396 The Theatres. [Apnrin, 
called in, and the two workmen were “ put on,’ ’ to distance the solitary 
operative of the rival theatre. We shall give no more reasons, though 
we have them, like Falstaff’s, as plenty as blackberries. The joint per- 
formance was called “ Peter the Great.” It was, as all the French melo- 
drames are, a curious contradiction of every fact of history, crowded 
with sentiments in equally vigorous contradiction to every dictate of 
nature. ‘There was a great deal of forgiveness of Russian Conspirators, 
an act of which Peter was never guilty in the course of his existence ; 
and the conspirators were Strelitzes too, those preetorian guards that had 
been exterminated at the very beginning of his reign, and whose memory 
used to drive him into all but convulsions. Peter and Charles meet 
alone, who never met but at the head of their battalions. Peter plays a 
miller, and makes love, mystifies a Swedish regiment, persuades a clown 
that he is not himself, and, finally, flourishes as the conqueror of 
Pultawa. 
Charles plays an inferior card, but has the courage to scorn fact with 
equal intrepidity ; and the melo-drame closes in, as the Duellists call it, 
an amicable arrangement. 
We have laughed at this specimen of combined authorship ; but we, 
by no means, laughed at the performance, except in the graver parts, 
the livelier being as productive of seriousness as if they had been excerpts 
from a Methodist sermon. Nor do we laugh at the twin authors, whom 
we have always allowed to be clever fellows, and to whom we shall allow 
the same title of honor, while we remember Jeremy. Diddler, and Sir 
Able Handy. But they ought to have been otherwise employed. Kenny 
writes as vigorous dialogue as any author, at least among his contempo- 
raries ; Morton has as dextrous a conception of the embroilment of a plot 
as any man since the last century ; and we wish to see them scorning the 
worthless facilities of French melo-drames, and making comedies of their 
own. “ Peter,” after six nights of dubious existence, ceased to perplex 
conjecture, and died. 
The “ Casket, an Opera,” followed. This opera was a compound of a 
French vaudeville, “les Premiers Amours,’ and a melo-drame. The 
vaudeville is a pretty little feeble pleasantry ; in other words, is in the 
most vigorous style of French jest, and it was completely spoiled, the 
gossamery texture of the original was hardened and solidified, as the 
scientific say, beyond all endurance ; and the jests fled away with the 
language of which they were born. A Palais de Justice, or Old Bailey 
catastrophe, in which somebody steals a case of jewelry from Braham, 
followed the love affairs ; and Cooper, in the culprit, looked so regularly 
dressed for the guillotine, that we, every moment, expected to see more 
than poetic justice done. The music was said to be by Mozart, and 
“ never heard before in this country.” If it was by Mozart, he was wise 
in keeping it to himself while he lived ; and, as to the wedanlid clause of — 
the statement, we are satisfied that ne one will ever desire to hear it 
again. Mr. Lacy, the prevalent fabricator of those formidable pasticios — 
is a good musician; but much as we pardon to his skill on the violin, 
we cannot be kept in a state of eternal tendernes to his literary sins. 
There is a vast difference between handling the bow and the pen, be- 
tween dashing through a concerto and combining a plot. Wit and words 
are not obsolete, and the man must have both, who can a to reap 
the harvest of the stage. 
However, Mr. Price is an active manager, date to seize his op- 
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