  A LEGEND OF BLEEDING HEART YARD. Did you ever see the Devil dance?—Old Query. Sir Christopher Hatton he danced with grace, He'd a very fine form and a very fine face, I've heard, I confess, with no little surprise, English history called a farrago of lies; And a certain Divine, A connexion of mine, Who ought to know better, as some folks opine, Is apt to declare, Leaning back in his chair, With a sort of a smirking, self-satisfied air, That "all that's recorded in Hume, and elsewhere, "Of our early 'Annales' A trumpery tale is, "Like the 'bold Captain Smith's,' and the 'Luckless Miss Bayley's'— "That old Roger Hoveden, and Ralph de Diceto, "And others (whose names should I try to repeat o- "ver, well I'm assured you would put in your veto), "Though all holy friars, Were very great liars, "And raised stories faster than Grissel and Peto— "That Harold escaped with the loss of a 'glim'— "—That the shaft which killed Rufus ne'er glanced from a limb "Of a tree, as they say, but was aimed slap at him,— "That Fair Rosamond never was poisoned or spitted, "But outlived Queen Nell, who was much to be pitied;— "That Nelly her namesake, Ned Longshanks's wife, "Ne'er went crusading at all in her life, "Nor suck'd the wound made by the poison-tipped knife! "For as she, O'er the sea, "Towards far Galilee, "Never, even in fancy, march'd carcass or shook shanks, Then if, as he vows, both this country and France in, Historians thus gave themselves up to Romancing, Notwithstanding what most of them join in advancing Respecting Sir Christopher's capering and prancing, 'Twill cause no surprise If we find that his rise Is not to be solely ascribed to his dancing! The fact is, Sir Christopher, early in life, As all bachelors should do, had taken a wife, A Fanshawe by family,—one of a house Well descended, but boasting less "nobles" than nous; Though e'en as to purse He might have done worse, For I find, on perusing her Grandfather's will, it is Clear she had "good gifts beside possibilities," Now, they're all very well, titles, honour, and rank, Still we can't but admit, if we choose to be frank, There's no harm in a snug little sum in the Bank! An old proverb says, "Pudding still before praise!" An adage well known I've no doubt in those days, And George Colman the Younger, in one of his plays, Makes one of his characters loudly declare That "a Lord without money,"—I quote from his "Heir- At-Law"—"'s but a poor wishy-washy affair!"— In her subsequent conduct I think we can see a Strong proof the Dame entertain'd some such idea, For, once in the palace, We find Lady Alice Again playing tricks with her Majesty's chalice In the way that the jocose, in "No end" now he commands Of money and lands, And, as George Robins says, when he's writing about houses, "Messuages, tenements, crofts, tofts, and outhouses," Parks, manors, chases, She "gives and she grants, To him and his heirs, and his uncles and aunts;" Whatever he wants, he has only to ask it, And all other suitors are "left in the basket," Till Dudley and Rawleigh Began to look squally, While even grave Cecil, the famous Lord Burleigh, Himself, "shook his head," and grew snappish and surly. All this was fine sport, As our authors report, To dame Alice, become a great Lady at Court, Where none than her Ladyship's husband look'd bigger, Who "led the brawls" Now it's really a difficult problem to say How long matters might have gone on in this way, If it had not unluckily happened one day That NICK,—who, because He'd the gout in his claws, And his hoofs—(he's by no means so young as he was, And is subject of late to a sort of rheumatic a- -ttack that partakes both of gout and sciatica,)— All the night long had twisted and grinn'd, His pains much increased by an easterly wind, Which always compels him to hobble and limp, Was strongly advised by his Medical Imp To lie by a little, and give over work, For he'd lately been slaving away like a Turk, Now scarce had Nick turn'd over one page, or two, Ere a prominent item attracted his view, A Bill!—that had now been some days overdue, From one Alice Hatton, nÉe Fanshawe—a name Which you'll recognise, reader, at once as the same With that borne by Sir Christopher's erudite dame! The signature—much more prononcÉe than pink, Seem'd written in blood—but it might be red ink— While the rest of the deed He proceeded to read, Like ev'ry "bill, bond, or acquittance" whose date is Three hundred years old, ran in Latin,—"Sciatis (Diaboli?) omnes ad quos hÆc pervenient"— —But courage, dear Reader, I mean to be lenient, And scorn to inflict on you half the "Law-reading" I picked up "umquhile" in three days' Special-pleading, Which cost me—a theme I'll not pause to digress on— Just thirty-three pounds six-and-eightpence a lesson— "As I'm stout, I'll be merciful," therefore, and sparing All those technicalities, end by declaring The Deed so