Welsh Journals

WHAT CANNOT LOVE DO. 125 only to himself. Could he become a theatrical critic he would have endless opportunities found for him, free of any extra expenditure of time or money, to look out for the Blakes, who if they were in London would, no doubt, visit the theatres. He got his interview, and was politely received. His notice of the new play had been read. It was found fresh, thoughtful, almost too good in style, verging on the scholarly and academic, but it pleased. And had that been all he might have gone away to feed as he best could on a few words of praise; perhaps also on a few words of wise, but necessarily commonplace, advice, supple¬ mented by good wishes as farewell. But for once Larry was in luck. The theatrical critic of the paper was ill. There was a new actress about to appear in London, and he might try his hand on a notice of her, with the understanding that its insertion must be left to the editorial judgment, not taken as a matter of course. Larry joyfully accepted, went to the theatre on the first night of the lady's appearance—a Thursday—but instead of using the Press admission, paid for a seat where he would be little noticed—in a snug corner. There he made notes in the briefest fashion as the performance went on, and when it was over took a cab home. Then he sat down and wrote his notice, carefully corrected it twice over, taking out an academical touch here and there, about which he had been warned, and pruning away every useless ornament. At three in the morning he handed in the MS. to the printers ; and in the evening he managed to get a copy of the paper. Opening it nervously, he found his notice in, with hardly an alteration. But a remarkable and, to Larry, alarming thing had happened that morning. The notices in the daily Press took almost unanimously a very different view from his. What would the editors think ? What would they say ? He took the bold course, and went to the office on the Satur¬ day morning of publication. The same gentleman again received him. and, with a look which puzzled Harry, said— " A pretty mess you have put us in, Mr. O'Neill. Hardly any other paper agrees with you." " So I see, sir ; and I am very sorry." " For them or for yourself ?" was the response in a somewhat jocular tone. " No, sir, for the truth. I am bound to say I believe I am right." " Well, Mr. O'Neill, I may tell you that I myself did what I •do not often do—went to the theatre on a first night, so that I might see how you and I should agree. I am pleased to say I am sure you are right. You have thus done us a service we