THE HAYMARKET HEROINE.

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 irreverence. 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."

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. O monstrous growth of modern times, Not thine the lilt of lover's rhymes, Whom some grim don perchance may wed, Who scorns the heart and sues the head: Farewell for ever and a day, Miss Araminta Jones, B.A.!

"THE FOURTH R." 'Twas "The Three R's" they promised us, but now They're merged in a bad fourth—Religious (?) Row! ["The so-called 'compromise' of 1871 was based on the assumption that, when all the differences of our English Christendom were struck out, there would be found the beating heart of 'a common Christianity' sending a quickening life through all its members.... Believing it not impossible for 'all who profess and call themselves Christians' to reconcile themselves to these two forms, elementary and supplementary, I earnestly commend them for peaceful co-existence to the conflicting parties of School Board electors and members."—Dr. James Martineau's Letter to the "Times" of November 14.] O wise and gentle teacher, whose appeal Is to the common heart, whilst general anger Distracts and darkens all our commonweal, And schools and churches ring with noisy clangour; Would they but heed thy loving call, though late, How would the prospect brighten! Zeal fanatic With disingenuous dodges of debate, Insidious cant, assumption autocratic, Secular spleen, short-sighted super-thrift,— All are at furious odds, wild-warring, windy, Intent, 'twould seem, to whelm a glorious gift In the loud whirlpool of sectarian shindy! "The beating heart"? It seems a mingled maze Of beating hands, and bludgeons wildly waving. How send "a quickening life" through this dull craze Of deadly, deadening rancour rudely raving? What is their task, these teachers of the untaught, These would-be lighteners of our mental blindness? What is the lesson the child-crowds have caught From these tumultuous foes of human-kindness? They told us, in quaint diction, the Three R's Should renovate the land, refine the people; Break down at last low-birth's invidious bars. Alas! What rings from school-tower and church-steeple? Not the harmonious heaven-aspiring sound Of blessing-bearing bells, but furious clashing Of cracked creed-tocsins, spreading wrath around, Love's efforts thwarting, wisdom's high hopes dashing. Where be the "Three R's" now? Sectarian schism Has cloven up the compromise, and ended In Ugly Rush! See rampant Rileyism Shaking its standard at the door, attended Close by the Nonconformist banner-bearer,— "Religion without Dogma!" blazoned boldly,— Denouncing the first "R" as child-ensnarer Into a fold whereon his creed looks coldly, Whilst hating hotly one who hotly hates His shibboleth as vague and vain and vapid. Next, vigorous be-rater of the Rates, Whose rise he vows is ruinously rapid, Unsympathetic Gallio of the Shop Pence-saving soul and strenuous till-protector, The third R rages. Stop, mad zealots, stop! Lest all the toil of Board and School Inspector, Teacher and taught, end in one fourth R—ROW! A vulgar term, my masters, unscholastic; But—the great lesson ye are teaching now, To the young mind, and to the conscience plastic, Of gutter-waifs and children of the slum. They have "long ears," these "little pitchers," verily. Think you without joint bidding they will come Whom their old teacher, Vice, employs so merrily? His creed is one, his doctrine's not obscure, His tests and formularies do not vary, His "standards" stand, and his "results" are sure, And of "school-places" he is never chary. Oh self-elected shepherds, with your crooks, Fighting, while round your folds the wolves are creeping!— Pedagogues wrangling o'er your lesson-books, Whilst your wrath rages human love sits weeping! If of "a common Christianity" Ye were but practical and patient teachers, In Education's task ye might agree. Now sense is asking "Who shall teach our teachers?"