correct As to make one suspect, (Were it possible any such person could go there) Old Nick had a Special Attorney below there: 'Twas so fram'd and express'd no tribunal could shake it, And firm as red wax and black ferret could make it. By the roll of his eye As Old Nick put it by, It was clear he had made up his mind what to do In respect to the course he should have to pursue, When his hoof would allow him to put on a shoe!! No, although the Lord Keeper held under the crown, house And land in the country—he'd never a Town-house, And, as we have seen, His course always had been, When he wanted a thing, to solicit the Queen, So now, in the hope of a fresh acquisition, He danced off to Court with his "Humble Petition." The Queen, when she heard This petition preferred, Gave ear to Sir Christopher's suit at a word;— "Odds Bobs, my good Lord!" was her gracious reply, "I don't know, not I, Any good reason why "A Lord Keeper, like you, should not always be nigh "To advise—and devise—and revise—our supply— "A House! we're surprised that the thing did not strike "Us before—Yes!—of course!—Pray, whose House would you like? "When I do things of this kind, I do them genteelly, "A House?—let me see! there's the Bishop of Ely! "A capital mansion, I'm told, the proud knave is in, "Up there in Holborn, just opposite Thavies' Inn— "Where the Strawberries grow so fine and so big, "Which our Grandmother's Uncle tucked in like a pig, "King Richard the Third, which you all must have read of— "The day,—don't you know?—he cut Hastings' head off— "And mark me, proud Prelate!—I'm speaking to you, "Bishop Heaton!—you need not, my lord, look so blue— "Give it up on the instant! I don't mean to shock you, "Or else by ——!—(The Bishop was shocked!)—I'll unfrock you!!" The Queen turns abruptly her back on the group, The Courtiers all bow as she passes, and stoop To kiss, as she goes, the hind flounce of her hoop, And Sir Christopher, having thus danced to some tune, Skips away with much glee in his best rigadoon! While poor Bishop Heaton, Who found himself beaten, In serious alarm at the Queen's contumelious And menacing tone, at once gave him up Ely House, With every appurtenance thereto belonging, Including the strawberry beds 'twas so strong in; Politely he bow'd to the gratified minion, And said, "There can be, my good lord, in opinion No difference betwixt yours And mine as to fixtures, And tables, and chairs— We need no survey'rs— Take them just as you find them, without reservation, Grates, coppers, and all, at your own valuation!" Well, the day for the rout At length came about, And the bells of St. Andrew's rang merrily out, As horse-litter, coach, and pad-nag, with its pillion, (The mode of conveyance then used by the "Million,") All gallant and grand, Defiled from the Strand, Some through Chancery (then an unpaved and much wetter) Lane, Others through Shoe (which was not a whit better) Lane; Others through Fewtar's (corrupted to Fetter) Lane; Some from Cheapside, and St. Mary-le-Bow, From Bishopsgate Street, Dowgate Hill, A flourish, trumpets!—sound again!— He comes, bold Drake, the chief who made a Fine hash of all the pow'rs of Spain, And so serv'd out their Grand Armada: Room for my Lord!—proud Leicester's Earl Retires awhile from courtly cares, Who took his wife, poor hapless girl! And pitch'd her neck and heel down stairs; Proving, in hopes to wed a richer, If not her "friend," at least her "pitcher." A flourish, trumpets! strike the drums! Will Shakspeare, never of his pen sick, Is here—next Doctor Masters comes, Renown'd afar for curing men sick,— Queen's Serjeant Barham Room! Room! for great Cecil!—place, place for his Dame!— Room! Room! for Southampton—for Sidney, whose name As a Preux Chevalier, in the records of Fame, "Beats Banagher"—e'en now his praises, we all sing 'em, Knight, Poet, Gentleman!—Room! for sage Walsingham!— Room! for Lord Hunsdon!—for Sussex!—for Rawleigh!— For Ingoldsby!! Oh! it's enough to appal ye! Dear me! how they call! How they squall! how they bawl! This dame has lost her shoe—that one her shawl— My lord's got a tumble—my lady a fall!— Now a Hall! a Hall! A Brawl! a Brawl! Here's my Lord Keeper Hatton, so stately and tall! Has led out Lady Hunsdon to open the Ball! Fiddlers! Fiddlers! fiddle away! Resin your catgut! fiddle and play! A roundelay! Fiddle away! Obey! obey!—hear what they all say! Hip!—Music!—Nosey!!—play up there!—play! Never was anything half so gay As Sir Christopher Hatton's grand holiday! The clock strikes twelve!—Who cares for the clock? Who cares for——Hark!—What a loud Single-knock! Dear me! dear me! Who can it be?— Why, who can be coming at this time of night, With a knock like that honest folk to affright?— Gracious me what an entrechat! Oh, what a bound! Then with what an a-plomb he comes down to the ground! Look there! look there! Now he's up in the air! Now he's here!