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 work of the first decade of our century, and may possibly be ranked ultimately with the greatest pieces in the English language. Yet the Nobel committee, having been forced to defend itself again and again for ignoring Hardy, still feels it necessary to assert its independence of outside suggestion by finding other worthy recipients of its honors. The Queen of Cornwall, had it been written by a younger or more obscure poet, might well have been chosen for distinction—but, no; Hardy is still just the Victorian novelist, and little better than a memory. For most people, indeed, his name would mean no more and no less if he had died thirty years ago.

For the past ten years he has been indulging in the luxury of imagining his end to be near; yet he lives on, and, what is more, manages to keep undiminished and untarnished the brightness of his poetic muse. It is still too early to say that his work is over; that was already said in 1895, in 1908, in 1914, in 1922.

Occasionally, however, his figure is illuminated by a sudden and transitory burst of public interest. Such an occasion was afforded during the Prince of Wales's visit to Dorchester on July 19, 1923. This event was recorded as follows, by the special correspondent of the London Times:

The meeting of the Prince of Wales and Mr. Thomas Hardy dwarfed every other circumstance of the third and last day of the Prince's western tour. It seemed to have struck the general imagination, so much was it talked of, so thoroughly did it per-