Loftily ignoring the harvest of dollars which Henry Irving had brought home, The Times welcomed him back, saying that the remarkable success he had achieved was the gratifying sign of ‘the willingness of public opinion in America to co-operate with that of England to rescue the stage from the lower level to which it has sometimes sunk’. Irving appeared tired, but played Benedick with more than his former spirit and gaiety; the applause from the other side of the Atlantic had added élan to a performance which had not always received the acclaim of Ellen’s Beatrice. The sets were costly, rich, and romantic. The seacoast of Illyria unfolded on a rock-bound promontory in the light of a red sunset after the storm. The Duke Orsino reclined on a velvet couch, tied and tasselled in gold, and behind him in a dim mysterious alcove, dark with painted glass, minstrels played their soft melodies to the lovesick man.