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THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO
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BY THE HONOURABLE HORACE WALPOLE.
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A CRITICAL
INTRODUCTION.
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THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO:
A GOTHIC STORY.


EDINBURGH:
#Mtittt> tip 3fflm*0 Cobblestoneattfr Co,
FOR JOHN BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH; AND
LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
LONDON.
1811.


{.;


INTRODUCTION.
The Castle of Otranto is remarkable not only
for the wild interest of the story, but as the
first modern attempt to found a tale of amusing
fiction upon the basis of the ancient romances of
chivalry. The neglect and discredit of these ve-
nerable legends had commenced so early as the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, when, as we learn from
the criticism of the times, Spenser's fairy web was
rather approved on account of the mystic and alle-
gorical interpretation, than the plain and obvious
meaning of his chivalrous pageant. The drama,
which shortly afterwards rose into splendour, and
versions from the innumerable novelists of Italy,
supplied to the higher class the amusement which


IV INTRODUCTION.
their fathers received from the legends of Don Be-
lianis and the Mirror of Knighthood; and the huge
volumes which were once the pastime of nobles
and princes, shorn of their ornaments, and shrank
into abridgements, were banished to the kitchen
and nursery, or, at best, to the hall-window of the
old-fashioned country manor-house. Under Charles
II, the prevailing taste for French literature dicta-
ted the introduction of those dullest of dull folios,
the romances of Calprenede and Scuderi, works
which hover between the ancient tale of chivalry
and the modern novel. The alliance was so ill
conceived, that they retained all the insuffer-
able length and breadth of the prose volumes of
chivalry, the same detailed account of reiterated
and unvaried combats, the same unnatural and ex-
travagant turn of incident, without the rich and
sublime strokes of genius, and vigour of imagina-
tion, which often distinguished the early romance;
while they exhibited all the sentimental languor


INTRODUCTION.
and flat love-intrigue of the novel, without being
enlivened by its variety of character, just traits of
feeling, or acute views of life. Such an ill-ima-
gined species of composition retained its ground
longer than might have been expected, only be-
cause these romances were called works of entertain-
ment, and there was nothing better to supply
their room. Even in the days of the Spectator,
Clelia, Cleopatra, and the Grand Cyrus, (as that
precious folio is christened by its butcherly tran-
slator,) were the favourite closet companions of the
fair sex. But this unnatural taste began to give
way early in the seventeenth century; and, about
the middle of it, was entirely superseded by the
works of Le Sage, Richardson, Fielding, and Smol-
lett; so that even the very name of romance, now
so venerable in the ear of antiquaries and book-
collectors, was almost forgotten at the time the
Castle of Otranto made its first appearance.
The peculiar situation of Horace Walpole, the


VI INTRODUCTION.
ingenious author of this work, was such as gave
him a decided predilection for what may be called
the Gothic style, a term which he contributed not
a little to rescue from the bad fame into which it
had fallen, being currently used before his time to
express whatever was in pointed and diametrical
opposition to the rules of true taste.
Mr Walpole, it is needless to remind the reader,
was son of that celebrated minister, who held the
reins of government under two successive mo-
narchs, with a grasp so firm and uncontrouled,
that his power seemed entwined with the rights of
the Brunswick family. In such a situation, his sons
had necessarily their full share of that court which
is usually paid to the near connections of those who
have the patronage of the state at their disposal.
To the feeling of importance inseparable from the
object of such attention, was added the early habit
of connecting and associating the interest of Sir Ro-
bert Walpole, and even the domestic affairs of his


