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  1. 10 editions of this work
  2. Essays on Culture, Society and Belief in Twentieth-Century Mythopoeic Literature
  3. Jack Ross's Blog, page 5
  4. The Poet and The Lunatics

Outside the door was a wooden bench and table, and above it a wooden sign, much darkened, with the gold of the sun's disc faded to a brown; and under the sign stood the inn-keeper, gazing gloomily up the road. His hair was black and flat, and his face, of a congested purple, had all the sombreness, if not all the beauty, of sunset. The only person in the place who exhibited any liveliness was the person who was leaving it.

He was the first and last customer for many months; a solitary swallow who had conspicuously failed to make a summer; and the swallow was now flitting.

10 editions of this work

He was a medical man on a holiday; young, and of an agreeable ugliness, with a humorous hatchet face and red hair; and the cat-like activity of his movements contrasted with the stagnant inertia of the inn by the ford. He was strapping up his own bag on the table under the sign; and neither his host, who stood a yard off, nor the single servant, who moved heavily and obscurely within, offered to help him; possibly through sulkiness, possibly merely through dreaminess and disuse. The long silence, idle or busy, was broken for the first time by two sharp and explosive sounds. The first was the abrupt bursting of the strap which the doctor was tightening round the bag on the table; and the second was the loud and cheerful "Damn!

Have you got a cord or a rope or anything? The melancholy innkeeper turned very slowly and went indoors, coming out presently with a length of dusty rope in a loop like a halter, probably for tethering a donkey or a calf. Garth; "you probably want a tonic. Perhaps this medicine chest burst open to give you one. But you certainly seem down in the mouth; you didn't even brighten up when I indulged in such an eccentricity as paying my bill. It was a good business once, when the right-of-way was open beyond the river, and everybody used this ford. But the last squire shut up the path somehow; and now everything goes by the new bridge a mile away.

Nobody comes this way; and, saving your presence, I don't know why anybody should. Westermaine's his name, isn't it? I'm told there's a brother and sister living in the big house over there, with precious little to live on. I suppose the whole countryside's rather gone downhill. But you're wrong about nobody coming here," he added suddenly, "for there are two men coming over the hill now. The road ran across the valley at right angles to the river; beyond the ford the forgotten right-of-way could be traced more faintly up the slope to where the ruined gate that marked Westermaine Abbey stood dark against clouds of a pallor that was faintly lurid, as with a hint of storm.

But on the other side of the valley the sky was clear; and the early afternoon seemed as bright and brisk as morning. And on this side, where the white road curved over the hill, two figures were advancing, which seemed, even when they were hardly more than dots in the distance, to be markedly dissimilar.

As they came nearer to the inn, the contrast increased, and was accentuated by the very fact of their air of mutual familiarity; as if they were almost walking arm in arm.

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One was comparatively short and very sturdy; the other unusually tall and slender. They were both fair; but the blond hair of the shorter man was neatly parted and smoothly plastered down; while that of the other stood up in erratic wisps and tufts that looked fantastic. The shorter man had a full square face sharpened by a very pointed nose, and a pair of bright, bird-like eyes, that made it look like a small beak. There was something of the cock sparrow about him; and, indeed, he seemed more of a town bird than a country bird.

His clothes were as neat and commonplace as a clerk's; and he carried a business-like little bag as if he was going up to the City; while his tall companion had bundled on his back a loose knapsack, and what was evidently the paraphernalia of a painter.

He had a long, slightly cadaverous face, with absentminded eyes; but the chin beneath jutted forward, almost as if it had formed an unconscious resolution of its own, of which the blank blue eyes were still unaware. They were both young; and they both walked without hats, probably through the heat of walking; for the one held a hard straw hat in his hand, and the other had a loose grey felt stuffed anyhow into his knapsack.

They came to a halt before the inn; and the shorter man said jovially to his companion, "Here's a field for your efforts, anyhow. Then he called out with breezy civility to the innkeeper, asking him to bring out two pots of ale; and when that gloomy character had disappeared into his gloomy place of entertainment, he turned to the doctor with the same radiant loquacity:. You might call him a house-painter; but he's not quite what most people mean by one.

Columbia, SC. Erlangen: Univ. Erlangen Nurnberg, Supriya M. Introduction XX. To St. Leon by William Godwin. Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, William D. BREY, Joseph.

Die Naturschilderungen in den romanen und gedichten der Mrs. Zorn, Susan Stark. Susanne Stark. Amsterdam , Netherlands : Rodopi, Ernst August Klingemann Gothic and Fairytale. Amsterdam: Rodopi.

Essays on Culture, Society and Belief in Twentieth-Century Mythopoeic Literature

Ottowa: Canadian Film Institute, BRIX, Michel. The Caliph of Fonthill, intro. Nikolaus Pevsner. London: Werner Laurie, Stephen Bann. London : Reaktion, Character study of the heroine Adeline from a Freudian perspective. The Handbook to Gothic Literature , ed.

Jack Ross's Blog, page 5

Night Passages: Philosophy, Literature, and Film. Columbia UP, Boston: Houghten, Mfflin, London: Routledge for Open University, New york: Greenberg, The Horror People. The Sentimental Novel in America, New York: Octagon, Kevin J.

Cambridge UP, Interpreting Goethe's "Faust" Today , eds. Jane K.

The Poet and The Lunatics

Brown, Meredith Lee, Thomas P. Columbia, SC: Camden House, The Gothic Text. Palo Alto. CA: Stanford University Press.

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Sheridan Le Fanu. London: Arthur Barker, Night Shade: Gothic Tales by Women. The 17 short stories take place in everyday settings——contemporary houses, a bar, a veterinary hospital. Yet in this collection, the familiar is subverted. As the subtitle suggests, many of these stories have a feminist slant. For the most part, this is an excellent anthology of well-written stories, many of which would appeal to readers of either sex.

Martin and Eric Savoy. Iowa City: University Iowa Press, Anna Powell and Andrew Smith. Western Illinois University, La Tentazione della chimera: Charles Brockden Brown e le origini del romanzo americano. Rome: Storia e Letteratura, BUMA, Michael. Barry Keith Grant.