_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.