This Theatre, fitted up with new and tasteful decorations, opened on Monday with a burletta founded upon a pleasant extravagance recorded of Wilmot the "mad Lord" of Rochester. The house, in its renovated condition, is just what play-houses should be, and once were, from its size admirably adapted for seeing and hearing, and only perhaps rather too well lit up. Light is a good thing, but to preserve the eyes is still better. Elliston and Mrs. Edwin personated a reigning wit and beauty of the Court of Charles the Second to the life. But the charm of the evening to us, we confess, was the acting of Mrs. T. Gould (late Miss Burrell) in the burlesque _Don Giovanni_ which followed. This admirable piece of foolery takes up our hero just where the legitimate drama leaves him, on the "burning marl." We are presented with a fair map of Tartarus, the triple-headed cur, the Furies, the Tormentors, and the Don, prostrate, thunder-smitten. But there is an elasticity in the original make of this _strange man_, as Richardson would have called him. He is not one of those who change with the change of climate. He brings with him to his new habitation _ardours_ as glowing and constant as any which he finds there. No sooner is he recovered from his first surprise, than he falls to his old trade, is caught "ogling _Proserpine_," and coquets with two she devils at once, till he makes the house _too hot to hold him_; and _Pluto_ (in whom a wise jealousy seems to produce the effects of kindness) turns him neck and heels out of his dominions,--much to the satisfaction of _Giovanni_, who stealing a boat from Charon, and a pair of light heels from _Mercury_, or (as he familiarly terms him) _Murky_, sets off with flying colours, conveying to the world above the souls of three damsels, just eloped from Styx, to comfort his tender and new-born spiritualities on the journey. Arrived upon earth (with a new body, we are to suppose, but his old habits) he lights a-propos upon a tavern in London, at the door of which three merry weavers, widowers, are trouling a catch in triumph over their deceased spouses-- They lie in yonder church-yard At rest--and so are we.