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Answer to the riddle in last week’s number.—­“Mire + t = Mitre.”

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Charles Haddon Spurgeon.

Born, June 19, 1834.  Died, Jan. 31, 1892.

  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!

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‘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!