"Set Not Thy Foot On Graves" / Julian Hawthorne

New York, April 29th.--Last night I came upon this passage in my old author: "Friend, take it sadly home to thee--Age and Youthe are strangers still. Youthe, being ignorant of the wisdome of Age, which is Experience, but wise with its own wisdome, which is of the unshackeled Soule, or Intuition, is great in Enterprise, but slack in Achievement. Holding itself equal to all attempts and conditions, and to be heir, not of its own spanne of yeares and compasse of Faculties only, but of all time and all Human Nature--such, I saye, being its illusion (if, indeede, it be illusion, and not in some sorte a Truth), it still underrateth the value of Opportunitie, and, in the vain beleefe that the City of its Expectation is paved with Golde and walled with Precious Stones, letteth slip betwixt its fingers those diamondes and treasures which ironical Fate offereth it.... But see nowe what the case is when this youthe becometh in yeares. For nowe he can nowise understand what defecte of Judgmente (or effecte of insanitie rather) did leade him so to despise and, as it were, reject those Giftes and golden chaunces which come but once to mortal men.

The Christmas Guest / Julian Hawthorne

A MYTH.

They were ideal young people, and lived in a fairy farmhouse, in the Eldorado of lovers. Everything went happily with them; no troublesome grown-up people thwarted or annoyed them; they could be together as much as they liked, and had never in their whole lives heard of such a thing as impropriety. They had no enemies, nor so much as a single friend with conscientious ideas of duty. In spite of all this they were remarkably content with each other and with the world at large, and never did any wrong, to speak of, from week’s end to week’s end. For the rest, they had lived and played together ever since they could remember, had never quarrelled except to provide a pretext for a reconciliation; and she had always called him Eros, and he had always called her Psyche.

My Friend Paton / Julian Hawthorne

Mathew Morriss, my father, was a cotton merchant in Liverpool twenty-

five years ago--a steady, laborious, clear-headed man, very

affectionate and genial in his private intercourse. He was wealthy, and

we lived in a sumptuous house in the upper part of the city. This was

when I was about ten years old. My father was twice married; I was the

child of the first wife, who died when I was very young; my stepmother

came five years later. She was the elder of two sisters, both beautiful

women. The sister often came to visit us. I remember I liked her better

than I liked my stepmother; in fact, I regarded her with that sort of

romantic attachment that often is developed in lads of my age.

Ken's Mystery / Julian Hawthorne

One cool October evening--it was the last day of the month, and

unusually cool for the time of year--I made up my mind to go and spend

an hour or two with my friend Keningale. Keningale was an artist (as

well as a musical amateur and poet), and had a very delightful studio

built onto his house, in which he was wont to sit of an evening. The

studio had a cavernous fire-place, designed in imitation of the old-

fashioned fire-places of Elizabethan manor-houses, and in it, when the

temperature out-doors warranted, he would build up a cheerful fire of

dry logs. It would suit me particularly well, I thought, to go and have

a quiet pipe and chat in front of that fire with my friend.

David Poindexter's Disappearance / Julian Hawthorne

Among the records of the English state trials are to be found many

strange stories, which would, as the phrase is, make the fortune of a

modern novelist. But there are also numerous cases, not less

stimulating to imagination and curiosity, which never attained more

than local notoriety, of which the law was able to take but

comparatively small cognizance, although they became subjects of much

unofficial discussion and mystification.

"When Half-Gods Go, The Gods Arrive." / Julian Hawthorne

"What a beautiful girl!" said Mr. Ambrose Drayton to himself; "and how

much she looks like--" He cut the comparison short, and turned his eyes

seaward, pulling at his mustache meditatively the while.

"This American atmosphere, fresh and pure as it is in the nostrils, is

heavy-laden with reminiscences," his thoughts ran on. "Reminiscences,