ABSTRACT
Ernest Rhys The house stands by itself, closely surrounded and rather shut in by trees – the trees serving as a screen to keep off inquisitive pilgrims. The rooms are rather dark on an autumn day, but there was a good fire burning of Wessex logs, which made the interior cheerful as we entered. Hardy did not appear at once, and we were beginning to fear he was not well enough to see visitors when his wife said he was just back from a walk and would join us presently. Meanwhile, a round table was being spread for an old-fashioned tea, and next moment the door opened, a flame sprang up on the hearth and in its gleam we saw Hardy stepping in with nothing of an old man’s deliberation. His wife had already warned us that he was easily tired, and we must not tempt him to outrun his strength, but the warning did not affect our spirits nor those of our host. He was the life of that tea party. What struck us particularly was the keenness of his interest in the younger poets and writers of the day, among them a young Welsh rhymer who had translated two of his poems into that tongue. That led us on to talk of the dying out under the modern order of ancient tongues and Doric dialects, including the folk-speech of his beloved Dorchester. He thought it was inevitable, what with the influence of newspapers, railways, and cinemas and the ubiquitous BBC; but he did not take these things too sadly. He admitted there had been great changes in Wessex and the old country customs since the days when Barnes had written his Dorset poems. That led us to ask him if he had ever heard the old Exmoor prayer. No, he did not remember having heard it, and Stella, who had spent many holidays in that country and learned the dialect, said it over:
‘God bless me and my wife, My son Jan and his wife, –
Us four No more’.
