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* * * * * YOU saw go up and down Valladolid, | |
| A man of mark, to know next time you saw. | |
| His very serviceable suit of black | |
| Was courtly once and conscientious still, | |
| And many might have worn it, though none did: | 5 |
| The cloak that somewhat shone and showed the threads | |
| Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. | |
| He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, | |
| Scenting the world, looking it full in face, | |
| An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. | 10 |
| They turned up, now, the alley by the church, | |
| That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves | |
| On the main promenade just at the wrong time. | |
| You ’d come upon his scrutinizing hat, | |
| Making a peaked shade blacker than itself | 15 |
| Against the single window spared some house | |
| Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work; | |
| Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick | |
| Trying the mortar’s temper ’tween the chinks | |
| Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. | 20 |
| He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, | |
| The man who slices lemons into drink, | |
| The coffee-roaster’s brazier, and the boys | |
| That volunteer to help him turn its winch. | |
| He glanced o’er books on stalls with half an eye, | 25 |
| And fly-leaf ballads on the vender’s string, | |
| And broad-edged bold-print posters by the wall. | |
| He took such cognizance of men and things, | |
| If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; | |
| If any cursed a woman, he took note; | 30 |
| Yet stared at nobody,—they stared at him, | |
| And found, less to their pleasure than surprise, | |
| He seemed to know them and expect as much. | |
| So, next time that a neighbor’s tongue was loosed, | |
| It marked the shameful and notorious fact, | 35 |
| We had among us, not so much a spy, | |
| As a recording chief-inquisitor, | |
| The town’s true master if the town but knew! | |
| We merely kept a Governor for form, | |
| While this man walked about and took account | 40 |
| Of all thought, said, and acted, then went home, | |
| And wrote it fully to our Lord the King, | |
| Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, | |
| And reads them in his bedroom of a night. * * * * * | |
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