Welsh Journals

suggested two or three ways of parrying the force of the blow but he was candid enough to admit that nothing short of a miracle could dodge the mighty Scot's fist. By the way," said Bevan," where's the air-gun?' Now old chap and Ned's face was grave none of that don't you go shooting yourself." Shoot myself, you ox-eyed idiot who's going to shoot himself I want a pop at the old rat I've seen near the slaughter-house." Ned told him where to get the gun and started up the street with the orders but he felt uneasy about Bevan Supposing that he meant-. Ned fetched a compass and tip-toed quietly to the wall of the yard. He was just in time to hear the thud of the air- gun, and to see Nick falling dead. He watched Bevan performing the burial rites in the slip of garden behind the slaughter-house. Ned's faith in humanity was gone he slipped off silently to finish his rounds. In about half an hour he returned to the shop, where Mr. Parry was impatiently waiting for him. He found that Bevan had gone home to tea, and Mr. Parry soon followed. Ned left to himself sauntered out into the yard, and there he stayed for ten minutes or so. He came back into the shop just as Bevan entered from the street. Hullo Ned," said the latter, you look flushed." I fancy I've got a touch of the deceit of the heart like yourself Bevan." You just lie down flat on your back, Ned, that'll bring you round." THE PRESENT RENAISSANCE OF ENGLISH DRAMA BY PROFESSOR GILBERT NORWOOD BETWEEN the year 1779, in which The Critic was produced, and the year 1889, when A Doll's House was first performed in England, lies the Dark Age of our dramatic literature. During those hundred and ten years the theatres themselves had flourished. First rate actors were not rare. No puritan domina- tion had closed the playhouse. Why then do we speak of a renaissance, as if English drama, once the most glorious side of our native arts, were dead ? For the best of reasons; it was dead. While the novel attained to glory in the hands of such giants as Scott, Thackeray and Dickens, the most noted writers for the stage were Joanna Baillie, Robertson and Weat- land Marston. Of all theatrical matter produced in "1*11 be as right as rain in a jiffy," said Ned. 0 yes, did you kill the rat, Bevan ? No," said Bevan, I just missed the beggar. Let's get out into the yard it may be fooling round now. The two went out, Bevan first and Ned at his heels. Bevan walked on a few paces until he came within full view of the door of the slaughter-house, and then he stopped short, his eye rivetted upon the door. He was now trembling from head to foot, and pointing wildly at the door of the slaughter-house, but unable to utter a word. His eyes rolled in his head and his lips moved inarticulately. At last he managed to yell out hoarsely Y Nefoedd fawr, Ned look yonder 0 Israel, Nick's back from the blessed dead this time." And there, right enough, at the door was Nick, sitting on his haunches in one of his most charac- teristic attitudes. It was a real work of art, and Ned had completed it in ten feverish minutes. In a flash Bevan understood what had happened he turned round in a furious rage, but the shy artist had fled. During the next half-hour the people of Llaneos were all out of doors gazing open-mouthed at Ned sprinting up the street followed by the frantic Bevan. And it was Bevan that opened the eyes of the quiet little community that day to the vast resources and strength of the Welsh language as an imprecatory medium. R. G. B. that period there is perhaps only one play, by writers not now living, which has not already been forgotten, -Caste. by Robertson (1867.) The censorship established by Walpole in 1737, had in fact warned men of genius off the stage. Fielding is a notorious instance what the novel gained, playwriting lost. But where angels were forbidden to tread Robertson and his congeners rushed in. The result was horrible. I could harrow your souls with extracts from the works, which for four generations slowly degraded the stage of Vanburgh and Sheridan into the abyss, where the disciples of Ibsen found it. But I will not. Only let us imagine the most difficult form of literary art, a form in which original