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Updated: June 29, 2025
Hewlett was born at Hampstead, Queens County, Long Island in New York, and died at Hampstead, Queens County, New Brunswick. His grant of land at the latter place included part of Long Island in the St. John river. He died in 1789 in the 60th year of his age. Two monuments have been erected in his memory, one at Hampstead on the St.
He had never cowered before anyone in his life, I think, but he cowered now before Pierre Caribou. "Hewlett!" he cried in a high-pitched, quavering voice, "help me throw this old fool out of the way." I spoke to Pierre. "Our quarrel is at an end," I said. "I am going away. You must go, too." Pierre Caribou did not relax an inch of ground.
"Mind you," he pursued, "he'll turn up soon. He's got to turn up, because the lumber company's all organized now and in fine running order. What do you say, Hewlett?" "Nothing," I answered. "All right," he said, turning away with a shrug of his shoulders. "Unpractical as ever, ain't you? Think it over, my son. Glad to have met you, Mr.
He stands for austerity and discipline in thought, style, and diction, for a fine exactness which in his case was compatible with the old passion for the idea of "freedom" no less than with that private, self-communing spirit which the Victorians loved to express. Such a poet as Mr. Maurice Hewlett, antiquarian as he often is in the subjects he treats, is much more modern in spirit.
Children of the Mist and Demeter's Daughter are among his ablest novels. Maurice Hewlett was born in Kent in 1861, of an old Somerset family. He began writing in his boyhood, giving proof even then of his skill in catching the manner of other writers. His style to-day reëchoes his reading of many authors in Latin, French, Italian, and English.
However, I do not speak of that, for she is undoubtedly safe with her father now, awaiting her husband's return. And I shall not help you in your pursuit of her, M. Hewlett, for you are actuated solely by love for the wife of another man. Is that not so?" he ended, bending over me with a penetrating look in his blue eyes. "Yes, it is so. But I shall go to the château," I answered.
It is said that he stood in front of his former palace with a wooden dish for alms. "Date obolum Belisario," give a penny to Belisarius, has become a proverb. However, Justinian seems to have repented, and he restored to Belisarius his wealth and his palace, in which, shortly after, the old man died on the 13th of March, 565, only eight months before his ungrateful sovereign. By HENRY G. HEWLETT
Then Simon died and there were only two, and now there are only Hewlett and I, and he is dead, poor fool, and I have my gold here. For God's sake give me a knife, Simon!" His fingers tore at my sleeve in his last agony, and I was tempted sorely. And it was his own knife that I had. The irony of it! He muttered once or twice and cried out in fear of the man whom he had slain.
Next time I'm here I shall be glad to have another look around. And now, Hewlett, if you want a job at five thousand a year to start to start, mind you, you play fair and tell me where Leroux is hiding himself." I was too mortified to answer him. But I felt Jacqueline slip her hand into mine, and suddenly the memory of the past made Tom's raillery an insignificant affair.
Presently I was telling my story except for that part which more intimately concerned myself and Jacqueline, and the narrative of the murder, which I gave only as Lacroix had confessed it to me. A look of incredulity deepened on Tom's shrewd old face till, at the end, he burst out explosively at me: "Hewlett, I didn't think I was a damned fool before I beg your pardon, miss.
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