Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 105, Vol. III, January 2, 1886

Edward Hawthorn smiled quietly. ‘It won’t do, my dear fellow,’ he said, glancing up quickly at the handsome open face in the big photograph. ‘My father isn’t at all that sort of person, I feel certain, from his letters. He’s doing all he can to advance me in life; and though he hasn’t seen me for so long, I’m the one interest he really lives upon. I certainly did think it very queer, after I’d taken my degree at Cambridge and got the Arabic scholarship and so forth, that my father didn’t want me to go out to the island. I naturally wanted to see my old home and my father and mother, before settling down to my business in life; and I wrote and told them so. But my father wrote back, putting me off with all sorts of made-up excuses: it was the bad season of the year; there was a great deal of yellow fever about; he was very anxious I should get to work at once upon my law-reading; he wanted me to be called to the bar as early as possible.’