ABSTRACT
J.C. Squire During the years between the War and his death I invariably paid one or more visits annually to Thomas Hardy at Max Gate. There was never anybody else staying. Unless a neighbour called there were only Hardy, his devoted wife (who, until her own death, kept all his friends amongst the young poets and writers, Colonel Lawrence1 included) and their odd fox terrier ‘Wessex’. Nothing could have been more varied than the talk of this old man, intensely curious concerning all quaint, strange, beautiful or humorous facts about the past; his melancholy eye and outlook were by no means reflected in his talk; many men, after all, find in writing an outlet for their suffering hearts. Memories crowd in upon me of small things. He was childishly pleased to show the signatures of German prisoners on a shed in his garden.2 Once he took me out to see his ancestral church at ‘Mellstock’. He showed me the simple tombs of his fathers. I commented on the good lettering of the latest and he said, with his charming simplicity, ‘If ever you want a good monumental mason, just you drop me a postcard and I’ll send you the name of one’.
