ABSTRACT
I was his and his family’s doctor for many years. About the year 1880 I was attending Thomas Hardy’s father in the old roomy cottage in which the great novelist was born. His mother (a clever woman), brother, and sisters were well known to me. I looked after them all (medically) for many years. They could all tell stories, and did, in the large low-ceilinged downstairs room round the great farmhouse sort of fireplace. It had been a family custom dating far back, and many a wild winter evening did they pass away so occupied and without any light save that from the big wood fire.
