NOVELS.
FROM A THATCHED COTTAGE.
THE excellent qualities revealed by the author of Travels Bound Our Village emerge anew in what we believe to be her first serioas excursion into the domain of fiction. Kos Hayden has followed that elementary canon, owing to the dis- regard of which so many novelists court disaster, of confining herself to a subject that she knows down to the grouncl,-- English village life. But it is one thing to know your sub- ject ; it is another to convey your knowledge in an attractive or convincing form. The efforts of some writers who are choke-full of information to express themselves on paper • Prom a Thatehod Cottage. By Eleanor G. Hayden. London A. Constable and Co. [6s.] remind one of the results of turning a full water-bottle upside down,—the liquid at first refuses to flow out at all. Happily Miss Hayden is neither overpowered by her materials nor destitute of the art of transmuting them in the crucible of imagination. She is a faithful observer, she has a fund of quiet humour, and, above all, a real gift of dialogue. As we said of her earlier sketches, she is at her best when she makes her characters talk. She has not only a thorough mastery of the Berkshire dialect, but an equally thorough insight into the mind at the back of it. And it must be at once admitted that the mind in question as re- vealed by Miss Hayden's dispassionate analysis is, as a rule, more interesting than engaging. There are happily excep- tions, but the majority of the rustics portrayed in these pages are very far removed from the dainty shepherdesses of Watteau, or the merry peasants of Italian opera. Their views on the main problems of life are singularly primitive, not to say callous; their speech proclaims them dwellers in the Palace of Truth ; their religion is largely a matter of loaves and fishes. A typical specimen is Mrs. Puddledock, the village layer-out, whose conversation never loses its gruesome professional quality, and who, as the following conversation shows, always considers herself defrauded of her
due by the recovery of an invalid :—
"Widow Arnill also had 'company' that Sunday afternoon—a rare occurrence with her, for folks knew the slenderness of her resources, and shrank from encroaching upon them. Martha Puddledock had intended drinking tea with the Taylors, but that just as she reached Keziah's door she had 'come over that fainty I couldn't ha' gone a step furder—not if you'd paid me. I yearcl,' she continued, that Kate Taylor was a-dyin', an' I thought I'd step up an' see if 'twur true, or on'y one o' them lies as be anus a-flyin' about as thick as wopses round a plum.'—' You be come to the right place then, fur Jack went up downs this marnin', an', though Taylor's sadly, Kate be as well as ever she's bin.' Patty's countenance fell. That ooman dwun't niver mane to die fur all she talks sa much about it. Why, she war prayed fur in church once an' got over't : arter that you may expec' anythink.'— ' Mebbe that wur the reason she reecuvvered,' suggested the widow mildly. Patty sniffed. Ha' you iver knawed arra- one 'eept she get well when they've bin prayed fur? I ha'n't, an' I've bin a smart few 'ears in the dead an' dyin' bizniss. When Else wtur bad a twee month ago, parson a sea to ma—a sez, "Mrs. Puddledock, 'udn't you deesire the prayers o' the congreegatia' fur'n o' Sunday ?' I looks 'un straight in the face an' sea I, "No, sir, I 'udn't, seem' I dwun't sim to keer about killin' of 'un off, just 'it awhiles."'—' What did
parson say to that ? A looked sort o' comacal, but a didn't open his mouth agen 'bout the prayers o' the congreegatia'. I thinks now an' agen, as I med a mistook in not havin"unt, for Else be feeble contrairy an' aggreevatin' at times, an' shepherd,
what lives nex' dooer, encourages 'un I never !' exclaimed Kezialt, 'an' I allus thought Else war that soft-hearted a couldn't say be to a goose, as the sayin' is, let alone to you.'— No, moor a dursn't; that's just wher' they poor-sperritted men be sa aggree- vatin' ; they gies 'ee nothen to catch howldt on. Hello, ther's Phoebe ; wher' be she off to then ?' as Mrs. Lyford passed the window. 'To church most like; wet or fine, rain or shine, down the lane she goes twicet every Sunday; sometimes we the chile, sometimes weout. I axed she oncet why she war an dearly fond o' trampin' all that way, an' sea she, as solemn as an angel, "I've got to pray fur Jim, Kizzy, as well as fur myself." ' Patty nodded approvingly. 'I holds we church an' keepin' in we parson as ha' got coal-club, an' elothin' an' things to gie away at Christmas-time. Yes, I holds by church, I do—none o' your new- fangled, comacal reeligions fur me.'—' Be you a-gwine this evenite?' inquired the widow.—`Lard love 'ee, no; 'ten't often as I ean find time, thee be Bich a lot o' folks as I wants to see on a Sunday. Else has to go fur me like Phoebe does fur jim!"
