ABSTRACT
Sometimes it was at Max Gate, by the candlelight he loved, or looking out over the neighbouring valley, which he used proudly to say had been ‘continuously tilled since Roman times’. Sometimes it was at the ‘Mayor of Casterbridge’s’ own ‘King’s Head’ [sic], where he was often to be found before American intrusion had made a comparative hermit of him; sometimes in the little parlour behind the shop of the Dorchester chemist, Mr Evans,1 whose rough and ready adaptations of the novels really started the ‘movement’.
