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 audienceenvious 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 silvery laugh. And he is ruddy and curly haired and

has on such a beautiful waistcoat! how can she help but love him? And
he is so tender and devoted and holds her by the waist; and she slips

round and comes up the other side. Oh, it is so bewitching!
The stage peasantry like to do their love-making as much in public as

possible. Some people fancy a place all to themselves for this sort
of thing--where nobody else is about. We ourselves do. But the stage

peasant is more sociably inclined. Give him the village green, just
outside the public-house, or the square on market-day to do his

spooning in.
They are very faithful, are stage peasants. No jilting, no

fickleness, no breach of promise. If the gentleman in pink walks out
with the lady in blue in the first act, pink and blue will be married

in the end. He sticks to her all through and she sticks to him.
Girls in yellow may come and go, girls in green may laugh and

dance--the gentleman in pink heeds them not. Blue is his color, and
he never leaves it. He stands beside it, he sits beside it. He

drinks with her, he smiles with her, he laughs with her, he dances
with her, he comes on with her, he goes off with her.

When the time comes for talking he talks to her and only her, and she
talks to him and only him. Thus there is no jealousy, no quarreling.

But we should prefer an occasional change ourselves.
There are no married people in stage villages and no children

(consequently, of course-happy village! oh, to discover it and spend a
month there!). There are just the same number of men as there are

women in all stage villages, and they are all about the same age and
each young man loves some young woman. But they never marry.

They talk a lot about it, but they never do it. The artful beggars!
They see too much what it's like among the principals.

The stage peasant is fond of drinking, and when he drinks he likes to
let you know he is drinking. None of your quiet half-pint inside the

bar for him. He likes to come out in the street and sing about it and
do tricks with it, such as turning it topsy-turvy over his head.

Notwithstanding all this he is moderate, mind you. You can't say he
takes too much. One small jug of ale among forty is his usual

allowance.
He has a keen sense of humor and is easily amused. There is something

almost pathetic about the way he goes into convulsions of laughter
over such very small jokes. How a man like that would enjoy a real

joke! One day he will perhaps hear a real joke. Who knows? It will,
however, probably kill him. One grows to love the stage peasant after

awhile. He is so good, so child-like, so unworldly. He realizes
one's ideal of Christianity.

THE GOOD OLD MAN.
He has lost his wife. But he knows where she is--among the angels!

She isn't all gone, because the heroine has her hair. "Ah, you've got
your mother's hair," says the good old man, feeling the girl's head

all over as she kneels beside him. Then they all wipe away a tear.
The people on the stage think very highly of the good old man, but

they don't encourage him much after the first act. He generally dies
in the first act.

If he does not seem likely to die they murder him.
He is a most unfortunate old gentleman. Anything he is mixed up in

seems bound to go wrong. If he is manager or director of a bank,
smash it goes before even one act is over. His particular firm is

always on the verge of bankruptcy. We have only to be told that he
has put all his savings into a company--no matter how sound and

promising an affair it may always have been and may still seem--to
know that that company is a "goner."

No power on earth can save it after once the good old man has become a
shareholder.

If we lived in stage-land and were asked to join any financial scheme,
our first question would be:

"Is the good old man in it?" If so, that would decide us.
When the good old man is a trustee for any one he can battle against

adversity much longer. He is a plucky old fellow, and while that
trust money lasts he keeps a brave heart and fights on boldly. It is

not until he has spent the last penny of it that he gives way.
It then flashes across the old man's mind that his motives for having

lived in luxury upon that trust money for years may possibly be
misunderstood. The world--the hollow, heartless world--will call it a

swindle and regard him generally as a precious old fraud.
This idea quite troubles the good old man.

But the world really ought not to blame him. No one, we are sure,
could be more ready and willing to make amends (when found out); and

to put matters right he will cheerfully" target="_blank" title="ad.高兴地，愉快地">cheerfully sacrifice his daughter's
happiness and marry her to the villain.

The villain, by the way, has never a penny to bless himself with, and
cannot even pay his own debts, let alone helping anybody else out of a

scrape. But the good old man does not think of this.
Our own personal theory, based upon a careful comparison of

similarities, is that the good old man is in reality the stage hero
grown old. There is something about the good old man's chuckle-headed

simplicity, about his helpless imbecility, and his irritating damtom
foolishness that is strangelysuggestive of the hero.

He is just the sort of old man that we should imagine the hero would
develop into.

We may, of course, be wrong; but that is our idea.
THE IRISHMAN.

He says "Shure" and "Bedad" and in moments of exultation "Beghorra."
That is all the Irish he knows.

He is very poor, but scrupulously honest. His great ambition is to
pay his rent, and he is devoted to his landlord.

He is always cheerful and always good. We never knew a bad Irishman
on the stage. Sometimes a stage Irishman seems to be a bad man--such

as the "agent" or the "informer"--but in these cases it invariably
turns out in the end that this man was all along a Scotchman, and thus

what had been a mystery becomes clear and explicable.