besotted, no-working working-man, has been given us ("at least, as far
as I am aware," interpolates the Baron, with a possible reservation)
than _Tess's_ father, _Durbeyfield_. His foolish wife, _Joan_, kindly
in a way, a fair housewife and helpmate, yet deficient in moral sense,
is another admirably-drawn character.

The only blot on this otherwise excellent work is the absurdly
melodramatic character of that "villain of the deepest dye," _Alec
D'Urbeville_, who would be thoroughly in his element in an Adelphi
Drama of the most approved type, ancient or modern. He is just the
sort of stage-scoundrel who from time to time seeks to take some mean
advantage of a heroine in distress, on which occasions said heroine
(of Adelphi Drama) will request him to "unhand her," or to "stand
aside and let her pass;" whereupon the dastardly ruffian retaliates
with a diabolical sneer of fiendish malice, his eyes ablaze with
passion, as, making his melodramatic exit at the O.P. wing, he growls,
"Aha! a day will come!" or "She must and shall be mine!" or, if
not making his exit, but remaining in centre of stage to assist in
forming a picture, he exclaims, with fiendish glee, "Now, pretty one,
you are in my power!" and so forth. 'Tis a great pity that such a
penny-plain-and-two-pence-coloured scoundrel should have been allowed
so strong a part among Mr. HARDY's excellent and unconventional
_dramatis personæ_. Even the very, very strong ejaculations wherein
this bold bad man indulges on the slightest provocation belong to the
most antiquated vocabulary of theatrical ruffianism. However, there
he is, and all the perfumes of the Vale of Blackmoor will not suffice
for dispelling the strong odour of the footlights which pervades
every scene where this unconscionable scoundrel makes his appearance.
That he is ultimately disposed of by being stuck to the heart with
the carving-knife that had been brought in for cold-beef slicing at