Chapter XVII: Canto II (2)

So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause;
But Antonio, like most of those sage "Johnny Raws"
Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws,
And think cheaply of "Old Father Antic," because
They have never experienced a gripe from his claws,
"Pooh pooh'd" the whole thing.--"Let the Smouch have his way--
Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty?--Nay,
It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay;
And, come what come may, I hardly need say
My ships will be back a full month ere the day."
So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey,
And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he
Affixed with all speed His name to a deed,
Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney.
Thus again furnished forth, Lord Bassanio, instead
Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread,
With fiddling and masques at the Saracen's Head,
In the morning "made play," And, without more delay,
Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day.
But scarcely had he From the harbour got free,
And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea,
Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news
That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's.

Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold,
Was as ugly a dog as you'd wish to behold,
For few in his tribe 'mongst their Levis and Moseses
Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his,
Still, whate'er the opinions of Horace and some be,
Your _aquilæ_ generate _some_times _Columbæ_.[24]
Like Jephthah, as Hamlet says, he'd "one fair daughter,"
And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her
A jewel--a gem of the very first water;
A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her,
And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her,
To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her,
That the very same night Bassanio thought right
To give all his old friends that farewell "invite,"
And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite,
On "wings made by a tailor" the damsel took flight.

By these "wings" I'd express A grey duffle dress,
With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule,
For an upper class boy in the National School.
Jessy ransack'd the house, popped her breeks on, and when so
Disguised, bolted off with her beau--one Lorenzo,
An "Unthrift," who lost not a moment in whisking
Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat
Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin.

Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket,
And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket
Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet,
Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing,
And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing,
Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best
To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest;
And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded,
For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did;
But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way,
The defunct Mr. P., who was now turned to clay,
Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant,
Left but a queer sort of "Last will and testament,"--
Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land,
&c., from motives one don't understand,
As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing,
To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing!

Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid;
In one of three caskets her picture she hid,
And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid.
A couple of Princes, a black and a white one,
Tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one.
Another from Naples, who shoed his own horses;
A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count D'Orsay's;--
A young English Baron;--a Scotch Peer his neighbour:--
A dull drunken Saxon, all mustache and sabre;--
All followed, and all had their pains for their labour.
Bassanio came last--happy man be his dole!
Put his conjuring cap on,--considered the whole,--
The gold put aside as Mere "hard food for Midas,"
The silver bade trudge As a "pale common drudge;"
Then choosing the little lead box in the middle,
Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.

Now you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say,
Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day,
Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome
Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact,
Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing,
Three months had gone by ere he reach'd the fifth act;
Meanwhile, that unfortunate bill became due,
Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew,
And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew,
For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do;
(The bitter old Israelite would not renew),
What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and embargoes, his
Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies,
None of the set having come into port,
And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court
For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.

The serious news Of this step of the Jew's,
And his fix'd resolution all terms to refuse,
Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of "the Blues,"
Especially, too, as it came from the pen
Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,--then,
When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when
The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.

"Dear Friend," it continued, "all's up with me--I
Have nothing on earth now to do but to die!
And, as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor;
I should take it as kind Could you come--never mind--
If your love don't persuade you, why--don't let this letter!"
I hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er
Ere a post-chaise and four
Was brought round to the door,
And Bassanio, though, doubtless, he thought it a bore,
Gave his Lady one kiss, and then started at score.
But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight,
Ere Portia, addressing a groom, said, "My lad, you a
Journey must take on the instant to Padua;
Find out there Bellario, a Doctor of Laws,
Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause,
And give him this note, Which I've hastily wrote,
Take the papers he'll give you--then push for the ferry
Below, where I'll meet you--you'll do't in a wherry,
If you can't find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it--
--Stay!--bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it."

Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack,
Made a bow to his mistress, then jump'd on its back,
Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack.
The Signora soon followed herself, taking as her
Own escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthazar.

* * * * *

"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met,
The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!"
As Captain Macheath says,--and when one's in debt,
The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know,
Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose,
As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes,
They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose;
Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late
A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state,
With his waistcoat unbutton'd, prepared for the knife,
Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life;
--On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor,
And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before,
Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands,
With his scales and his great _snicker-snee_ in his hands;
--Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands,
With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer,
Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer,
Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his _possible_
To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline,
And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine,
Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine,
Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line.
But vain are all efforts to soften him--still
He points to the bond He so often has conn'd,
And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will.

So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse,
Says, "I _can_ say no more--let the law take its course."

Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew,
As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe
From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,
With a business-like air was beginning to feel
Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,
When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel.
"Stay, Shylock," says he, "Here's one thing--you see
This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood!
--the words are 'A pound of flesh,'--that's clear as mud--
Slice away, then, old fellow--but mind!--if you spill
One drop of his claret that's not in your bill,
I'll hang you like Haman!--by Jingo I will!"

