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frequent journeys between human characters on one side the
mysterious events on the other； and would prefer the more single…
eyed treatment of the short tale。 Wonder； too； is a very tender
and short…lived emotion； and sometimes perishes after a few pages。
Curiosity is tougher； but that too may be baffled too long； and end
by tiring of the pursuit while it is yet in its early stages。 Many
excellent plots； admirable from the constructive point of view；
have been wasted by stringing them out too far； the reader
recognizes their merit； but loses his enthusiasm on account of a
sort of monotony of strain； he wickedly turns to the concluding
chapter； and the game is up。 〃The Woman in White；〃 by Wilkie
Collins； was published about 1860； I think； in weekly installments；
and certainly they were devoured with insatiable appetite by many
thousands of readers。 But I doubt whether a book of similar merit
could command such a following to…day； and I will even confess that
I have myself never read the concluding parts； and do not know to
this day who the woman was or what were the wrongs from which she
so poignantly suffered。
The tales contained in the volumes herewith offered are the best
riddle or detective stories in the world； according to the best
judgment of the editors。 They are the product of writers of all
nations； and translation； in this case； is less apt to be
misleading than with most other forms of literature； for a mystery
or a riddle is equally captivating in all languages。 Many of the
good onesperhaps some of the best oneshave been left out；
either because we missed them in our search； or because we had to
choose between them and others seemingly of equal excellence； and
were obliged to consider space limitations which； however
generously laid out； must have some end at last。 Be that as it
may； we believe that there are enough good stories here to satisfy
the most Gargantuan hunger； and we feel sure that our volumes will
never be crowded off the shelf which has once made room for them。
If we have； now and then； a little transcended the strict
definition of the class of fiction which our title would promise；
we shall nevertheless not anticipate any serious quarrel with our
readers； if there be room to question the right of any given story
to appear in this company； there will be all the more reason for
accepting it on its own merits； for it had to be very good indeed
in order to overcome its technical disqualification。 And if it did
not rightfully belong here； there would probably be objections as
strong to admitting it in any other collection。 Between two or
more stools； it would be a pity to let it fall to the ground； so
let it be forgiven； and please us with whatever gift it has。
In many cases where copyrights were still unexpired； we have to
express our acknowledgments to writers and publishers who have
accorded us the courtesy of their leave to reproduce what their
genius or enterprise has created and put forth。 To our readers we
take pleasure in presenting what we know cannot fail to give them
pleasurea collection of the fruits of the finest literary
ingenuity and nicest art accessible to the human mind。 Gaudeat；
non caveat emptor！
JULIAN HAWTHORNE。
American Mystery Stories
F。 Marion Crawford
By the Waters of Paradise
I
I remember my childhood very distinctly。 I do not think that the
fact argues a good memory； for I have never been clever at learning
words by heart； in prose or rhyme； so that I believe my remembrance
of events depends much more upon the events themselves than upon my
possessing any special facility for recalling them。 Perhaps I am
too imaginative； and the earliest impressions I received were of a
kind to stimulate the imagination abnormally。 A long series of
little misfortunes； so connected with each other as to suggest a
sort of weird fatality； so worked upon my melancholy temperament
when I was a boy that； before I was of age； I sincerely believed
myself to be under a curse； and not only myself； but my whole
family and every individual who bore my name。
I was born in the old place where my father； and his father； and
all his predecessors had been born； beyond the memory of man。 It
is a very old house； and the greater part of it was originally a
castle； strongly fortified； and surrounded by a deep moat supplied
with abundant water from the hills by a hidden aqueduct。 Many of
the fortifications have been destroyed； and the moat has been
filled up。 The water from the aqueduct supplies great fountains；
and runs down into huge oblong basins in the terraced gardens； one
below the other； each surrounded by a broad pavement of marble
between the water and the flower…beds。 The waste surplus finally
escapes through an artificial grotto； some thirty yards long； into
a stream； flowing down through the park to the meadows beyond； and
thence to the distant river。 The buildings were extended a little
and greatly altered more than two hundred years ago； in the time of
Charles II。； but since then little has been done to improve them；
though they have been kept in fairly good repair； according to our
fortunes。
In the gardens there are terraces and huge hedges of box and
evergreen； some of which used to be clipped into shapes of animals；
in the Italian style。 I can remember when I was a lad how I used
to try to make out what the trees were cut to represent； and how I
used to appeal for explanations to Judith； my Welsh nurse。 She
dealt in a strange mythology of her own； and peopled the gardens
with griffins； dragons； good genii and bad； and filled my mind with
them at the same time。 My nursery window afforded a view of the
great fountains at the head of the upper basin； and on moonlight
nights the Welshwoman would hold me up to the glass and bid me look
at the mist and spray rising into mysterious shapes； moving
mystically in the white light like living things。
〃It's the Woman of the Water；〃 she used to say； and sometimes she
would threaten that if I did not go to sleep the Woman of the Water
would steal up to the high window and carry me away in her wet
arms。
The place was gloomy。 The broad basins of water and the tall
evergreen hedges gave it a funereal look； and the damp…stained
marble causeways by the pools might have been made of tombstones。
The gray and weather…beaten walls and towers without； the dark and
massively furnished rooms within； the deep； mysterious recesses and
the heavy curtains； all affected my spirits。 I was silent and sad
from my childhood。 There was a great clock tower above； from which
the hours rang dismally during the day； and tolled like a knell in
the dead of night。 There was no light nor life in the house； for
my mother was a helpless invalid； and my father had grown
melancholy in his long task of caring for her。 He was a thin； dark
man； with sad eyes； kind； I think； but s