Although this retirement will make the present cloture of the opera one of the most memorable evenemens in les annales de l’opera, yet some remarks are demanded of us upon the other artistes.  In “Marino Faliero,” Lablache came the Dodge with remarkable success.  Madlle.  Loewe, far from deserving her bas nom, was the height of perfection, and gave her celebrated scena in the last-named opera avec une force superbe.  Persiani looked remarkably well, and wore a most becoming robe in the role of Amina.

Of the danseuses we have hardly space to speak.  Cerito exhibited the “poetry of motion” with her usual skill, particularly in a difficult pas with Albert.  The ballet was “Le Diable Amoureux,” and the stage was watered between each act.

* * * * *

THE GREAT UNACTABLES.

It seems that the English Opera-house has been taken for twelve nights, to give “a free stage and fair play” to “EVERY ENGLISH LIVING DRAMATIST.”  Considering that the Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre comprises at least half-a-dozen Shakspeares in their own conceit, to say nothing of one or two Rowes (soft ones of course), a sprinkling of Otways, with here and there a Massinger, we may calculate pretty correctly how far the stage they have taken possession of is likely to be free, or the play to be fair towards Every English living Dramatist.

It appears that a small knot of very great geniuses have been, for some time past, regularly sending certain bundles of paper, called Dramas, round to the different metropolitan theatres, and as regularly receiving them back again.  Some of these geniuses, goaded to madness by this unceremonious treatment, have been guilty of the insanity of printing their plays; and, though the “Rejected Addresses” were a very good squib, the rejected Dramas are much too ponderous a joke for the public to take; so that, while in their manuscript form, they always produced speedy returns from the managers, they, in their printed shape, caused no returns to the publishers.  It is true, that a personal acquaintance of some of the authors with Nokes of the North Eastern Independent, or some other equally-influential country print, may have gained for them, now and then, an egregious puff, wherein the writers are said to be equal to Goethe, a cut above Sheridan Knowles, and the only successors of Shakspeare; but we suspect that “the mantle of the Elizabethan poets,” which is said to have descended on one of these gentry, would, if inspected, turn out to be something more like Fitzball’s Tagiioni or Dibdin Pitt’s Macintosh.