Characters.

Why, she will flout the devil, and make blushThe boldest face of man that ever man saw.He that hath best opinion of his wit,And hath his brain-pan fraught with bitter jests(Or of his own, or stol’n, or howsoever),Let him stand ne’er so high in’s own conceit,Her wit’s a sun that melts him down like butter,And makes him sit at table pancake-wise,Flat, flat, and ne’er a word to say;Yet she’ll not leave him then, but like a tyrantShe’ll persecute the poor wit-beaten man,And so be-bang him with dry bobs and scoffs,When he is down (most cowardly, good faith!)As I have pitied the poor patient.There came a Farmer’s Son a wooing to her,A proper man, well-landed too he was,A man that for his wit need not to askWhat time a year ’twere need to sow his oats,Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reap,To plow his fallows, or to fell his trees,Well experienced thus each kind of way;After a two months’ labour at the most,(And yet ’twas well he held it out so long),He left his Love; she had so laced his lips,He could say nothing to her but “God be with ye.”Why, she, when men have dined, and call’d for cheeseWill strait maintain jests bitter to digest;And then some one will fall to argument,Who if he over-master her with reason,Then she’ll begin to buffet him with mocks.

Master Goursey proposes to his Son a Wife.

Frank Goursey.Ne’er trust me, father, the shape of marriage.Which I do see in others, seems so severe,I dare not put my youngling libertyUnder the awe of that instruction;And yet I grant, the limits of free youthGoing astray are often restrain’d by that.But Mistress Wedlock, to my summer thoughts,Will be too curst, I fear: O should she snipMy pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad;And swear, when I did marry, I was mad.Old Goursey.But, boy, let my experience teach thee this;(Yet in good faith thou speak’st not much amiss);When first thy mother’s fame to me did come,Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son,And ev’n my words to thee to me he said;And, as thou say’st to me, to him I said,But in a greater huff and hotter blood:I tell ye, on youth’s tiptoes then I stood.Says he (good faith, this was his very say),When I was young, I was but Reason’s fool;And went to wedding, as to Wisdom’s school:It taught me much, and much I did forget;But, beaten much by it, I got some wit:Though I was shackled from an often-scout,Yet I would wanton it, when I was out;’Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet,Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet.Thus said my father to thy father, son;And thou may’st do this too, as I have done.

Wandering in the dark all night.

O when will this same Year of Night have end?Long-look’d for Day’s Sun, when wilt thou ascend?Let not this thief-friend misty veil of nightEncroach on day, and shadow thy fair light;Whilst thou comest tardy from thy Thetis’ bed,Blushing forth golden-hair and glorious red.O stay not long, bright lanthern of the day,To light my mist-way feet to my right way.

The pleasant Comedy, from which these Extracts are taken, is contemporary with some of the earliest of Shakspeare’s, and is no whit inferior to either the Comedy of Errors, or the Taming of the Shrew, for instance. It is full of business, humour, and merry malice. Its night-scenes are peculiarly sprightly and wakeful. The versification unencumbered, and rich with compound epithets. Why do we go on with ever new Editions of Ford, and Massinger, and the thrice reprinted Selections of Dodsley? what we want is as many volumes more, as these latter consist of, filled with plays (such as this), of which we know comparatively nothing. Not a third part of the Treasures of old English Dramatic literature has been exhausted. Are we afraid that the genius of Shakspeare would suffer in our estimate by the disclosure? He would indeed be somewhat lessened as a miracle and a prodigy. But he would lose no height by the confession. When a Giant is shown to us, does it detract from the curiosity to be told that he has at home a gigantic brood of brethren, less only than himself? Alongwithhim, notfromhim, sprang up the race of mighty Dramatists who, compared with the Otways and Rowes that followed, were as Miltons to a Young or an Akenside. That he was their elder Brother, not their Parent, is evident from the fact of the very few direct imitations of him to be found in their writings. Webster, Decker, Heywood, and the rest of his great contemporaries went on their own ways, and followed their individual impulses, not blindly prescribing to themselves his tract. Marlowe, the true (though imperfect) Father of ourtragedy, preceded him. Thecomedyof Fletcher is essentially unlike to that of his. ’Tis out of no detracting spirit that I speak thus, for the Plays of Shakspeare have been the strongest and the sweetest food of my mind from infancy; but I resent the comparative obscurity in which some of his most valuable co-operators remain, who were his dear intimates, his stage and his chamber-fellows while he lived, and to whom his gentle spirit doubtlessly then awarded the full portion of their genius, as from them toward himself appears to have been no grudging of his acknowledged excellence.

