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 poet might be like. Of course, they can never know. This must be numbered among the fascinating secrets which will not be told. The house at Max Gate stands secluded among the closely growing trees that overshadow it. There was no mob at the gates. The privacy of Mr. Hardy and his guest was respected in intention no less than fact. The photograph taken after luncheon on the lawn will be the sole record of an occasion that, judging from one's experience to-day in Dorchester and on the road through Wessex, charms alike the fancy of the Hardy student and of the man who could not tell how Tess came of the D'Urbervilles.

The Prince's next visit was paid to tenants who might be said to live over the way from Mr. Hardy's. During the afternoon, still in the very region of the novels, he climbed the Maiden Castle Earthworks, sinking to the ground on the summit, declaring his pleasure at the prospect of half an hour's rest, and remaining at ease till the half-hour had gone by.

In all future dealings with the figure and influence of Hardy it will probably be found necessary to keep Hardy the writer and philosopher distinct from Hardy the man and personality. From reading most of his books the natural impulse is to imagine their author as a morose, grim and cynical being. This is a delusion. His surface-personality seems to be reflected only in the pure and gentle vein of humor which animates the humbler country-figures in the novels.

Hardy always regarded himself, as a writer, as a kind of æolian harp, blown upon by all the winds of the heavens, wild and gentle, good and bad, cheerful and sorrowful, sentimental and ironical, frivolous and sober. But to all this variety the harp gave but one response;