Rookwood

The eyes of the hound were glaring, blood-red; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of keen white fangs was displayed

Shame! shame!

He disowned me in life: in death I disown him. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father of mine."

you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his loins."

Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rookwood!

Peter Bradley, of Rookwood—comitatû Ebor—,

had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of coloring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and though slight, exhibited great personal vigor.

proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave, melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited.

An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat.

Modified by the German and French writers—by Hoffman, Tieck, Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (le Bibliophile Jacob)—the structure commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inharmonious, requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its approach is removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation and perfection.