C. L.

For the Table Book.

There is a story in the Rambler of a lady whom the great moralist calls Althea, who perversely destroyed all the satisfaction of a party of pleasure, by not only finding, but seeking for fault upon every occasion, and affecting a variety of frivolous fears and apprehensions without cause. Female follies, like “states and empires, have their periods of declension;” and nearly half a century has passed away since it has been deemed elegant, or supposed interesting, to scream at a spider, shudder in a boat, orassert, with vehemence of terror, that a gun, though ascertained not to be charged, may still “go off.” The tendency to fly from one extreme to the other has ever been the characteristic of weak minds, and the party of weak minds will always support itself by a considerable majority, both among women and men. Something may be done by those minor moralists, modestly termed essayists and novelists, who have brought wisdom and virtue to dwell in saloons and drawing-rooms. Mrs. H. More and Miss Edgeworth have pretty well written down the affectation of assuming “the cap, the whip, the masculine attire,” and the rage for varnishing and shoe-making has of itself subsided, by the natural effect of total incongruity between the means and the end. Ladies are now contented to be ladies, that is, rational beings of the softer sex, and do not affect to be artists or mechanics. Nevertheless, some peculiarities of affectation do from time to time shoot up into notice, and call for the pruning-knife of the friendly satirist.

Agrestillais an agreeable, well-informed person of my own sex, from whose society I have derived great pleasure and advantage both in London and Paris. A few weeks since, she proposed to me to accompany her to spend some time in a small town in Normandy, for the benefit of country air: to this plan I acceded with great readiness; an apartment was secured by letter, and we proceeded on our journey.

I have lived too long in the world ever to expect unmixed satisfaction from any measure, and long enough never to neglect any precaution by which personal comfort is to be secured. To this effect I had represented, that perhaps it might be better to delay fixing on lodgings till we arrived, lest we should find ourselves bounded to the view of a market-place or narrow street, with, perchance, a butcher’s shop opposite our windows, and a tin-man or tallow-chandler next door to us. Agrestilla replied, that in London or Paris it was of course essential to one’s consideration in society to live in a fashionable neighbourhood, but that nobody minded those things “in the country.” In vain I replied, thatconsiderationwas not what I considered, but freedom from noise and bad smells: I was then laughed at for my fastidiousness,—“Who in the world would make difficulties about such trifles in thecountry, when one might be out of doors from morning till night!”

