Punch, Or the London Charivari Volume 107, November 24, 1894 _edited by Sir Francis Burnand_ THE HAYMARKET HEROINE. [Illustration: A THRILLING MOMENT; OR, GO IN AND WYNN. THE REV. STEPHEN WYNN STARTLED BY A WOMAN WITH A GOOD MANY TAILS ABOUT HER!] Says Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL, "Wasn't I a quite first ranker, eh? As A. PINERO'S--_the_ PINERO'S--_Second Mrs. Tanqueray?_ We know that reputations great have often been, and _are_ made, By such a part, but not by Mister ARTHUR JONES'S barmaid. Though _then_ there was a chance when both the men began to gamble; Yet--no--I never cared for it," quoth Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL. "When at the T. R. H. I feared, and so did Mr. TREE, That HADDON CHAMBERS hadn't an apartment fit for me. _Kate Cloud_ is rather hazy; but they said 'there will for _you_ be "_bus_,"' (Theatrical for 'business')--which seems to me _in nubibus_. For I'm a shady heroine of squalor not romance, For passion and emotion I have barely got a chance. I'm in a yacht both first and last, and what becomes of _me_ } I am not very certain, and no more is Mr. TREE, } As at the finish both of us are thoroughly at sea. } For the villain there's CHARLES CARTWRIGHT, and, speaking for myself, I Preferred him when, more villainous, he was at the Adelphi. They talk a deal of Pat-mos (a name that sounds like two), A mixture of Hibernian that's 'Pat' with 'Moss,' He-_brew_, This coupled too with _John-a-Dreams_,--of course there's no offence Intended, yet it _has_ a smack of some irreve_rence_. The play's successful to a point, the critics say 'no doubt of it,' But were I Mister TREE I would cut thirty minutes out of it. I finish with no postscript, I commenced with no preamble, And sign myself devotedly, your PAULA PATRICK CAMPBELL." [Illustration: UNDER A CLOUD; OR, AN OXFORD (COMPACT) MIXTURE. HAROLD and HUBERT were two pretty men, Puzzled by plot when the clock strikes ten. Up jumps HAROLD, "A cloud in the sky!" "Comrade!" cries HUBERT, "how's _that_ for high?"] * * * * * NEW AND OLD. (_By One who prefers the Old._) Soft hair that ripples like a lake What time the water-lilies wake, Fair rosy cheeks and eyes of blue, Clear windows that the soul sees through, A moving grace, a brow of snow: Such were the girls we used to know. But now we tremble as we spy Woman's advancing majesty: The flashing eyes, the brows that knit, The ready tongue all themes to fit, The heavy stride--the hose in hue Unlike her eyes and deeply blue. Gone are the locks of golden brown That hung on gleaming shoulders down: Close-cropped as never Roundhead knave In sternest times aspired to shave, Not MILTON'S self, however blind, To toy with such had felt inclined.