ALL London, all Christians who believe in the Apostolical Succession, all who love a fine drama, should learn the way to Notting Hill Gate, for here in a tiny theatre, in shape and demeanour like a little unassuming parish school, filled with an audience like a crowd of children hushed into restfulness by the recitation of a favourite story, we saw and listened to something that echoed bravely of the fine things that lived in drama long ago. We saw a very fine and trimly done poetic play glittering with gaily coloured and sombre-hued clerical Christian propaganda. All who want to see something bravely significant of a real English Theatre should go to Murder in the Cathedral, now running in the Mercury Theatre, Ladbroke Road, just a hen's race from Notting Hill Underground Station. The programme tells us that the play is a poet's play in a Poet's Theatre: but they lie, for it is not a play for poets alone, but for all those who have left in them the faintest conception of anything a little higher and more precious than plays by "neo-Oscar Wildes" spangled with such epigrams as "marriage is a delusion and a snore"; or the vulgar rush-around show-a-leg cordiality of most musical comedies.
It is a long time since I have seen such a simple