am inclined to think that I am those three men So that you will understand. Well, my dear Pope, I hear on all hands That you are engaged, at the present moment, In the cheerful act and process Of having a Jubilee. I have had several myself And I know what pleasant little functions they are, Especially when the King Sends a mission to congratulate one on them. To proceed, You must know, my dear Pope, That, by conviction And in my own delightful country, I am a rabid, saw-toothed Kensitite Protestant; All my ancestors figure gloriously In Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," And, if they don't, they ought to. Also, I never go into Smithfield Without thinking of the far-famed fires thereof And thanking my lucky stars That this is Protestant England And that the King defends the Faith. But, when I get on to the Continent, To do my week-end in Paris, Or my "ten days at lovely Lucerne," Or my walk with Dr. Lunn "In the footsteps of St. Paul," Why, then, somehow The bottom falls clean out of my Kensitariousness And I become a decent, mass-hearing, candle-burning Catholic. That is curious, but true, And may probably be accounted for By differences of climate. However, we can leave that; Here, in England, my dear Pope, We all like you, Whether we be Catholics or Protestants or Jews or Gentiles or members of the Playgoers' Club; And we all see you, in our minds' eye, Seated benevolently upon your throne Giving people blessings; Or walking in the Vatican Garden Clothed on with simple white. We all think of you, my beloved Pope, As a diaphanous and dear old gentleman Whose intentions are the kindest in the world. And yet, and yet, and yet— The memory of Smithfield So rages in our honest British blood That, in spite of your white garments And your placid, gentle ways, We feel quite sure that you do carry, Somewhere about your person, A box of matches; And that, if certain people had their way, You would soon be lighting such a candle in England That we should want a new Foxe And a new Book of Martyrs Of about the size of a pantechnicon. Hence it is, my dear Pope, That we—er—Englishmen remain Protestant And make the King swear fearful oaths Against popery and all its works, Although, for aught one knows to the contrary, He may have Mass said twice daily Behind the curtain, as it were. All the same, I wish you good wishes As to this your Jubilee And Nihil obstat. 

 

 

   TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN 

 (Touching his Audience of the King) 

 Prev. P 7/34 next