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 monies that had been imported, established and adhered to by their fathers for hundreds of years. In church they professed much, but believed very little; in the dim chambers of conjurors they professed little, but believed much—and that with shaking and dread. Fetichism ran far ahead of traditional ritual and dogmatism.

Such was the Wessex that Hardy loved from the earliest to the latest days of his life. He loved the country both for itself and for its associations, but he loved the countryman for himself alone. Hardy's peasant was, as Lionel Johnson justly remarked, neither a Strephon nor a Hodge, neither Arcadian nor clown; he was just as he was. Yet his possibilities were unlimited. Twice, at least, did Hardy give recognition to his recognition of these potentialities: in one of his rare interviews, signed by a "quondam country parson" in 1892, and in Tess. Here is a composite rendition of both:

"As to 'Hodge,' I have never met him. The conventional farm-folk of the imagination—personified by the pitiable figure known as Hodge—are soon obliterated from the consciousness of the just observer. At close quarters no Hodge is to be seen. At first, it is true, rustic ideas, modes and surroundings may appear retrogressive and unmeaning. But living on there, day after day, the acute sojourner becomes conscious of a new aspect in the spectacle. Without any objective change whatever, variety takes the place of monotonousness. As the folk become intimately known, they begin to differentiate