—now he's there—now he's no one knows where!— See! see!—he's kick'd over a table and chair! There they go!—all the strawberries, flowers, and sweet herbs, Turn'd o'er and o'er, Down on the floor, Ev'ry caper he cuts oversets or disturbs All the "Keen's Seedlings" and "Wilmot's Superbs!" There's a pirouette!—we're All a great deal too near! A ring!—give him room or he'll "shin" you—stand clear! There's a spring again!—oh! 'tis quite frightful!—oh dear! His toe's broke the top of the glass chandelier!! Now he's down again!—look at the congees and bows And salaams which he makes to the Dame of the House, Lady Alice, the noble Lord Treasurer's spouse! Come, now we shall view A grand pas de deux Perform'd in the very first style by these two —But no!—she recoils—she could scarce look more pale if Instead of a Beau's 'twas the bow of a Bailiff!— He holds out his hand—she declines it, and draws Back her own—see!—he grasps it with horrid black claws, Like the short, sharp, strong nails of a Polar Bear's paws!! Then she "scream'd such a scream!" Such another, I deem, As, long after, Miss Mary Brown tb THE HOUSE-WARMING. While the fingers and thumb of the hand he had got In his clutches became on the instant red hot!! Now he whirls and he twirls Through the girls in their curls, And their rouge, and their feathers, and diamonds, and pearls; Now high,—now low,— Now fast, and now slow, In terrible circumgyration they go, The flame-coloured Belle and her coffee-faced Beau! Up they go once! and up they go twice!— Round the hall!—round the hall!—and now up they go thrice! Now one grand pirouette, the performance to crown! Now again they go up!!—and they never come down!!! The thunder roars! And the rain it pours! And the lightning comes in through the windows and doors! Then more calling, and bawling, And squalling, and falling, Oh! what a fearful "stramash" they are all in! Out they all sally, The whole corps de ballet— Some dash down Holborn-hill into the valley, Where stagnates Fleet Ditch at the end of Harp Alley, Some t'other way, with a speed quite amazing, Nor pause to take breath till they get beyond Gray's Inn. In every sense of the word, such a rout of it, Never was made in London, or out of it! When they came the next day to examine the scene, There was scarcely a vestige of all that had been; The beautiful tapestry, blue, red, and green, Was all blacken'd and scorch'd, and look'd dirty and mean, All the crockery broken, dish, plate, and tureen! While those who look'd up could perceive in the roof One very large hole in the shape of a hoof! Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say No traces have ever been found to this day, Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away; But out in the court-yard—and just in that part Where the pump stands—lay bleeding a large Human Heart! And sundry large stains Of blood and of brains, Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains, Appear'd on the wood, and the handle and chains, As if somebody's head with a very hard thump, Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump. That pump is no more!—that of which you've just read,— But they've put a new iron one up in its stead, Moral. Fair ladies, attend! And if you've a "friend At Court," don't attempt to bamboozle or trick her! —Don't meddle with negus, or any mix'd liquor!— Don't dabble in "Magic!" my story has shown How wrong 'tis to use any charms but your own! Young Gentlemen, too, may, I think, take a hint Of the same kind, from what I've here ventured to print, All Conjuring's bad! they may get in a scrape Before they're aware, and whatever its shape, They may find it no easy affair to escape. It's not every body that comes off so well From leger-de-main tricks as Mr. Brunel. Don't dance with a Stranger who looks like a Guy, And when dancing don't cut your capers too high! Depend on't the fault's in Your method of waltzing, If ever you kick out the candles—don't try! At a ball or a play, Or any soirÉe, When a petit souper constitutes the "AprÈs," If strawb'ries and cream with Champagne form a part, Take care of your Head!—and take care of your Heart! If you want a new house For yourself and your spouse, Buy, or build one,—and honestly pay, every brick, for it! Don't be so green as to go to Old Nick for it— —Go to George Robins—he'll find you "a perch," (Dulce domum's his word,) without robbing the Church! The last piece of advice which I'd have you regard Is, "don't go of a night into Bleeding-Heart-Yard," It's a dark, little, dirty, black, ill-looking square, With queer people about, and unless you take care, You may find, when your pocket's clean'd out and left bare, That the iron one is not the only "Pump" there! FOOTNOTES: Sir Hugh Evans. The grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,
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