The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

From morn till eve He does nothing but grieve;
Sighings and sobbings his midriff heave,
And he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve,
And he presses his feverish hand to his brow,
And he frowns and he looks I can't tell you how;
And the Spanish Grandees, In their degrees,
Are whispering about in twos and in threes,
And there is not a man of them seems at his ease,
But they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does,
With their very long whiskers, and longer Toledos.
Don Gaspar, Don Gusman, Don Juan, Don Diego,
Don Gomez, Don Pedro, Don Blas, Don Rodrigo,
Don Jerome, Don Giacomo join Don Alphonso
In making inquiries Of grave Don Ramirez,
The Chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so;
A Monarch so great that the soundest opinions
Maintain the sun can't set throughout his dominions.
But grave Don Ramirez In guessing no nigher is
Than the other grave Dons who propound these inquiries;
When, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his
Majesty beckons, with stately civility,
To Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez,
Who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is,
And Señor Don Manuel, Count de Pacheco,
A lineal descendant from King Pharaoh Neco,
Both Knights of the Golden Fleece, highborn Hidalgos,
With whom e'en the King himself quite as a “pal” goes.

“Don Lewis,” says he, “Just listen to me;
And you, Count Pacheco,—I think that we three
On matters of state, for the most part agree,—
Now you both of you know That some six years ago,
Being then, for a King, no indifferent Beau,
At the altar I took, like my forbears of old,
The Peninsula's paragon, Fair Blanche of Aragon,
For better, for worse, and to have and to hold—
And you're fully aware, When the matter took air,
How they shouted, and fired the great guns in the Square,

Cried “Viva!”—and rung all the bells in the steeple,
And all that sort of thing The mob do when a King
Brings a Queen-Consort home for the good of his people.
“Well!—six years and a day Have flitted away
Since that blessed event, yet I'm sorry to say—
In fact it's the principal cause of my pain—
I don't see any signs of an Infant of Spain!—
Now I want to ask you, Cavaliers true,
And Counsellors sage—what the deuce shall I do?—
The State—don't you see?—hey?—an heir to the throne—
Every monarch, you know, should have one of his own—
Disputed succession—hey?—terrible Go!—
Hum—hey?—Old fellows—you see!—don't you know?

Now Reader, dear, If you've ever been near
Enough to a Court to encounter a Peer
When his principal tenant's gone off in arrear,
And his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer,
And his butcher and baker, with faces austere,
Ask him to clear Off, for furnish'd good cheer,
Bills, they say, “have been standing for more than a year,”
And the tailor and shoemaker also appear
With their “little account” Of “trifling amount,”
For Wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and—gear
Which to name in society's thought rather queer,—
While Drummond's chief clerk, with his pen in his ear,
And a kind of a sneer, says, “We've no effects here!”
—Or if ever you've seen An Alderman keen
After turtle, peep into a silver tureen,
In search of the fat call'd par excellence “green.”
When there's none of the meat left—not even the lean!—
—Or if ever you've witness'd the face of a sailor
Return'd from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or
Poeticè “Boreas,” that “blustering railer,”
To find that his wife, when he hastens to “hail” her,
Has just run away with his cash—and a tailor—
If one of these cases you've ever survey'd,
You'll, without my aid, To yourself have portray'd

The beautiful mystification display'd,
And the puzzled expression of manner and air
Exhibited now by the dignified pair,
When thus unexpectedly ask'd to declare
Their opinions as Councillors, several and joint,
On so delicate, grave, and important a point.

Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez
At length forced a smile 'twixt the prim and the grim,
And look'd at Pacheco—Pacheco at him—
Then, making a rev'rence, and dropping his eyes,
Cough'd, hemm'd, and deliver'd himself in this wise:

“My Liege!—unaccustom'd as I am to speaking
In public—an art I'm remarkably weak in—
I feel I should be—quite unworthy the name
Of a man and a Spaniard—and highly to blame,
Were there not in my breast What—can't be exprest,—
And can therefore,—your Majesty,—only be guess'd—
—What I mean to say is—since your Majesty deigns
To ask my advice on your welfare—and Spain's,—
And on that of your Majesty's Bride—that is, Wife—
It's the—as I may say—proudest day of my life!

But as to the point—on a subject so nice
It's a delicate matter to give one's advice,
Especially, too, When one don't clearly view
The best mode of proceeding,—or know what to do:
My decided opinion, however, is this,
And I fearlessly say that you can't do amiss,
If, with all that fine tact Both to think and to act,
In which all know your Majesty so much excels—
You are graciously pleased to—ask somebody else!”