Even the kindly old shepherd, a delightful character in his way, does not take a particularly exalted view of the married state :--
"Tis funny as he should tek 't like this, fur he didn't aim to set much store, by Phoebe when she war alive: remarked the shepherd, breaking the silence which had fallen between himself and Taylor. 'Aye,' returned the latter thoughtfully, Kizzy has told me how he treated the poor thing—gave her next to none of his wages and struck her more than once, judging by the marks on her face, for she never told aught against him.'—' I be a bachelor man as niver had narra miser's, but Lo? bless 'ee, if an be as I'd a-got aim, I 'udn't goo far to beat she while her lived an' swe'r an becall the A'mighty when a war dead ; 'specly if 'twur sum- mat o' my own fault she war took.'—' No doubt but what he's B ony he weren't kinder to her: your wife is your wife when all's said an done, an' though you mayn't think sa much on her when she naggin' sixteen to the dozen, I reckon it must come hard to °se her. A-course you not bebe a married man, can't tell the feelize a man has fur his missus.'—' Sometimes I thinks I Might do vrorse'n get wed; 'tis teeble illcomevanient ha'ne =writ ooman about the 'mute to light the fire an' get the vittles ; she'd come in handy too, to sew on buttons an' tek the edge off arra-ane's temper when 'ee comes home ock'erd. I've on'y my pooer dog to swe'r at, an' seem' I bred 'un up from a pup, it goos agin ma to jar at he. A missus 'ud wunnerful ease my feelin's now an' agen.'—' Your complaint ain't hard to cure : there's plenty o' girls who'd marry a hearty man like you, earnbe good wages.'—' Tis this way, luk 'ee. I dwun't want a young 'un who'd be iggerant an' flighty, alias roun' the earner chatterin' we the neighbours, an' I couldn't do wi' an old 'un, 'cause they be sa fond an' foolish-like.'—' Can't you find one as is betwix' an' between ?'—' I've thowt o' that, an' timer's one as 'ad suit ma fine. She be a widow, we two childern, but they be gett'n along an' ull soon be doin' fur theirselves full an' wholly. She'd be sort o' broke in to matreemony, smite she've had a master a-ready—a bad 'un too.' The keeper's face fell, and he looked profoundly disgusted. She wouldn't have you,' he remarked with unflattering emphasis on the second pronoun. She mod, or agin she medn't,' returned Fuzzell tranquilly ; anyway she be the one as come into my mindt. I shall turn't ovver fur an 'ear or two afoor I sea anythink ; 'ten't the kind o' job to scramble up in a hurry.'"
The talk throughout is excellent ; it reveals an intimate familiarity with the temper as well as the manners and
customs of the peasantry of the Berkshire Downs—" Lor' bless 'ee," says the shepherd, "I couldn't abide in that low countree as be choked up wi' trees an' hedges "—and by its racy turns of expression affords a welcome contrast to the inanities and vulgarities of the "smart" novel. We cannot, however, speak so highly of the plot or its development. The root idea is a good one—that a drunkard is easier to reclaim than a poacher—but in the invention and handling of incident Miss Hayden falls very far below the level of her achievement as a chronicler of village gossip. True love, we know, never runs smoothly, but the obstacles which keep Jack Arnill and Molly Lyford so long apart are somewhat artificially arranged.
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