometimes his comrades ride on the shaft and sleep, to the imminent risk of their lives. Arrived at their destination, they move a slow and sure pace, which indicates that “all things should be taken easy,” for “the world was not made in a day.”