We arrived at the place of our destination; my mind expanded with pleasure at the sight of large rooms, wide staircases, and windows affording the prospect of verdure. The stone-floors and the paucity of window curtains, to say nothing of blinds to exclude the sun, appeared to me inconveniences to be remedied by the expenditure of a few francs; but Agrestilla, as pertinacious in her serenity as Althea in her querulousness, decided that we ought to take things in the rough, and make anything do “in the country.” Scraps of carpet and ells of muslin are attainable by unassisted effort, stimulated by necessity, and I acquired and maintained tolerable ease of mind and body, till we came to discuss together the grand article of society. My maxim is, the best or none at all. I love conversation, but hate feasting and visiting. Agrestilla lays down no maxim, but her practice is, good if possible—if not, second-best; at all events, a number of guests and frequent parties. Though she is not vain of her mind or of her person, yet the display of fine clothes and good dishes, and the secret satisfaction of shining forth the queen of her company, make up her enjoyment: Agrestilla’s taste is gregarious. To my extreme sorrow and apprehension, we received an invitation to dine with a family unknown to me, and living nine miles off! To refuse was impossible, the plea of preengagement is inadmissible with people who tell you to “choose your day,” and as to pretending to be sick, I hold it to be presumptuous and wicked. The conveyance was to be a cart! the time of departure six in the morning! Terrified and aghast, I demanded, “How are we to get through the day?” No work! no books! no subjects of mutual interest to talk upon!—“Oh! dear me, time soon passes ‘in the country;’ we shall be three hours going, the roads are very bad, then comes breakfast, and then walking round the garden, and then dinner and coming home early.” This invitation hung over my mind like an incubus,—like an eye-tooth firm in the head to be wrenched out,—like settling-day to a defaulter, or auricular confession to a ceremonious papist and bad liver. My only hope was in the weather. The clouds seemed to be for ever filling and for ever emptying, like the pitchers of the Danaides. The street, court, and garden became all impassable, without the loan of Celestine’ssabots(anglice wooden shoes.) Celestine is a stout Norman girl, who washes the dishes, and wears a holland-mob and a linsey-woolsey petticoat. Certainly, thought I, in my foolish security, while this deluge continues nobodywill think of visiting “in the country.” But vain and illusive was my hope! Agrestilla declared her intention of keeping her engagement “if it rained cats and dogs;” and the weather cleared up on the eve of my execution, and smiled in derision of my woe. The cart came. Jemmy Dawson felt as much anguish in his, but he did not feel it so long. We were lumbered with inside packages, bundles, boxes, and baskets, accumulated by Agrestilla; I proposed their being secured with cords (lashedis the sea-term) to prevent them from rolling about, crushing our feet and grazing our legs at every jolt. Agrestilla’s politeness supprest an exclamation of amazement, that people could mind such trifles “in the country!”—for her part, she never made difficulties.—Being obliged to maintain the equilibrium of my person by clinging to each side of the cart with my two hands, I had much to envy those personages of the Hindû mythology, who are provided with six or seven arms: as for my bonnet it was crushed into all manner of shapes, my brain was jarred and concussed into the incapacity to tell whether six and five make eleven or thirteen, and my feet were “all murdered,” as the Irish and French say. What exasperated my sufferings was the reflection on my own folly in incurring so much positive evil, to pay and receive a mere compliment! Had it been to take a reprieve to a dear friend going to be hanged, to carry the news of a victory, or convey a surgeon to the wounded, I should have thought nothing and said less of the matter; but for a mere dinner among strangers, a long day without interest and occupation!—really I consider myself as having half incurred the guilt of suicide. Six or seven times at least, the horse, painfully dragging us the whole way by the strain of every nerve and sinew, got stuck in the mud, and was to be flogged till he plunged out of it. More than once we tottered upon ridges of incrusted mud, when a very little matter would have turned us over. I say nothing aboutRutland—I abhor and disdain a pun—but we did nothing but cross ruts to avoid puddles, and cross them back again to avoid stones, and the ruts were all so deep as to leave but one semicircle of the wheel visible. I never saw such roads—the Colossus of Rhodes would have been knee-deep in them. At last we arrived—Agrestilla as much out of patience at my calling it an evil to have my shins bruised black and blue, while engaged in a party of pleasure “in the country,” as I to find the expedition all pain and no pleasure. We turned out of the cart in very bad condition; all our dress “clean put on,” as the housewives say, rumpled and soiled, our limbs stiff, our faces flushed, and by far too fevered to eat, and too weary to walk. How I thought, like a shipwrecked mariner, not upon my own “fireside,” as English novelists always say, but upon my quiet, comfortable room, books, work, independence, andotiumwith or withoutdignitate(let others decide that.) Oh! thefagof talking when one has nothing to say, smiling when one is ready to cry, and accepting civilities when one feels them all to be inflictions! Of the habits, the manners, the appearance, and the conversation of our hosts, I will relate nothing; I have eaten their bread, as the Arabs say, and owe them the tribute of thanks and silence. Agrestilla was as merry as possible all day; she has lived in the company of persons of sense and education, but—nobody expects refinement “in the country!” In vain I expostulate with her, pleading in excuse of what she terms my fastidiousness, that I cannot change my fixed notions of elegance, propriety, and comfort, to conform to the habits of those to whom such terms are aslingua francato a Londoner, what he neither understands nor cares for.