INTRODUCTION. Vll
family, with the parties in the Royal Family of
England, and with the changes in the public af-
fairs of Europe. It is not therefore wonderful, that
the turn of Horace Walpole's mind, which was na-
turally tinged with love of pedigree, and a value
for family honours, should have been strengthened
in that bias by circumstances which seemed, as
it were, to bind and implicate the fate of his own
house with that of princes, and to give the shields
of the Walpoles, Shorters, and Robsarts, from
whom he descended, an added dignity unknown
to their original owners. If Mr Walpole ever
founded hopes of raising himself to political emi-
nence, and turning his family importance to ad-
vantage in his career, the termination of his fa-
ther's power, and the personal change with which
he felt it attended, disgusted him with active life,
and early consigned him to literary retirement.
He had, indeed, a seat in parliament for many
years; but, unless upon one occasion, when he vin-


Vlll INTRODUCTION.
■
dicated the memory of his father with great dig-
nity and eloquence, he took no share in the de-
bates of the house, and not much in the parties
which maintained them. The subjects of his stu-
dy were, in a great measure, dictated by his habits
of thinking and feeling operating upon an anima-
ted imagination, and a mind acute, active, penetra-
ting, and fraught with a great variety of miscel-
laneous knowledge. Travelling had formed his
taste for the fine arts; but his early predilec-
tion in favour of birth and rank connected even
these branches of study with that of Gothic his-
tory and antiquities. His Anecdotes of Paint-
ing and Engraving evince many marks of his fa-
vourite pursuits; but his Catalogue of Royal and
Noble Authors, and his Historical Doubts, we owe
entirely to the antiquary and the genealogist. The
former work evinces, in a particular degree, Mr
Walpole's respect for birth and rank; yet may, per-
haps, be ill calculated to gain much sympathy for


INTRODUCTION. IX
either. It would be difficult, by any process, to se-
lect a list of as many plebeian authors, containing so
very few whose genius was worthy of commemora-
tion. The " Historical Doubts" are an acute and
curious example how minute antiquarian research
may shake our faith in the facts most pointedly
averred by general history. It is remarkable also
to observe how, in defending a system which was
probably at first adopted as a mere literary exercise,
Mr Walpole's doubts acquired, in his eyes, the re-
spectability of certainties, in which he could not
brook controversy.
Mr Walpole's domestic occupations, as well as
his studies, bore evidence of a taste for English an-
tiquities, which was then uncommon. He loved, as
a satirist has expressed it, "to gaze on Gothic
toys through Gothic glass ;" and the villa at Straw-
berry-Hill, which he chose for his abode, gra-
dually swelled into a feudal castle, by the addition
of turrets, towers, galleries, and corridores, whose
b


X INTRODUCTION.
fretted roofs, carved panels, and illuminated win-
dows, were garnished with the appropriate furni-
ture of scutcheons, armorial-bearings, shields, tilting
lances, and all the panoply of chivalry. The Go-
thic order of architecture is now so generally, and,
indeed, indiscriminately used, that we are rather
surprised if the country-house of a tradesman re-
tired from business does not exhibit lanceolated
windows, divided by stone shafts, and garnished
by painted glass, a cupboard in the form of a ca-
thedral-stall, and a pig-house with a front borrow-
ed from the facade of an ancient chapel. But, in
the middle of the eighteenth century, when Mr
Walpole began to exhibit specimens of the Gothic
style, and to show how patterns, collected from ca-
thedrals and monuments, might be applied to chim-
ney-pieces, ceilings, windows, and balustrades, he
did not comply with the dictates of a prevailing
fashion, but pleased his own taste, and realised his
11


INTRODUCTION. XI
own visions, in the romantic cast of the mansion
which he erected.' Mr Walpole's lighter studies were conducted
upon the same principle which influenced his his-
torical researches, and his taste in architecture.
His extensive acquaintance with foreign literature,
on which he justly prided himself, was subordinate
to his pursuits as an English antiquary and genea-
logist, in which he gleaned subjects for poetry and
for romantic fiction, as well as for historical con-
troversy. These are studies, indeed, proverbially
dull; but it is only when they are pursued by
those whose fancies nothing can enliven. A Ho-
race Walpole, or a Thomas Warton, is not a mere
* It is well known that Mr Walpole composed his beautiful and
lively fable of the Entail upon being asked, whether he did not mean
to settle Strawberry-Hill, when he had completed its architecture and
ornaments, upon his family ?—The publishers have subjoined it to
these observations, chiefly for the sake of giving the public an elegant
French version of that lively apologue, which has not, they believe,
been hitherto published.


