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 of the dour Wessex atmosphere, on the second day of June, in the year 1840.

Upper Bockhampton, although within walking distance of the County Capital, stood lonely, in an utter isolation that is perhaps difficult to realize adequately today. It was a small cluster of tiny cottages, set off only by the inevitable tavern. It boasted neither church, school, nor post office. No main road ran through it; there was only what remained of an ancient Roman highway—and this seldom saw much travel. Dorchester itself, not yet tapped by railway lines, was self-contained enough, although it attracted country life a-plenty at fair and festival times. But Upper Bockhampton was virgin, untouched by the steel of industrial culture, primitive, natural—in the literal sense of the word.

The low houses, most of them thrice-ancient in years and structure, seemed a harmonious part of the landscape. Likewise the people: slow-moving, clothed in weather-worn garments whose cut, like the cut of their pronouns, had scarcely changed in generations, they melted imperceptibly into the stern and darkling countryside. The roaring life of the towns was far away, apprehended here only in vague seismographic quiverings.

The Hardy house, much roomier than the surrounding structures, was still of a piece with the lonely terrain. Emerging from it, one immediately found himself in the presence of the inscrutable, timeless personality of the Heath—a part of it, in fact, and a sharer in its moods. This inevitably remained the dominating factor in Hardy's childhood. Nothing could shield him from it completely, or for long.