FARLEY AND THE EASTER SPECTACLES.
THE sin of our ingratitude would lie heavy upon us, were we to pass by this opportunity of acknowledging the merits of that arch- magician, the real Prospero of the stage, Mr. FARLEY. While yet under the influence of his spells, fresh from the sight of his last vision of enchantment, the Chinese tale (as lie too modestly terms it) of The Tartar Witch and the Pedlar Boy, at Covent Garden, let us record the glory of his triumph over common sense and all the other senses. FARLEY is the Merlin of the nineteenth century ; and the stage of Covent Garden is his magic mirror. He writes with a wand, and his characters are traced in flame—his Printer's Devils are imps indeed—his study is the cave of Nos- tradamus—he is served by Gnomes—Fairies do his bidding. What dreams he must have! and when he wakes, the very reality of common life must seem only another sort of dream. He cannot surely take cognizance of matters of fact. The round iron plate that covers the orifice of a coal-cellar, must seem to his eyes the ring wherewith to raise the stone that secures the entrance to some mysterious cavern. He must possess a talisman—yes ! that prominent feature in his face does not bloom with its rich hue for nought. Ordinary mortals drink wine to cheer the body, but he to enrich his fancy. Where they see double, his vision is mani- fold. The glass is to him a prism, and every bead in the ruby draught a little world of faery. How else could he have conjured up those numberless scenes of enchantment which have amazed.. and delighted the town at Easter tide as long as we can remem- ber ? To enumerate them all, would be to give the table of con- tents to the Fairy Tales, and to name half the Tales of the Genii, or those of the Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Yet how little have the urchins thought, who looked with terror on the re- presentative of Blue Beard and Tirnour the Tartar, that in that disguise lurked the mighty magician himself! But now that his shawl has, like the mantle of the prophet, descended upon the shoulders of Mr. PAYNE,—who treads in his footsteps, if not in his slippers (and a good stride it must take to do so),—now that his Grindoff alone remains to us, unless he play Bardolff, or the Gar- dener in Figaro, without a false nose,—let us at least be grateful for the wonders that he conjures up for us to feast our eyes upon. Since we can so rarely applaud him as an actor, let us praise him where he so richly deserves it, as an inventor. Why was not FARLEY called for on the first night of the performance we have men- tioned? Forgetful public ! Last season at the Opera-house, when the splendid ballet of Kenilworth was first brought out, the inventor was called for; and DESHAYES, who used to come on the stage bounding like a stag, was led forward to receive the honours of success: the old man's eyes gleamed with delight as he bent feebly, though still gracefully, in acknowledgment of the compli- ment. So we recollect old GRIMALDI, doubled up with weakness, receiving the tribute of applause from an audience who used scarcely to be able to employ their hands otherwise than to sup- port their sides. But it was the next best thing to the roars of laughter at his drawing up the sea-weed beards of the oysters that he had incontinently devoured with the insatiable gusto of DANDO himself. This is the posthumous fame of actors ; and although Mr. FARLEY is yet vigorous, we would fain see him "bear his blushing honours thick upon him" elsewhere than in his talismanic
MOM
Having paid our "Easter offering"—a mite, but given with good-will—to the genius of FARLEY, let us to our task of describ- mg its last production. Describing, did we say ?—Vain the attempt, unless we could write with spangles ! No; we will just tell the story of the piece, and our readers must imagine, if they can, the wonders which the sprites of FARLEY the necromancer have achieved. Prince Azim is in love with the Princess Ze- phyrenza—the very names are a fairy tale—who is beloved by Bonaska, a Tartar chief, whom the Tartar witch Maga (not BLACK- WOOD personified) assists to carry off to the tower of Thundering Winds ; the recollection of whose ventose echoes is terrible. But the Witch is defeated by the timely intervention of Zamti, a little pedlar-boy, a sort of Jack-in-the-box, who destroys the Witch's power, by blowing out the blue light that burns in the mouth of the Serpent Idol. Messrs. GRIEVE glad the sight with a succes- sion of gorgeous scenery, from the opening view of the Pass of Kou-pe-koo, with its chain of rocks, waterfalls, hanging bridges,. deep chasms, and the encampment of a Tartar horde; to the final one of the triumphal arches and bridges over the river Wang-ho, near the city of Houma (our geography is from the play-bills- the most authentic documents in these cases). We don't know whether to prefer the ruined temple of Fum-hoo, or the grand hall of Lanterns, near the river See-poo; and between the awful ap- pearance of the Spirit of 'ire, forth of the toothed jaws of the abyss of flame, and the myAtic cave of Maga, we cannot choose. Then for the battles, where Mrs. VINING works like a Cyclops in clinking combat with Mr. PAYNE ; the dances—the Chinese Minuet, the Tartarian Pas de Trois, and the Pas de Schall—and the proces- sions of Chinese and Tartars, in sumptuous dresses, with shields and bows and emblazoned banners—we may safely leave them to speak for themselves. For KEELEY the comical and cowardly, and his wife, the merriest of maiden brides-expectant, mid clever tiny Miss POOLE, who not only sends a bullet through the brain of a rascally Tartar villain, but sends him also under ground at the same time, and who climbs the spiral ascent of the Serpent Idol with more ease than a schoolboy mounts the Monument stair- case—are not their names and characters sufficiently descriptive?