It is easy to conform one’s exterior to rural habits, by putting on a coarse straw hat, thick shoes, and linen gown, but the taste and feeling of what is right, the mental perception must remain the same. Nothing can be more surprising to an English resident in a country-town of France, than the jumble of ranks in society that has taken place since the revolution. I know a young lady whose education and manners render her fit for polished society in Paris; her mother goes about in a woollen jacket, and dresses the dinner, not from necessity, for that I should make no joke of, but from taste; and is as arrant an old gossip as ever lolled with both elbows over the counter of a chandler’s shop.—Her brother is agarde du corps, who spends his life in palaces and drawing-rooms, and she has one cousin a little pastry-cook, and another a washer-woman.—They have a lodger, a maiden lady, who lives on six hundred francs per annum, (about twenty-four pounds,) and of course performs every menial office for herself, and, except on Sundays, looks like an old weeding-woman; her brother has been a judge, lives in a fine house, buys books and cultivates exotics. Low company is tiresome in England, because it is ignorant and stupid; in France it is gross and disgusting. The notion of being merry andentertaining is to tell gross stories; thedemoisellessit and say nothing, simper and look pretty: what a pity it is that time should change them into coarse, hard-featuredcommères, like their mothers! The way in Normandy is to dine very early, and remain all the evening in the dinner-room, instead of going into a fresh apartment to take coffee. Agrestilla does not fail to conform to the latter plan in Paris, because people of fashion do so, and Agrestilla is a fashionable woman, but she wonders I should object to the smell of the dinner “in the country.” I have been strongly tempted to the crime of sacrilege by robbing the church for wax candles, none being to be got at “the shop.” My incapacity for rural enjoyments and simple habits is manifest to Agrestilla, from my absurdly objecting to the smell of tallow-candles “in the country.” Agrestilla’s rooms are profusely lighted with wax in Paris, “but nobody thinks of such a thing ‘in the country’ for nearly a month or two,”—as if life were not made up of months, weeks, and hours!

I am afraid, Mr. Editor, that I may have wearied you by my prolixity, but since all acumen of taste is to disappear, when we pass the bills of mortality, I will hope that my communication may prove good enough to be read—in thecountry.

FEMALE FRIENDSHIP.Joy cannot claim a purer bliss,Nor grief a dew from stain more clear,Than female friendship’s meeting kiss,Than female friendship’s parting tear.How sweet the heart’s full bliss to pourTo her, whose smile must crown the store!How sweeter still to tell of woesTo her, whose faithful breast would shareIn every grief, in every care,Whose sigh can lull them to repose!Oh! blessed sigh! there is no sorrow,But from thy breath can sweetness borrow;E’en to the pale and drooping flowerThat fades in love’s neglected hour;E’en with her woes can friendship’s pow’rOne happier feeling blend:’Tis from her restless bed to creep,And sink like wearied babe to sleep,On the soft couch her sorrows steep,The bosom of a friend.Miss Mitford.

Joy cannot claim a purer bliss,Nor grief a dew from stain more clear,Than female friendship’s meeting kiss,Than female friendship’s parting tear.How sweet the heart’s full bliss to pourTo her, whose smile must crown the store!How sweeter still to tell of woesTo her, whose faithful breast would shareIn every grief, in every care,Whose sigh can lull them to repose!Oh! blessed sigh! there is no sorrow,But from thy breath can sweetness borrow;E’en to the pale and drooping flowerThat fades in love’s neglected hour;E’en with her woes can friendship’s pow’rOne happier feeling blend:’Tis from her restless bed to creep,And sink like wearied babe to sleep,On the soft couch her sorrows steep,The bosom of a friend.

Miss Mitford.

LINES TO A SPARROW.Who comes to my Window everyMorning for his Breakfast.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 apeck, sir.I’m afraid it’s too plainYou’re a villain ingrain,But in that you resemble your neighbours,For mankind have agreedIt is right tosuck seed,Then, like you,hop the twigwith their labours.Besides this, master Dick,You of trade have the trick,In allbranchesyou traffic at will, sir;You have no need of shopsFor your samples ofhops,And can ev’ry day take up yourbill, sir.Then in foreign affairsYou may give yourselfairs,For I’ve heard it reported at home, sir,That you’re on the best termsWith thediet of Worms,And have often been tempted toRome, sir.Thus you feather your nestIn the way you like best,And live high without fear of mishap, sir;You are fond of yourgrub,Have a taste for someshrub,And forgin—there you understandtrap, sir.Tho’ the rivers won’t flowIn 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 aperchwith afly, sir.In love, too, oh Dick,(Tho’ you oft when love-sickOn the course of good-breeding may trample;And though often henpeck’d,Yet) you scorn to neglectTo set all mankind aneggsample.Youropinions, ’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 ashot,Dear Dicky, your humblecumtumble.[87]

Who comes to my Window everyMorning for his Breakfast.

