[Illustration:  THE PACK IN FULL CRY.]

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THE DRAMA

DUCROW AT SADLER’S WELLS.

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!!