All the flames and the devils were turn'd upside down On this habit, facetiously term'd _San Benito_, Much like the dress suit Of some nondescript brute From the show-van of Wombwell, (not George,) or Polito. And thrice happy they,[29] Dress'd out in this way To appear with _éclat_ at the _Auto-da-Fé_, Thrice happy indeed whom the good luck might fall to Of devils tail upward, and "_Fuego revolto_," For, only see there, In the midst of the Square, Where, perch'd up on poles six feet high in the air, Sit, chained to the stake, some two, three, or four pair Of wretches, whose eyes, nose, complexion, and hair Their Jewish descent but too plainly declare, Each clothed in a garment more frightful by far, a Smock-frock sort of gaberdine, call'd a _Samarra_, With three times the number of devils upon it,-- A proportion observed on the sugar-loaf'd bonnet, With this farther distinction--of mischief a proof-- That every fiend Jack stands upright on his hoof! While the pictured flames, spread Over body and head, Are three times as crooked, and three times as red! All, too, pointing upwards, as much as to say, "Here's the real _bonne bouche_ of the Auto-da-fé!" 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 fizzle; The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors, Sit, sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors,---- Enough!--no more!--Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er! The tragedy's done! and we now draw a veil O'er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail; The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket, The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket! The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners, King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their dinners, With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion Of having exhibited so much devotion, All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted At having seen so many "_Smouches_" ignited:-- All, save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his room is, And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair, Is puzzling to find out how much the "affair" (By deep calculations, the which I can't follow,) cost,-- The _tottle_, in short, _of the whole_ of the Holocaust.