Here the noble Grandee Made that sort of congée,
Which, as Hill used to say, “I once happen'd to see”
The great Indian conjuror, Ramo Samee,
Make, while swallowing what all thought a regular choker,
Viz. a small sword as long and as stiff as a poker.

Then the Count de Pacheco, Whose turn 'twas to speak
omitting all preface, exclaim'd with devotion,
“Sire, I beg leave to second Don Lewis's motion!”

Now a monarch of Spain Of course could not deign
To expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain
Of an answer thus giv'n, or to ask them again;
So he merely observ'd, with an air of disdain,
“Well, Gentlemen,—since you both shrink from the task
Of advising your Sovereign—pray whom shall I ask?”
Each felt the rub, And in Spain, not a Sub,
Much less an Hidalgo, can stomach a snub,
So the noses of these Castilian Grandees
Rise at once in an angle of several degrees,
Till the under-lip's almost becoming the upper,
Each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper;
Their right hands rest On the left side the breast
While the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest
Make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind,
Till they're quite horizontal instead of inclined,
And Don Lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise
The disgust he experiences, gravely replies,
“Sire, ask the Archbishop—his Grace of Toledo!—
He understands these things much better than we do!”
—Pauca Verba!—enough, Each turns off in a huff
This twirling his moustache, that fingering his ruff,
Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale,
With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail

King Ferdinand paces the Royal saloon,
With a moody brow, and he looks like a “Spoon,”
And all the Court Nobles, who form the ring,
Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King,
All of them eyeing King Ferdinand
As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand,
Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro,—
“What is it can make the Archbishop so slow?”
Hark!—at last there's a sound in the courtyard below,
Where the Beefeaters all are drawn up in a row,—

I would say the “Guards” for in Spain they're in chief eaters
Of omelettes and garlick, and can't be call'd Beefeaters,
In fact, of the few Individuals I knew
Who ever had happened to travel in Spain,
There has scarce been a person who did not complain
Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain,
And no one I'm sure will deny it who's tried a
Vile compound they have that's called Olla podrida.
(This, by-the-bye 's a mere rhyme to the eye,
For in Spanish the i is pronounced like an e,
And they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the d.
In Castille, for instance, it's given through the teeth,
And what we call Madrid they sound more like Madreeth),
Of course you will see in a moment they've no men
That all correspond with our Beefeating Yeomen;
So call them “Walloons,” or whatever you please,
By their rattles and slaps they're not “standing at ease,”
But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting,
Some very great person among the Grandees;—
Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares,
“His Grace the Archbishop's a-coming up stairs!”

The most Reverend Don Garcilasso Quevedo
Was just at this time, as he Now held the Primacy,
(Always attached to the see of Toledo,)
A man of great worship officii virtute
Versed in all that pertains to a Counsellor's duty,
Well skill'd to combine Civil law with divine;
As a statesman, inferior to none in that line;
As an orator, too, He was equall'd by few;
Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen,
The very great power of three very great men,
Talleyrand,—who will never drive down Piccadily more
To the Travellers' Club-House!—Charles Phillips—and Phillimore.
Not only at home But even at Rome
There was not a Prelate among them could cope
With the Primate of Spain in the eyes of the Pope.

(The Conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he
'd long since been Cardinal, Legate à latere,
A dignity fairly his due, without flattery,
So much he excited among all beholders
Their marvel to see At his age—thirty-three
Such a very old head on such very young shoulders.)
No wonder the King, then, in this his distress,
Should send for so sage an adviser express,
Who, you'll readily guess, Could not do less
Than start off at once, without stopping to dress,
In his haste to get Majesty out of a mess.

His Grace the Archbishop comes up the back way—
Set apart for such Nobles as have the entrée,
Viz. Grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay—
Walks up to the monarch, and makes him a bow,
As a dignified clergyman always knows how,
Then replaces the mitre at once on his brow;
For in Spain, recollect, As a mark of respect
To the Crown, if a grandee uncovers, its quite
As a matter of option, and not one of right;
A thing not conceded by our Royal Masters,
Who always make noblemen take off their “castors,”
Except the heirs male Of John Lord Kinsale,
A stalwart old Baron, who, acting as Henchman
To one of our early Kings, kill'd a big Frenchman;
A feat which his Majesty deigning to smile on,
Allow'd him thenceforward to stand with his “tile” on;
And all his successors have kept the same privilege
Down from those barbarous times to our civil age.

Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob,
And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob,
“My Lord,” said the King, “here's a rather tough job,
Which it seems, of a sort is, To puzzle our Cortes,
And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I
Look to your Grace with no little anxiety
Concerning a point Which has quite out of joint
Put us all with respect to the good of society:—

Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir;
Now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare
That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one
Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one;
So put your considering cap on—we're curious
To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias.”

One without the nice tact Of his Grace would have backt
Out at once, as the Noblemen did,—and, in fact
He was, at the first, rather pozed how to act—
One moment—no more!— Bowing then as before,
He said, “Sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint
The “Most Catholic King” in the world that a Saint
Is the usual resource In these cases,—of course
Of your influence your Majesty well knows the force;
If I may be, therefore, allowed to suggest
The plan which occurs to my mind as the best,
Your Majesty may go At once to St Jago,
Whom, as Spain's patron Saint, I pick out from the rest:
If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks,
In all the approved Geographical books
You will find Compostella laid down in the maps
Some two hundred and sev'nty miles off; and, perhaps,
In a case so important you may not decline
A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine;
And, Sire, should you choose To put peas in your shoes,
The Saint, as a Gentleman, can't well refuse
So distinguish'd a Pilgrim, especially when he
Considers the boon will not cost him one penny!”

His speech ended, his Grace bow'd, and put on his mitre
As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter,
“Pooh! pooh!” says the King, “I shall do no such thing!
It's nonsense,—Old fellow—you see—no use talking—
The peas set apart, I abominate walking—
Such a deuced way off too—hey?—walk there—what me?
Pooh!—it's no Go, Old fellow!—you know—don't you see?”

“Well, Sire,” with much sweetness the Prelate replied,
“If your Majesty don't like to walk you can ride!

And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas,
A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert,
As a substitute under your Majesty's shirt;
Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,—
A few nettles tuck'd into your Majesty's waistband,—
Assafœtida mixed with your bouquet and civet,
I'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!”

“Pooh! pooh! I tell you,”
Quoth the King, “It won't do!”—
A cold perspiration began to bedew
His Majesty's cheek, and he grew in a stew,
When Jozé de Humez, the King's privy-purse-keeper,
(Many folks thought it could scarce have a worse keeper,)
Came to the rescue, and said with a smile,
“Sire, your Majesty can't go—'twould take a long while,
And you won't post it under two shillings a mile!!
Twenty-seven pounds ten To get there—and then
Twenty-seven pounds ten more to get back agen!!!
Sire, the tottle's enormous—you ought to be King
Of Golconda as well as the Indies, to fling
Such a vast sum away upon any such thing!”

At this second rebuff The Archbishop look'd gruff,
And his eye glanc'd on Humez as if he'd say “Stuff!”
But seeing the King seem'd himself in a huff,
He chang'd his demeanour, and grew smooth enough;
Then taking his chin 'twixt his finger and thumb,
As a help to reflection, gave vent to a “Hum!”
'Twas the pause of an instant—his eye assumed fast
That expression which says, “Come, I've got it at last!”

“There's one plan,” he resumed, “which with all due respect to
Your Majesty, no one, I think, can object to—
—Since your Majesty don't like the peas in the shoe—or to
Travel—what say you to burning a Jew or two?
Of all cookeries, most The Saints love a roast!
And a Jew's of all others the best dish to toast;

And then for a Cook We have not far to look—
Father Dominic's self, Sire, your own Grand Inquisitor,
Luckily now at your Court is a visitor;
Of his Rev'rence's functions there is not one weightier
Than Heretic-burning—in fact, 'tis his métier.
Besides Alguazils Who still follow his heels,
He has always familiars enough at his beck at home,
To pick you up Hebrews enough for a hecatomb!
And depend on it, Sire, such a glorious specific
Would make every Queen throughout Europe prolific!”

Says the King, “That'll do!
Pooh! pooh!—burn a Jew?
Burn half a score Jews—burn a dozen—burn two—
Your Grace, it's a match! Burn all you can catch,
Men, women, and children—Pooh! pooh!—great and small—
Old clothes—slippers—sealing-wax—Pooh!—burn them all!
For once we'll be gay, A Grand Auto-da-fé
Is much better fun than a ball or a play!”

So the warrant was made out without more delay,
Drawn, seal'd, and delivered, and

(Signed)
YO EL RE!