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 apeck, sir.I’m afraid it’s too plainYou’re a villain ingrain,But in that you resemble your neighbours,For mankind have agreedIt is right tosuck seed,Then, like you,hop the twigwith their labours.Besides this, master Dick,You of trade have the trick,In allbranchesyou traffic at will, sir;You have no need of shopsFor your samples ofhops,And can ev’ry day take up yourbill, sir.Then in foreign affairsYou may give yourselfairs,For I’ve heard it reported at home, sir,That you’re on the best termsWith thediet of Worms,And have often been tempted toRome, sir.Thus you feather your nestIn the way you like best,And live high without fear of mishap, sir;You are fond of yourgrub,Have a taste for someshrub,And forgin—there you understandtrap, sir.Tho’ the rivers won’t flowIn 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 aperchwith afly, sir.In love, too, oh Dick,(Tho’ you oft when love-sickOn the course of good-breeding may trample;And though often henpeck’d,Yet) you scorn to neglectTo set all mankind aneggsample.Youropinions, ’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 ashot,Dear Dicky, your humblecumtumble.[87]

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 apeck, sir.

I’m afraid it’s too plainYou’re a villain ingrain,But in that you resemble your neighbours,For mankind have agreedIt is right tosuck seed,Then, like you,hop the twigwith their labours.

Besides this, master Dick,You of trade have the trick,In allbranchesyou traffic at will, sir;You have no need of shopsFor your samples ofhops,And can ev’ry day take up yourbill, sir.

Then in foreign affairsYou may give yourselfairs,For I’ve heard it reported at home, sir,That you’re on the best termsWith thediet of Worms,And have often been tempted toRome, sir.

Thus you feather your nestIn the way you like best,And live high without fear of mishap, sir;You are fond of yourgrub,Have a taste for someshrub,And forgin—there you understandtrap, sir.

Tho’ the rivers won’t flowIn 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 aperchwith afly, sir.

In love, too, oh Dick,(Tho’ you oft when love-sickOn the course of good-breeding may trample;And though often henpeck’d,Yet) you scorn to neglectTo set all mankind aneggsample.

Youropinions, ’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 ashot,Dear Dicky, your humblecumtumble.[87]

[87]Examiner Feb. 12, 1815.

Hut. Alderson, Bellman of Durham.

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

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

Old Song.

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, Ipray 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 deedsBeautrove,[88]andBeautrovensis, 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 avisiblevestige 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 fidestructure: the fact is, that, in the slang of Durham, (for the modernZion[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. Meritwillrise, 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, orHut. 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 inpropriâ 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,foundin 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 theancientpoems found in Redcliffe-church, and published by the unfortunate Chatterton—all “Rowleypowley,” &c. I have taken the liberty to modernize the spelling.

SAINT GILESHis 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 hisbrickfast,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 afarden: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 praiseTo 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, heWas 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 becomeA cure for sick folks—for its hallow’d:And many a pilgrim goes thereFrom 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 daysHe still paternosters and aves sung,His lungs were worn threadbare with praise,Till death, who slays priors, rest gave his tongueAnd sent him to sing in the spheres!12.It would be too long to tell hereOf how, when or where, the monks buried him.Suffice it to say, it seems clearThat 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 profundisClamavi ad te Domine!”Finis coronat opus.

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.

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.

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 hisbrickfast,He heard most celestial sounds,And saw something in a tree stick fast,Like a bundle of dirty old clothes.

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.

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 afarden: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!”

The prior stood quite in a maze,To hear such an infant so queerly call,So, humbling himself, he gave praiseTo 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, heWas thought by the good folks all round.

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.”

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!

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!

Thus saying he bent his way home,Now mark the event which has follow’d,The fount has from that time becomeA cure for sick folks—for its hallow’d:And many a pilgrim goes thereFrom 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 daysHe still paternosters and aves sung,His lungs were worn threadbare with praise,Till death, who slays priors, rest gave his tongueAnd sent him to sing in the spheres!

12.

It would be too long to tell hereOf how, when or where, the monks buried him.Suffice it to say, it seems clearThat 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 profundisClamavi 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 hasany failing, it is what has given the beautiful vermilion tint to that which, as it forms the most prominent feature inhisappearance, is made one of the most prominent features ofmymemoir. As a crier, I never liked him—his voice is toopiano, and wants a little of theforte.

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 byauction—

1 Boy.Speak up! speak up! Hut.

Hut.Hod your jaw—at the Queen’sheedin—

2 Boy.The town of Butterby.

Hut.I’ll smash your heed wi’ the bell—the Queen’sheedin theBailya—a large collectionof—

3 Boy.Pews, pulpits, and organs.

Hut.I’ll rap your canister—of valuable—buiksthe propertyof—

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 applyingto—

2 Boy.TommySly—

Hut.Mr. Thwaites on the premises: the sale to commence at seven o’clock in the eveningprizizely.

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 êtrefaux.”[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.

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