IMAGINARY PLAY-BILL.
We observe that at one of the Metropolitan theatres an endeavour has been made to dramatise The Times. We admit some curiosity to know in what way the leading journal has been adapted to the purposes of the Stage. During this hot weather it is of course impossible for us to visit the theatre; but in the mean time we have drawn upon our melodramatic reminiscences, and have sketched what we suppose must be the playbill of The Times. We are, however, open to conviction, should our anticipations have been inadequate.
ACT ONE.
Scene 1.—Printing House Square, by moonlight. A policeman on duty. Clank of the steampress heard amid the silence, and distant plash of the river. Coronetted carriage driven hastily in. Beautiful and fashionable lady, in opera costume, alights. Her agitation. "He must be saved." She dashes hastily into the building. Policeman saunters up and examines arms on carriage, and the next moment is recognised by the flunkey. "Ha! my Lord." "Silence, my faithful Jeemes." Resumes his walk. Lights seen along a passage—mysterious lady is being conducted to the Editorial Chamber!
Scene 2.—The Strand. Meeting of two Reporters, one coming up from the House of Commons, the other going down. "Likely to sit?" "Another hour—Irish row." "Bless those Irish!" "Amen." They part—exit Reporter to the House. The other lights a cigar, and three ruffians spring out upon him. They have long Macintosh coats, but beneath the disguise is seen the glittering uniform of the Guards. "You bring the wepawt of Lord Namby Macpamby's Speech!" "I have." "Hand it over." "With my life only." They seize him, but he dashes his cigar into the face of the first, and wrestles with the second, but would be over-mastered by the third, when the latter is dashed to the earth. Two run away, the last is prisoner. "But, who is my preserver?" "Sir, I am but a numble actor, but you were once kyind to me in a notice of my Clown in the Pantermine, and, believe me, Sir, kyindness is like the gentle jew from eaven, which droppeth, &c." They drag the prisoner beneath a lamp. "The Right Honourable the Marquis of Haughtycastle! Ha, minion!" "Nay, let him go—my numble Friend. I know the game. A Lady's Secret."
Scene 3.—Same as first. Beautiful woman comes out in tears. "He was most courteous, but firm as the monumental adamant." She enters the carriage, and throws herself sobbing on the cushion. Policeman springs in after her, and seating himself opposite, throws his bull's-eye full on her face. "My husband!" "Aye, wrrrretched woman. Drive on, Jeemes." (In a voice of thunder.) "HOME!" (With intense irony,) "Your home, Madam; yours, once loved Coronettina."
ACT TWO.
The House of Commons. Very full. Cries of "Order, order!" Clamour increases, and no one can be heard. Fifty Members on their legs, trying to speak. Lord John Russell springs upon the table and gesticulates violently; but all that can be heard from him, is "Obleege," and "Constitution." Mr. Disraeli dashes his hand furiously upon the Green Box, which gives way, and all his oranges roll out. Scramble and comic business. Lord Namby Macpamby rises; dressed in the extreme of fashion, and also extremely tipsy. Terrific cries of "Spoke, spoke!" The Chairman of Committees falls on his knees and pleads for silence, but sinks beneath the volley of blue books, votes, and bills, instantly hurled at him from all the Members. Suddenly the Speaker rushes in, seizes the mace, and lays about him on every side. Members are knocked over one another. Tremendous confusion! Fights!—and Curtain.
ACT THREE.
The Editor's Ante-Chamber. Several of the Ministers waiting to see him; some with glittering stars, blue ribbons, &c. A door opens (centre), and an eminent Stockjobber is kicked into the middle of the scene, and falls—a huge bag of sovereigns in each hand. Bags burst, and the gold strews the stage. "I offered £500,000 for leave to put in one article." Proud tribute to the British Press. Porters sweep up the gold, and throw it out at window, and the Stockjobber after it. Enter Lord Asterisk dragging the beautiful lady. "Ha! you here, my lords! But 'tis well. She appealed to the "Times" and I have brought her hither." Lady on her knees—back hair down. "I am innocent—indeed I am innocent." "I am not to be juped, Madam." "I swear it." "I believe you not. Your adorers, in disguise, have been staining the pure streets of our proud Metropolis with ruffianism. But in vain, Madam." "In vain! Wretched me!" "Now by all that is sulphureous"—(he draws the sword usually worn by the British aristocrat)—"HOLD!!!" Awful appearance of the Editor. "Mistaken nobleman! She came but to save her Brother, Lord Namby Macpamby. He has spoken in the House to-night, and knowing what a dreadful fool he is, she wished his speech suppressed, that your brother-in-law's idiotcy might not be published all over the world." "Her brother! And those Guardsmen!" "Her cousins." "Ow! ow! ow! Can you forgive me, Coronettina?" "Am I not your wife, dearest?" The Editor, moved, tears up Lord Namby Macpamby's speech. "One husk will not be missed amid so much chaff."
