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Hawthorne, Julian, 1846-1934

"David Poindexter's Disappearance, and Other Tales"


Nothing is more strange, in this mysterious complexity of impressions
and events that we call human existence, than the fact that two beings,
entirely cut off from all natural means of association and communion,
may yet, unknown to each other, be breathing the same spiritual air and
learning the same moral and intellectual lessons. Like two seeds of the
same species, planted, the one in American soil, the other in English,
Ethel and I had selected, by some instinct of the soul, the same
elements from our different surroundings; so that now, when we met once
more, we found a close and harmonious resemblance between the leaves
and blossoms of our experience. What can be more touching and
delightful than such a discovery? Or what more sad than to know that it
came too late for us to profit by it?
Oh, Ethel, how easy it is to take the little step that separates light
from darkness, happiness from misery! Remembering that we live but
once, and that the worthy enjoyments of life are so limited in number
and so hard to get, it seems unjust and monstrous that one little hour
of jealousy or misunderstanding should wreck the fair prospects of
months and years.


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