ABSTRACT
Earlier in the summer we paid several visits to T. Hardy at Max Gate. He is a wonder, if you like! At 87½ without a deficiency of sight, hearing, mind or conversation. Very tiny and fragile, but full of spirit and a gaiety not quite consistent in the most pessimistic of poets. He and I collogued merrily of past generations, like two antediluvian animals sporting in the primeval slime (p. 502).