Xll INTRODUCTION.
collector of dry and minute facts, which the gene-
ral historian passes over with disdain. He brings
with him the torch of genius, to illuminate the
ruins through which he loves to wander; nor does
the classic scholar derive more inspiration from the
pages of Virgil, than such an antiquary from the
glowing, rich, and powerful feudal painting of Frois-
sart. His mind being thus stored with information,
accumulated by researches into the antiquities of
the middle ages, and inspired, as he himself informs
us, by the romantic cast of his own habitation, Mr
Walpole resolved to give the public a specimen of
the Gothic style adapted to modern literature, as
he had already exhibited its application to modern
architecture.
As, in his model of a Gothic modern mansion,
our author had studiously endeavoured to fit to
the purposes of modern convenience, or luxury, the
rich, varied, and complicated tracery and carving
of the ancient cathedral, so, in the Castle of Otran-
t


INTRODUCTION. XIIIto, it was his object to unite the marvellous turn of
incident, and imposing tone of chivalry, exhibited
in the ancient romance, with that accurate exhibition
of human character, and contrast of feelings and pas-
sions, which is, or ought to be, delineated in the
modern novel. But Mr Walpole, being uncertain
of the reception which a work upon so new a plan
might experience from the world, and not caring,
perhaps, to encounter the ridicule which would
have attended its failure, the Castle of Otranto was
ushered into the world as a translation from the -
Italian. It does not seem that the authenticity of
the narrative was suspected. Mr Gray writes to
Mr Walpole, on 30th December, 1764: "I have
received the Castle of Otranto, and return you my
thanks for it. It engages our attention here, (i. e.
at Cambridge,) makes some of us cry a little; and
all, in general, afraid to go to bed o'nights. We
take it for a translation; and should believe it to
be a true story, if it were not for St Nicholas."


UV INTRODUCTION.
The friends of the author were probably soon per-
mitted to peep beneath the veil he had thought
proper to assume; and, in the second edition, it was
altogether withdrawn by a preface, in which the
tendency and nature of the work are shortly com-
mented upon and explained. From the following
passage, translated from a letter by the author to
Madame DefFand, it would seem that he repented
of having laid aside his incognito; and, sensitive to
criticism, like most dilletante authors, was rather
more hurt by the raillery of those who liked not
his tale of chivalry, than gratified by the applause
of his admirers. "So they have translated my
Castle of Otranto, probably in ridicule of the au-
thor. So be it;—however, I beg you will let their
raillery pass in silence. Let the critics have their
own way; they give me no uneasiness. I have
not written the book for the present age, which
will endure nothing but cold common sense. I
confess to you, my dear friend, (and you will think
j.


INTRODUCTION. XV
me madder than ever,) that this is the only one of
my works with which I am myself pleased; I have
given reins to my imagination till I became on fire
with the visions and feelings which it excited. I
have composed it in defiance of rules, of critics, and V.
of philosophers; and it seems to me just so much
the better for that very reason. / I am even per-
suaded, that some time thereafter, when taste shall
resume the place which philosophy now occupies,
my poor Castle will find admirers: we have actu-
ally a few among us already, for I am just publish-
ing the third edition. I do not say this in order
to mendicate your approbation' I told you from
the beginning you would not like the book,—your
visions are all in a different style. I am not sorry
that the translator has given the second preface;
* Madame Deffand had mentioned having read the Castle of Otranto
twice over; but she did not add a word of approbation. She blamed
the translator for giving the second preface, chiefly because she
thought it might commit Walpole with Voltaire.


