In no case does the proverb " fine feathers make
fine birds " hold with such force as in that of dramatic spectacles, when not burlesques. Trust- ing to his scenery, or his moving diorama, or his dissolving views, or his dancers, or his extremely clever rolling sea, or his sinking ship, or his red fire, the manager is almost certain to have the flimsiest and most meagre piece in the world as the foundation of all this. The brilliancies that ad- dress the eye remind one of Bishop Berkeley's phsenomena—all qualities, without a substratum. Now at this state of things we do not grumble. Let us forget the dramatic connexion, and allow ourselves to be wafted =reflectingly from diorama to dance, and from sinking ship to burning castle—or pass in rapid succession through all those elementary spirits of the Rosicrucians who, no longer a mystery, are, thanks to our ballet-makers, infinitely more familiar to us than the greater part of actual mankind. So far so good.
But even the greatest liberality has its limit. The ornithological pro.. verb we have cited above is balanced by another, which tells us that there is a certain material out of which a silken purse cannot be made. The fine feathers may deck out some poor skinny bird, and thus enlarge it into pompous stateliness; but the dodo defies beautifying. We do not object to the meagre substratum of brilliancies, which we may forget at pleasure, but a great inert mass of plot, which will keep obtruding itself upon our at- tention, and pushing up its ponderosity among its sparkling decorations,— at this we do indeed feel disposed to grumble.
In this sense do we complain of the Pearl of the Ocean, produced at the Adelphi. The expenditure on the part of the manager must have been enormous. He has heaped together for the formation of a spectacle that variety of effective material which can only be rivalled by the composition of rich ingredients in a Christmas pudding. A series of dissolving views opens the drama; a moving diorama, representing submarine scenery, al- most immediately follows; a real galley, loaded with nearly all the dramatis personas, sails across the stage; the ladies of the corps de ballet are attired in real steel armour, such as ladies have never worn before, notwithstand- ing the taste for military damsels which has for years been prevalent in our theatres: what could we have more?—We do not want more; we want less. The story, on the very ordinary foundation of the love of a water-nymph for a mortal, is told in the dullest and most prolix way. The mermaid, personated by Madame Celeste, is never in a position to inspire interest; and it is painful to see how she struggles to excite our sympathies. The author has evidently fancied that his work possesses some dramatic inte- rest apart from being a vehicle for gorgeous decoration. This is a mistake, and it should be rectified by reducing the non-spectacle part of the work to the smallest possible dimensions.
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