When apprized of this flaw, You never yet saw
Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw
As in Shylock, who cried, "Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"--
--Off went his three hats, And he look'd as the cats
Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw.
"--Ish't the law?"--why the thing won't admit of a query--
"No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act;
_Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri_--
Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt,
The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet.
See Foscari's 'Statutes at large'--'If a Stranger
A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger,
The whole of his property, little or great,
Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State,
And one to the person pursued by his hate;
And, not to create Any farther debate,
The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.'
So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy!
Defendant and Plaintiff are now _wisy wersy_."

What need to declare How pleased they all were
At so joyful an end to so sad an affair?
Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken,
His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?--
How Shylock got shaved, and turn'd Christian, though late,
To save a life-int'rest in half his estate?--
How the dandified Lawyer, who'd managed the thing,
Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring
Which Mrs. Bassanio had giv'n to her spouse,
With injunctions to keep it, on leaving the house?--
How when he, and the spark Who appeared as his clerk,
Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty coats,
There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats?--
How they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel,
Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel?--
How they scolded and broke out,
Till, having their joke out,
They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed,
Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night,
Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight,
Sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his Cressid?--

All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat,
But a story spun out so's by no means a treat,
So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains
I have taken to rummage among his remains,
No edition of Shakspeare, I've met with, contains;
But, if the account which I've heard be the true one,
We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.

In an MS., then, sold For its full weight in gold,
And knock'd down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told
It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain,
Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain;
Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again,
Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main,
Became known by the name of the "Flower of Dumblane."

That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen,
Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine,
And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint,
Acquired the well-merited prefix of "Saint,"
And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount,
Having given him a patent, and made him a Count,
He went over to England, got nat'ralis'd there,
And espous'd a rich heiress in Hanover Square.
That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew,
But converted, I think may be possibly true,
But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver,
By changing the _y_ in his name into _er_,
Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up,
And in Seventeen-twenty-eight make him a Bishop,
I cannot believe--but shall still think them two men
Till some Sage proves the fact "with his usual _acumen_."

MORAL.

From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard
If an Editor can't draw a moral.--'Tis clear,
Then,--In ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor's ear
A maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums,
"PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO CONUNDRUMS!!"

To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches,
"You're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches!"

Monied men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants it schools
To look well to assets--nor play with edge-tools!

Last of all, this remarkable History shews men,
What caution they need when they deal with old-clothesmen!
So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary,
And never let one of them come down the are'!

* * * * *

From St. Mark to St. Lawrence--from the Rialto to the Escurial--from one Peninsula to another!--it is but a hop, step, and jump--your toe at Genoa, your heel at Marseilles, and a good hearty spring pops you down at once in the very heart of Old Castille. That Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby, then a young man, was at Madrid soon after the peace of Ryswick, there is extant a long correspondence of his to prove. Various passages in it countenance the supposition that his tour was partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion is much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters, addressed, in after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then acting in the capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Although the Knight spent several months in Spain, and visited many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having actually "seen Seville," beyond the internal evidence incidentally supplied by the following legend. The events to which it alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date, though the genealogical records of the "Kings of both the Indies" have been in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing their precise date, and even Mr. Simpkinson's research has failed to determine which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand is the hero of the legend. The conglomeration of Christian names usual in the families of the _haute noblesse_ of Spain adds to the difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of prefixes is peculiar to the country in question, witness my excellent friend Field-Marshal Count Herman Karl Heinrich Socrates von der Nodgerrie zü Pfefferkorn, whose appellations puzzled the recording clerk of one of our Courts lately,--and that not a little.

That a splendid specimen of the _genus Homo, species Monk_, flourished in the earlier moiety of the 15th century, under the appellation of Torquemada, is notorious,--and this fact might seem to establish the era of the story; but then _his_ name was John--not Dominic--though he was a _Dominican_, and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have originated--but then again the Spanish Queen to whom he was Confessor was called Isabella, and not Blanche--it is a puzzling affair altogether.

From his own silence on the subject, it may well be doubted whether the worthy transcriber knew, himself, the date of the transactions he has recorded; the authenticity of the details, however, cannot be well called in question.--Be this as it may, I shall make no further question, but at once introduce my "pensive public" to

FOOTNOTES:

[24]

Nec imbellem feroces
Progenerant aquilæ columbam.--HOR.

THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.

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
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.

* * * * *

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 Ma_drid_ they sound more like Mad_reeth_,)
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!"

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

(Signed)
YO EL RE!