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 brickfast,
He heard most celestial sounds,
And saw something in a tree stick fast,
Like a bundle of dirty old clothes.
3.