  A LEGEND OF SPAIN. 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 "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, 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. 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. 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 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; 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 "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,— Asafoetida 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! 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! Canto II. There is not a nation in Europe but labours To toady itself, and to humbug its neighbours— "Earth has no such folks—no folks such a city, So great, or so grand, or so fine, or so pretty," Said Louis Quatorze, "As this Paris of ours!" —Mr. Daniel O'Connell exclaims, "By the Pow'rs, Ould Ireland's on all hands admitted to be The first flow'r of the earth, and first Gim of the sea!"— —Mr. Bull will inform you that Neptune,—a lad he, With more of affection than rev'rence, styles "Daddy,"— Did not scruple to "say To Freedom, one day," That if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land, His home should be Mr. B.'s "Tight little Island."— He adds, too, that he, The said Mr. B., Of all possible Frenchmen can fight any three; That, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them, To meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.— —In Italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter; There each Lazzarone Will cry to his crony, "See Naples, then die! Yes! thou art "Wonderful!"—but oh, 'Tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright As thine, fair Seville, sounds of woe, And shrieks of pain, and wild affright, And soul-wrung groans of deep despair, And blood, and death should mingle there! Yes! thou art "Wonderful!"—the flames That on thy towers reflected shine, While earth's proud Lords and high-born Dames, Descendants of a mighty line, All speak thee "Wonderful"—the phrase Befits thee well—the fearful blaze Of yon piled faggots' lurid light, Where writhing victims mock the sight,— The scorch'd limb shrivelling in its chains,— The hot blood parch'd in living veins,— The crackling nerve—the fearful knell Rung out by that remorseless bell,— Those shouts from human fiends that swell,— That withering scream,—that frantic yell,— All Seville,—all too truly tell Thou art a "Marvel"—and a Hell! God!—that the worm whom thou hast made Should thus his brother worm invade! Count deeds like these good service done, And deem Thine eye looks smiling on!! Yet there at his ease, with his whole Court around him, King Ferdinand sits "in his Glory"—confound him!— Leaning back in his chair, With a satisfied air, And enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother, With one knee cocked carelessly over the other; His pouncet-box goes To and fro at his nose, As somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes, And seeming to hint, by this action emphatic, That Jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic; There, too, fair Ladies From Xeres, and Cadiz, Catalinas, and Julias, and fair IÑesillas, In splendid lace-veils and becoming mantillas; Elviras, Antonias, and Claras, and Floras, And dark-eyed Jacinthas, and soft Isidoras, Are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly as Though 'twas but one of their common tertulias, Partaking, as usual, of wafers and ices, Snow-water, and melons cut out into slices, And chocolate,—furnished at coffee-house prices; While many a suitor, And gay coadjutor In the eating-and-drinking line, scorns to be neuter; One, being perhaps just return'd with his tutor From travel in England, is tempting his "future" With a luxury neat as imported, "The Pewter," And charming the dear Violantes and IÑeses 'Twas just the same thing with his own race and nation, And Christian Dissenters of every persuasion, Muggletonian, or Quaker, Or Jumper, or Shaker, No matter with whom in opinion partaker, George Whitfield, John Bunyan, or Thomas Gat-acre, They'd no better chance than a Bonze or a Fakir; If a woman, it skill'd not—if she did not deem as he Bade her to deem touching Papal supremacy, By the Pope, but he'd make her! From error awake her, Or else—pop her into an oven and bake her! No one, in short, ever came half so near as he Did, to the full extirpation of heresy; And if, in the times of which now I am treating, There had been such a thing as a "Manchester Meeting," "Pretty pork" he'd have made "Moderator" and "Minister," Had he but caught them on his side Cape Finisterre;— Pye Smith, and the rest of them once in his bonfire, hence- -forth you'd have heard little more of the "Conference." And—there on the opposite side of the ring, He, too, sits "in his Glory," confronting the King, With his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely, That matched with his en bon point body but queerly, For, though grim his visage, his person was pursy, Belying the rumour Of fat folks' good-humour; Above waves his banner of "Justice and Mercy," And thrice happy they, Torquemada, meanwhile, With his cold, cruel smile, Sits looking on calmly, and watching the pile, As his hooded "Familiars" (their names, as some tell, come From their being so much more "familiar" than "welcome,") Have, by this time, begun To be "poking their fun," And their firebrands, as if they were so many posies Of lilies and roses, Up to the noses Of Lazarus Levi, and Money Ben Moses; While similar treatment is forcing out hollow moans From Aby Ben Lasco, and Ikey Ben Solomons, Whose beards—this a black, that inclining to grizzle— Are smoking, and curling, and all in a tb THE AUTO-DA-FÉ. And many a Pater, and Ave, and Credo Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo, (The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo,) Who came, as before, at a very short warning, Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning; Shut up, as they were, With nobody there To at all interfere with so pious a pair; And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed, If they had not allow'd all these pains to succeed. Nay, it's not clear to me but their very ability Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt, Had the Royal bed still remain'd curs'd with sterility; St. Jago, however, who always is jealous In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us, And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw In Spain's welfare, would soon sing "Old Rose, burn the bellows!" Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows; By his interference, Three-fourths of a year hence, There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing, Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing, In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals, Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging, Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang goes; And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay, Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky, (Save Moore's "Blakes and O'Donnells," who stick to the whisky;) Moral. Reader!—Not knowing what your "persuasion" may be, Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee, Take a little advice which may serve for all three! First—"When you're at Rome, do as Rome does!" and note all her Ways—drink what She drinks! and don't turn Tea-totaler! In Spain, raison de plus, You must do as they do, Inasmuch as they're all there "at sixes and sevens," Just, as you know, They were, some years ago, In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans; Don't be nice, then—but take what they've got in their shops, Whether griskins, or sausages, ham, or pork-chops! Next—Avoid Fancy-trousers!—their colours and shapes Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes! For myself, I confess I've but small taste in dress, My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing—or less— But some friends I've consulted,—much given to watch one's Apparel—do say It's by far the best way, And the safest, to do as Lord Brougham does—buy Scotch ones! I might now volunteer some advice to a King,— Let Whigs say what they will, I shall do no such thing, But copy my betters, and never begin Until, like Sir Robert, "I'm duly called in!" In the windows of the great Hall, as well as in those of the long Gallery, and the Library at Tappington, are, and have been many In this document it will be perceived that the death of Lady Alice Ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by suspension, whereas in the veritable legend annexed no allusion is made to the intervention of a halter. Unluckily Sir Ingoldsby left no issue, or we might now be "calling Cousins" with (ci devant) Mrs. Otway Cave, in whose favour the abeyance of the old Barony of Bray has recently been determined by the Crown. To this same Barony we ourselves were not without our pretensions, and, teste Simpkinson, had "as good a right to it as any body else." The "Collective wisdom of the Country" has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very numerous class of claimants who are "wrongfully kept out of their property and dignities—by the right owners." I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded King Henry the Fifth with the Duke of Monmouth, and positively deny that he has ever represented Walter Lord Clifford, (father to Fair Rosamond,) as the leader of the O. P. row. FOOTNOTES: "Quem naÕ tem visto Lisboa "Rio verde, Rio verde, etc." Propria quÆ maribus. "That is, She would have order'd them—but none are known, I fear, as his, (Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq.) |
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