Thomas Hardy undoubtedly belongs to the ranks of great novelists; his series of romances has been laid on the firm basis of beauty and knowledge; he has hallowed a part of England peculiarly rich in unique personality and natural charm; it belongs to him and the heirship of his memory as validly as though it had been granted him by the Crown. So well has he filled the office of fictionist that there seems no need of an attempt on his part to enforce his fame by appearing as a poet. The publication of “Wessex Poems” (New York: Harper & Bros.) is indeed no positive declaration of such ambition; it is perhaps put forth hesitatingly rather in response to public demand than because of a conviction of its intrinsic merit. It represents the fruit of odd moments punctuating a long literary career. The character of the volume is what one might have anticipated, although had it been of a wholly different sort it could scarcely have created surprise. There are two Hardys—the man on whose heart weighs the melancholy facts of human existence and the happier artist in close and peaceful communion with the sweet infinite spirit of nature. It is the former Hardy that figures in the volume singularly unsoftened by any intimation of the other phase of the writer. The character of Hardy himself as existing behind the art-self is one that inspires a peculiar interest. One would know it not simply to gratify a curiosity that, indeed, is too much indulged of late in lines of gross private revelation, but to weigh the justice of the charge of wilful pessimism so generally made against him. The gloomy brow of Hardy’s art seems far from being of that impersonal sort which makes much of the modern melancholy of literature inexcusable as a mere degenerate seeking.