The Revolution in Tanner's Lane

Th

ver, had a side open to literature, and though he had never seen a play acted, he read plays. He read Shakespeare, and had often thought how wonderful one of his dramas must be on the stage. So it fell out that at last he yielded, and it was arranged that Mrs. and Mr. Coleman should go with the Major to Drury Lane to see the great Edmund Kean in "Othello." The day was fixed, and Mrs. Coleman was busy for a long time beforehand in furbishing up and altering her wedding-dress, so that she might make a decent figure. She was all excitement, and as happy as she could well be. For

es must bow: you

of lords, your

ah hardly knew what to make of his wife's gaiety, but he was glad. He thought that perhaps he was answerable for her silence and coldness, and he

rs. Zachariah already in her best clothes and tea ready. She was charming-finished from the uttermost hair on her head to the sole of her slipper-and the dove-coloured, somewhat Quakerish tint of her wedding-gown suited her admirably. Quarter-past six

the Major. "I cannot send

is! It is just like

se; it is rather a pity to miss bei

her husband, not profanely-she dared not do that-but with curses none the less intense. Poor man! he had been kept by a job he had to finish. She might have thought this possible, and, in fact, did th

y follow? I do not know what has happened, and I am sur

yes anxiously to

You know nothing abou

r little foot, and looked

or, and when she went down ask

, fairly gave way to her mortification, and cr

the tickets which I have bought, and we can add a message that he is to follow, and that we

that Zachariah might see them directly he arrived. In exuberant spirits she added in her own hand, "Make as much haste as you can, my dear," and subscribed her initials. It was a tremendously hot afternoon and, what with the fire and the weather and the

erspiration. He rushed upstairs, but there was nobody. He stared round him, looked at the

leman left a

ow and then; but she never said nothing to me," and Zac

elonging to a friend. He paid women whom he admired all kinds of attentions, but they were nothing more than the gallantry of the age. Although they were nothing, however, to him, they were a good deal more than nothing to Mrs. Zachariah. The symbolism of an act varies much, and what may be mere sport to one i

s of excited, eager faces, the lights, and the scenery. He had not listened, moreover, to a dozen sentences from the great actor before he had forgotten himself and was in Venice, absorbed in the fortunes of the Moor. What a blessing is this for which we have to thank the playwright and his interpreters, to be able to step out of the dingy, dreary London streets, with all their wretched corrosive cares, and at least for three hours to be swayed by nobler passions. For three hours the little petty self, with all its mean surroundings, withdraws: we breathe a different atmosphere, we are jealous, glad, weep, laugh with Shakespeare's jealousy, gladness, tears, and laughter! What priggishness, too, is that which objects to Shakespeare on a stage because no acting can realise the ideal formed by solitary reading! Are we really sure of it? Are we really sure that Garrick or Kean or Siddons, with all their genius and study, fall short of a lazy dream in an arm-chair! Kean had not only a thousand things to tell Zachariah-meanings in innumerable passages which had before been overlooked-but he gave the character of Othello such vivid distinctness that it might almost be called a creation. He was exactly the kind of actor, moreover, to impress him. He was great, grand, passionate, overwhelming with a like emotion the ap

e, ever

e whos

Indian, thre

an all hi

le to ask him whether he had seen her message and the ticket so much might have been cleared up. Of course he, too, ought to have spoken to her; it was the natural thing to do, and it was extraordinary that he did not. But he let her go; she knelt down by her bed, prayed her prayer to her God, and in five minutes was asleep. Zachariah ten minutes afterwards prayed his prayer to his God, and lay down, but not to sleep. No sooner was his head on his pillow than the play was before his eyes, and Othello, Desdemona, and Iago moved and spoke again for hours. Then came the thoughts with which he had left the theatre and the revulsion on reaching home. Burning with excitement at what was a discovery to him, he

d have been too late if we had stayed an instant

ticket? I s

ntelpiece, and there

ing. A rush of blood rose to his head

laughingly, as she instantly smoothed her hair again, wh

pen when I came in, and the draught blew the pi

eloquent enough in company which suited him. She listened to him, recalling with great pleasure the events of the preceding evening. She was even affectionate-affectionate for her-and playfully patted his shoulder as he went out, warning him not to be so late again. What was the c