Really, all these, and more marvels than we can tell of, and splendours indescribable, bewilder the senses of a sober critic; and we find but little relief in rushing from the sunlight blaze of FARLEY'S magic mirror at Covent Garden, to the moonlight efful- gence of WALLAcit's rival looking-glass at Drury Lane. The Magic Car, or Three Days' Trial, is derived from the Arabian Nights ; but justice is not done to the original story, which is that of the Calendars. It began very promisingly. There was a desert of a city, with the inhabitants transformed into a combination of mute and mourner, wearing black crape and wielding white cam- bric; and HARLEY waking with his garrulous drollery the solemn echoes of the place. At last he finds a woman, but even she is dumb : however, she leads him to a courtyard, where the magic car is suspended in air, but close to the ground, like that of Mr. GREEN'S balloon, inviting the adventurous to ascend and essay the Three Days' Trial of their power to resist the fascinations of a Circe of Fairy-land, Cassandra and her train, who, by this spell, held in thrall Zuluca, Queen of Medhuscia, whose hand was to re- ward the successful mortal. The mute mourners are those whose virtue has failed, and who are therefore doomed to this penance.
In vain they try to step into the car ; they can no more accomplish it than a new-made middy can spring into his cot the first night aboard. The car bounces about, and flies up at their approach like a cracker. Kemserai, King of Serendib, tries, and fails. Almanzor, a young nobleman, regardless of the terror and persua- sion of his faithful servant (HARLEM), also ascends; HARLEY fol- lows ; and takes with him a flask of water, that transforms the drinker into a state of aged limping deformity, and a haversack of fruit, that transforms them back again to their original shape. By the aid of the water, the beautiful Fairy Cassandra is changed into a haggard old witch, just when she is on the point of triumphing over Almanzor ; and thus her power being at an end, she is speedily consigned to perdition; and Zuluca and Almanzor are united.
The scenery, by STANFIELD and MARINARI, is magnificent, and the dresses are very splendid ; there are also dances, songs, and processions; but the piece as a whole does not equal in in- terest, or surpass in splendour, the spectacle at Covent Garden—it is just one Farley less attractive. HARLEY sang a comic song about the transforming power of gold, which was piquant, and told well; and he made the scene where he discovers the effect of the transforming fountain upon himself very amusing, by the un- conscious air with which he paid court to a bevy of girls, as though he were himself, while he had a hitch in his gait, a hump on his back, and a nose like the bill of a toucan. We had forgot to men- tion the performance of Miss ADELAIDE BYRN (all little girls are Adelaides now), a child some six years old—stage computa- tion—who mimicked the most difficult opera dancing, with great ease to herself and equal pain to us, for we expected every mo- ment she would sprain an ankle or dislocate a hip. These are the only two Easter pieces,—although Astley's opened with a new martial and equestrian melodrama called Chevy Chase —a most inviting title. The Surry and the Coburg signalize the season by lowering their prices of admission, heightening the splendour of their decorations, and increasing the attractions of their respective companies. JOHN REEVE is at the Surry as well as VALE. We wonder how Sassy audiences can survive it. Laugh- ing hysterics must be the order of the day, and ginger-beer give place to sal volatile.
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