Sturdy saint-militant, stout, genial soul, Through good and ill report you've reached the goal Of all brave effort, and attained that light Which makes our clearest noontide seem as night. How much 'twill show us all! We boast our clarity Of spiritual sense, but mutual charity Is still our nearest need when faith grows fierce And even hope earth's mists can hardly pierce. You were much loved; you spake a potent word In the world's ear, and listening thousands heard With joy that clear and confident appeal. The lingering doubts finer-strung spirits feel, The sensitive shrinkings from familiar touch Of the high mysteries, moved you not. Of such The great throng-stirrers! And you stirred the throng Who felt you honest and who knew you strong; Racy of homely earth, yet spirit-fired With all their higher moods felt, loved, desired. Puritan, yet of no ascetic strain Or arid straitness, freshening as the rain And healthy as the clod; a native force Incult yet quickening, cleaving its straight course Unchecked, unchastened, conquering to the end. Crudeness may chill, and confidence offend, But manhood, mother wit, and selfless zeal, Speech clear as light, and courage true as steel Must win the many. Honest soul and brave, The greatest drop their garlands on your grave! * * * * * 'LOOK HERE, UPON THIS PICTURE AND ON THIS!' (_THE HAYMARKET HAMLET AS HE IS AND OUGHT TO BE._) [Illustration] _Mr. H. Kemble_. "My dear Tree, _I_ ought to have played _Hamlet_. First, my name--Kemble. Secondly, Shakspeare's authority--'Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt,' and again, 'Fat and scant of breath'!" _Mr. B. Tree_. "All right, my dear Kemble. Quite true what you say; and, any night I am unable to play, you shall be my double!" * * * * * WHIPPED IN VAIN. (_BY AN M.P. OF A RETIRING NATURE._) The Whip, he writes to me to-day, Not, as his wont, in tones pacific, But in the very strongest way, And using language quite terrific. He hopes to see me in my place, And woe betide the sad seceder, Whose absence helps to throw disgrace Both on his Party and his Leader. I throw my hat up to the sky. At taunts of treason or defection I flip my fingers. What care I? _For I do NOT seek re-election!_ * * * * * "THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH."--According to the _Times_ of Friday last, February 5, Cardinal MANNING died practically a pauper. He had given everything away in charity. He was a "Prince of the Church," and his gifts to others were, indeed, princely. In the wills and deeds of how many of our Very Reverend and Right Reverend Lordships shall we find nothing gathered up and bequeathed of the loaves and fishes which have fallen to their share? Such a testament as the Cardinal's would be in quite a New Testamentary spirit. * * * * *