With a moody air, from morn till noon, King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon; 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 pourtray'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 Counsellors, 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 observed, 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 mustache, that fingering his ruff, Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale, With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail.