MR. R. L——, MEDICAL HERBALIST, 15, I—— Street, Roxburgh Terrace, begs respectfully to intimate, that as a great many Persons have been very desirous to see the Serpent which he extracted alive lately from the breast of a lady labouring under Cancer, he will be most happy to show it to those interested, any day from 10 to 12 o'clock, at his house, 15, I—— Street.
Edinburgh, 12th August, 1853.
This is either a libel upon somebody or other, glanced at under the figure of the Serpent: or it is a satire on the gullibility of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, from the News of which city it is extracted. The modern Athenians, with all their acuteness, are said to be rather susceptible subjects for quackery.
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."