hat took place between our
lady-love and ourselves; but our friends never seemed to get excited
over it. On the contrary, a casual observer might even have been led
to the idea that they were bored by our recital. And they had trains to
catch and men to meet before we had got a quarter through the job.

Ah, how often in those days have we yearned for the sympathy of a stage
peasantry, who would have crowded round us, eager not to miss one word
of the thrilling narrative, who would have rejoiced with us with an
encouraging laugh, and have condoled with us with a grieved "Oh," and
who would have gone off, when we had had enough of them, singing about
it.

By the way, this is a very beautiful trait in the character of the stage
peasantry, their prompt and unquestioning compliance with the slightest
wish of any of the principals.

"Leave me, friends," says the heroine, beginning to make preparations
for weeping, and before she can turn round they are clean gone--one
lot to the right, evidently making for the back entrance of the
public-house, and the other half to the left, where they visibly hide
themselves behind the pump and wait till somebody else wants them.

The stage peasantry do not talk much, their strong point being to
listen. When they cannot get any more information about the state of the
heroine's heart, they like to be told long and complicated stories about
wrongs done years ago to people that they never heard of. They seem to
be able to grasp and understand these stories with ease. This makes the
audience envious of them.

When the stage peasantry do talk, however, they soon make up for lost
time. They start off all together with a suddenness that nearly knocks
you over.

They all talk. Nobody listens. Watch any two of them. They are both
talking as hard as they can go. They have been listening quite enough
to other people: you can't expect them to listen to each other. But the
conversation under such conditions must be very trying.

And then they flirt so sweetly! so idyllicly!

It has been our privilege to see real peasantry flirt, and it has always
struck us as a singularly solid and substantial affair--makes one think,
somehow, of a steam-roller flirting with a cow--but on the stage it
is so sylph-like. She has short skirts, and her stockings are so much
tidier and better fitting than these things are in real peasant life,
and she is arch and coy. She turns away from him and laughs--such
a silv