The house by the church-yard: a novel

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Carleton, 1866 - 528 pages
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Review: The House by the Churchyard

User Review  - Goodreads

Oh, Le Fanu, how you leave your stories unfinished! The House by the Churchyard is an engaging tale, but as I've experienced with Le Fanu before, a little drawn out and unsatisfying at the end. I've begun to wonder if he remembers the things he starts but never brings to a close! Read full review

Review: The House by the Churchyard

User Review  - Goodreads

I am reading the Project Gutenberg version. This is one of the ==>countless<== books that were in James Joyce's mind as he worked on _Finnegans Wake_. Read full review

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Page 327 - Do ye imagine to reprove words, and the speeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind?
Page 304 - Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare Into that vast perpetual torture-house. There are the Furies tossing damned souls 140 On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead. There are live quarters broiling on the coals, That ne'er can die. This ever-burning chair Is for o'er-tortured souls to rest them in.
Page 72 - ... laughing at her; she seen no more, but dropped in a dead faint in the bed, and back to her mother with her in the morning, and she never swallied bit or sup more, only she just sat by the fire holding her mother's hand, crying and trembling, and peepin' over her shoulder, and starting with every sound, till she took the fever and died, poor thing, not five weeks after." — And so on, and on, and on flowed the stream of old Sally's narrative, while Lilias dropped into dreamless sleep, and then...
Page 5 - Chapelizod was about the gayest and prettiest of the outpost villages in which old Dublin took a complacent pride. The poplars which stood, in military rows, here and there, just showed a glimpse of formality among the orchards and old timber that lined the banks of the river and the valley of the Liffey, with a lively sort of richness. The broad old street looked hospitable and merry, with steep roofs and many coloured hall-doors. The jolly old inn, just beyond the turnpike at the sweep of the road,...
Page 72 - ... no wig, but a velvet cap on, and to the windy with him quiet and aisy, and she makes a turn in the bed to let him know there was some one there, thinking he'd go away, but instead of that, over he comes to the side of the bed, looking very bad, and says something to her — but his speech was thick and queer, like a dummy's that 'id be trying to spake — and she grew very frightened, and says she, 'I ask your honour's pardon, sir, but I can't hear you right...
Page 134 - The river ran between them, And she smiled upon the stream, Like one that smiles at folly — A dreamer on a dream. ' I do not trust your promise, I will not be betrayed ; For your faith is light, And your cold wit bright, Like the white plume in your hat, And your shining blade.' " The river ran between them, And he rode beside the stream ; And he turned away and parted, As a dreamer from his dream : And his comrade brought his message From the field where he was laid — Just his name to repeat,...
Page 134 - you peerless maid ; My honour is pure, And my true love sure, Like the white plume in my hat, And my shining blade. ' " The river ran between them, And she smiled upon the stream, Like one that smiles at folly — A dreamer on a dream. ' I do not trust your promise, I will not be betrayed ; For your faith is light, And your cold wit bright, Like the white plume in your hat, And your shining blade.
Page 28 - I would not tell your reverence a lie for the world. Sid. I believe it, Mrs. Betty; and what did Constantia say to all this? Betty. Oh ! — oh ! she is sly enough ; she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth; but all is not gold that glitters ; smooth water, you know, sir, runs deepest.
Page 135 - Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself, or the stars; and it's so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and — so cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing. It's so pure, and so playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and fatal. I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I've seen this river spirit; and she's like— very like you!
Page 6 - Then there was the village church, with its tower dark and rustling from base to summit, with thick piled, bowering ivy. The royal arms cut in bold relief in the broad stone over the porch - where, pray, is that stone now...

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