Rookwood
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Ainsworth William Harrison. Rookwood
MEMOIR
TO MY MOTHER
PREFACE
BOOK I. THE WEDDING RING
CHAPTER I. THE VAULT
CHAPTER II. THE SKELETON HAND
CHAPTER III. THE PARK
CHAPTER IV. THE HALL
CHAPTER V. SIR REGINALD ROOKWOOD
CHAPTER VI. SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD
CHAPTER VII. THE RETURN
CHAPTER VIII. AN IRISH ADVENTURER
CHAPTER IX. AN ENGLISH ADVENTURER
CHAPTER X. RANULPH ROOKWOOD
CHAPTER XI. LADY ROOKWOOD
CHAPTER XII. THE CHAMBER OF DEATH
CHAPTER XIII. THE BROTHERS
BOOK II. THE SEXTON
CHAPTER I. THE STORM
CHAPTER II. THE FUNERAL ORATION
CHAPTER III. THE CHURCHYARD
CHAPTER IV. THE FUNERAL
CHAPTER V. THE CAPTIVE
CHAPTER VI. THE APPARITION
BOOK III. THE GIPSY
CHAPTER I. A MORNING RIDE
CHAPTER II. A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT
CHAPTER III. SYBIL
CHAPTER IV. BARBARA LOVEL
CHAPTER V. THE INAUGURATION
CHAPTER VI. ELEANOR MOWBRAY
CHAPTER VII. MRS. MOWBRAY
CHAPTER VIII. THE PARTING
CHAPTER IX. THE PHILTER
CHAPTER X. SAINT CYPRIAN'S CELL
CHAPTER XI. THE BRIDAL
CHAPTER XII. ALAN ROOKWOOD
CHAPTER XIII. MR. COATES
CHAPTER XIV. DICK TURPIN
BOOK IV. THE RIDE TO YORK
CHAPTER I. THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN
CHAPTER II. TOM KING
CHAPTER III. A SURPRISE
CHAPTER IV. THE HUE AND CRY
CHAPTER V. THE SHORT PIPE
CHAPTER VI. BLACK BESS
CHAPTER VII. THE YORK STAGE
CHAPTER VIII. ROADSIDE INN
CHAPTER IX. EXCITEMENT
CHAPTER X. THE GIBBET
CHAPTER XI. THE PHANTOM STEED
CHAPTER XII. CAWOOD FERRY
BOOK V. THE OATH
CHAPTER I. THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE
CHAPTER II. MAJOR MOWBRAY
CHAPTER III. HANDASSAH
CHAPTER IV. THE DOWER OF SYBIL
CHAPTER V. THE SARCOPHAGUS
L'ENVOY
Отрывок из книги
When I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of indulgence. Since then, the approbation your partiality would scarcely have withheld has been liberally accorded by the public; and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest friend I had in the world as the subject of a dedication, I have not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in connecting your honored name with this trifling production, involved you in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years, during which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed, more than once, securely into port, I again commit it to the waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a firmer reliance that, if it should be found "after many days," it may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard.
Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by domestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother, have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resignation which those who know you best can best appreciate, but which none can so well understand, or so thoroughly appreciate, as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few. And it is my fervent hope that my own children may emulate your virtues, if they are happily spared your sorrows.
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An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small, cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justiciary business by its late owner, but, in reality, used as a sanctum, snuggery, or smoking-room, a singular trio were assembled, fraught with the ulterior purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron and friend, though immediately occupied in the discussion of a magnum of excellent claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air, like the fragrance of a bed of violets.
This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favorite retreat. It was, in fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own; and thither would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the flagging hours, secure from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned apartment it was; wainscoted with rich black oak; with a fine old cabinet of the same material, and a line or two of crazy, worm-eaten bookshelves, laden with sundry dusty, unconsulted law tomes, and a light sprinkling of the elder divines, equally neglected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the "Anatomie of Melancholy;" and he merely studied Burton because the quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his humor at seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his wine.
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