|From Phase the Third, XVIII|
. .Much to his surprise, he took, indeed, a real delight in their companionship. The conventional farm-folk of his imagination - personified in the newspaper-press by the pitiable dummy known as Hodge - were obliterated after a few days' residence. At close quaters no Hodge was to be seen. At first, it is true, when Clare's intelligence was fresh from a contrasting society, these friends with whom he now hobnobbed seemed a little strange. Sitting down as a level member of the dairyman's household seemed at the outset an undignified proceeding. The ideas, the modes, the surroundings, appeared retrogressive and unmeaning. But with living on there, day after day, the acute sojourner became consious of a new aspect in the spectable. Without any objective change whatever, variety had taken the place of monotonousness. His host and his host's household, his men and his maids, as they became intimately know to Clare, begun to differentiate themselves as a chemical process. The thought of Pascal's was brought home to him: "A mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit , on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. Les gens du commun ne trouvent pas différence entre les hommes." The typical an unvarying Hodge ceased to exist. He had been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures - beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a few depressed, one here or there bright even to genius, some stupid, others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially Cromwellian - into men who had private views of each other, as he had of his own friends; who could applaud or condemn each other, amuse or sadden themselves by the contemplation of each other's foibles or vices; men every one of whom walked in his own individual way the road to dusty death.
|.... .... .... .... [paragraph]|
|. .He grew away from old associations and saw something new in life and humanity. Secondarily, he made close acquaintance with phenomena which he had before known but darkly - the seasons in their moods, morning and evening, night and noon, winds in their different tempers, trees, waters and mists, shades and silences, and the voices of inanimate things.|
|....I can just try to gather in Hardy's ability to portray the human spirit in his written appreciation of these apparently mundane emotions and existence.|