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.