When, in a melo-drama, the bride is placing her foot upon the first step of
the altar, and Ruffi_aa_no tears her away, far from the grasp of her lover;
when a rich uncle in a farce dies to oblige a starving author in a garret;
when, two rivals duellise with toasting-forks; when such things are plotted
and acted in the theatre, hypercritics murmur at their improbability; but
compare them with the haps of the drama off the stage, and they become the
veriest of commonplaces. This is a world of change: the French have invaded
Algiers, British arms are doing mortal damage in the Celestial Empire,
Poulett Thomson has gone over to Canada, and oh! wonder of wonders!
Astley's has removed to Sadler's Wells!! The pyrotechnics of the former
have gone on a visit to the hydraulics of the latter, the red fire of
Astley's has come in contact with the real water of the Wells, yet, marvel
superlative! the unnatural meeting has been successful--there has not been
a single _hiss_.
What was the use of Sir Hugh Middleton bringing the New River to a "head,"
or of King Jamie buying shares in the speculation on purpose to supply
Sadler's Wells with real water, if it is to be drained off from under the
stage to make way for horses? Shade of Dibdin! ghost of Grimaldi! what
would you have said in your day? To be sure ye were guilty of pony races:
they took place _outside_ the theatre, but within the walls, in the very
_cella_ of the aquatic temple, till now, never! We wonder ye do not rise up
and "pluck bright Honner from the vasty deep" of his own tank.
Sawdust at Sadler's Wells! What next, Mr. Merriman?
[Illustration: A JUDGE GOING THE CIRCUIT.]
If Macready had been engaged for Clown, and set down to sing "hot codlins;"
were Palmerston "secured" for Pierrot, or Lord Monteagle for Jim Crow, who
would have wondered? But to saddle "The Wells" with horses--profanity
unparalleled!
Spitefully predicting failure from this terrible declension of the drama,
we went, in a mood intensely ill-natured, to witness how the "Horse of the
Pyrenees" would behave himself at Sadler's Wells. From the piece so called
we anticipated no amusement; we thought the regular company would make but
sorry equestrians, and, like the King of Westphalia's hussars, would prove
totally inefficient, from not being habituated to mount on horseback.
Happily we were mistaken; nothing could possibly _go_ better than both the
animals and the piece. The actors acquitted themselves manfully, even
including the horses. The mysterious Arab threw no damp over the
performances, for he was personated by Mr. Dry. The little Saracen was
performed so well by _le petit Ducrow_, that we longed to see _more_ of
him. The desperate battle fought by about sixteen supernumeraries at the
pass of Castle Moura, was quite as sanguinary as ever: the combats were
perfection--the glory of the red fire was nowise dimmed! It was magic, yes,
it _was_ magic! Mr. Widdicomb was there!!
Thinking of magic and Mr. Widdicomb (of whom dark hints of identification
with the wandering Jew have been dropped--who, _we know_, taught Prince
George of Denmark horsemanship--who is mentioned by Addison in the
"Spectator," by Dr. Johnson in the "Rambler," and helped to put out each of
the three fires that have happened at Astley's during the last two
centuries), brought by these considerations to a train of mind highly
susceptible of supernatural agency, we visited--