To watch Peter Jones at his annual play was as amusing as to look at the performance itself (and sometimes much more so), such was his earnest attention, and his vivid enjoyment of the whole; as testified by the glee of his laugh, the heartiness of his applause, and the energy with which he joined in an encore. If it chanced to be a tragedy, he consoled his wife in what she called the "forepart of her tears," by reminding her that it was only a play; but as the pathos of the scene increased, he always caught himself first wiping his eyes with the back of his hand; then blowing his nose, trumpetwise, with his clean bandanna pocket-handkerchief; and then calling himself a fool for crying. Like Addison's trunk-maker, he frequently led the clap; and on Peter Jones's night there was certainly more applause than usual. The kindness of his heart, however, would never allow him to join in a hiss, assuring those about him that the actors and the play-writers always did their best, and that if they failed it was their misfortune, and not their fault. That all the old observances of the theatre might be duly observed, he failed not to produce between the play and farce an ample supply of what children denominate "goodies," as a regale for Mrs. Jones and himself; also presenting them all round to every one within his reach; and if there were any little boys and girls in the vicinity, he always produced a double quantity. It is unnecessary to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jones always stayed to the extreme last; not quitting their seats till the curtain had descended to the very floor, and shut from their view, for another year, the bows and curtsies of the actors at the final of the _finale_ in the concluding scene of the after-piece. Then our happy old couple walked leisurely home, and had a supper of cold meat and pickles, and roasted potatoes; and talked of the play over the supper-table; and also over the breakfast-table next morning; and also to all their acquaintances for a month or two afterwards. In those days, when Peter Jones found the enjoyment of one play sufficient to last him a twelvemonth, the Philadelphia theatre was in its "high and palmy state." There was an excellent stock company, with a continual succession of new pieces, or judicious revivals of old ones of standard worth. The starring system, as it is called, did not then prevail. The performers, having permanent engagements, were satisfied to do their duty towards an audience with whose tastes they were familiar. Each actor could play an infinite number of parts--each singer could sing an infinity of songs--and all considered it a portion of their business to learn new characters, or new music.