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 giv'n 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 at all corresponds 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 equalled by few; Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen, The very great powers of three very great men, Talleyrand,—who will never drive down Piccadilly more To the Traveller's 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, it's 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 their influence your Majesty well knows the force; If I may be, therefore, allow'd 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,— Asafœtida mix'd 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 glanced on Humez as if he'd say "Stuff!" But seeing the King seem'd himself in a huff, He changed 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!"