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On May 2, 1881, Othello was magnificently revived in London. Irving had invited Edwin Booth, who was playing with a weak company elsewhere, to visit him at the Lyceum, and the two great actors alternated in the parts of Iago and the Moor; with Ellen Terry as Desdemona. One hears of the “tumultuous applause” which they received, of the hard-shoving throng at the pit door, the many artists and authors who were present, the factions of “Boothites,” “Irvingites,” and “Terryites.” It was a production which could be cited with pride as evidence “that this nineteenth century of ours ... is not wholly unworthy to enjoy the heritage of Shakespeare”.

There is a fine moment at the close of Mr. Paul Osborne's recent play, A Bell for Adano. Major Joppolo, deprived of his command, is leaving the town he has befriended. More dispiriting than the sense of his personal humiliation is the knowledge that all he had achieved is now jeopardized. Sadly he moves toward the door, and just as he reaches it stops short. For a great sonorous bell has begun to ring, the bell longed for by the townspeople and got for them at last with so much difficulty by him—symbol, half-ironic, half-triumphant, of his life in Adano and of all that he has tried to do there.