XVI INTRODUCTION.
the first, however, accords best with the style of
the fiction. I wished it to be believed ancient,
and almost every body was imposed upon." If the
public applause, however, was sufficiently qualified
by the voice of censure to alarm the feelings of
the author, the continued demand for various edi-
tions of the Castle of Otranto showed how high
the work really stood in popular estimation, and
probably eventually reconciled Mr Walpole to the
taste of his own age. This Romance has been just-
ly considered not only as the original and model
of a peculiar species of composition, but as one of
the standard works of our lighter literature. A
few remarks both on the book itself, and on the
class to which it belongs, have been judged an ap-
posite introduction to an edition of the Castle of
Otranto, which the publishers have endeavoured to
execute in a style of elegance corresponding to the
estimation in which they hold the work, and the
genius of the author.
^


INTRODUCTION. XV11
It is doing injustice to Mr Walpole's memory to
allege, that all which he aimed at in the Castle of
Otranto was " the art of exciting surprise and hor-
ror;" or, in other words, the appeal to that secret
and reserved feeling of love for the marvellous and
supernatural, which occupies a hidden corner in
almost every one's bosom. Were this all which he
had attempted, the means by which he sought to
attain his purpose might, with justice, be termed
both clumsy and puerile. But Mr Walpole's pur-
pose was both more difficult of attainment, and
more important when attained. It was his object
to draw such a picture of domestic life and man-
ners, during the feudal times, as might actually
have existed, and to paint it chequered and agita-
ted by the action of supernatural machinery, such
as the superstition of the period received as matter
of devout credulity. The natural parts of the nar-
rative are so contrived, that they associate them-
selves with the marvellous occurrences; and, by
c
-


XVIIIINTRODUCTION.
the force of that association, render those speciosa
oniracula striking and impressive, though our cooler
reason admits their impossibility. Indeed to pro-
duce, in a well-cultivated mind, any portion of that
surprise and fear which is founded on supernatural
events, the frame and tenor of the whole story
must be adjusted in perfect harmony with this
main-spring of the interest. He who, in early
youth, has happened to pass a solitary night in
one of the few ancient mansions which the fashion
of more modern times has left undespoiled of their
original furniture, has probably experienced, that
the gigantic and preposterous figures dimly visible
in the defaced tapestry, the remote clang of the
distant doors which divide him from living socie-
ty, the deep darkness which involves the high and
fretted roof of the apartment, the dimly-seen pic-
tures of ancient knights, renowned for their valour,
and perhaps for their crimes, the varied and indis-
tinct sounds which disturb the silent desolation


INTRODUCTION. XIX
of a half-deserted mansion; and, to crown all, the
feeling that carries us back to ages of feudal power
and papal superstition, join together to excite a
corresponding sensation of supernatural awe, if not
of terror. It is in such situations, when superstition
becomes contagious, that we listen with respect,
and even with dread, to the legends which are our
sport in the garish light of sun-shine, and amid the
dissipating sights and sounds of every-day life. Now
it seems to have been Walpole's object to attain,
by the minute accuracy of a fable, sketched with
singular attention to the costume of the period in
which the scene was laid, that same association
which might prepare his reader's mind for the re-
ception of prodigies congenial to the creed and
feelings of the actors. His feudal tyrant, his dis-1
tressed damsel, his resigned, yet dignified, church-
man,—the Castle itself, with its feudal arrange-
ment of dungeons, trap-doors, oratories, and gal-
leries, the incidents of the trial, the chivalrous pro-


XX INTRODUCTION.
cession, and the combat;—in short, the scene, the
performers, and action, so far as it is natural, form
the accompaniments of his spectres and his mira-
cles, and have the same effect on the mind of the
reader that the appearance and drapery of such a
chamber as we have described may produce upon
that of a temporary inmate. This was a task which
required no little learning, no ordinary degree of
fancy, no common portion of genius, to execute.
The association of which we have spoken is of a
nature peculiarly delicate, and subject to be bro-
ken and disarranged. It is, for instance, almost
impossible to build such a modern Gothic struc-
ture as shall impress us with the feelings we have
endeavoured to describe. It may be grand, or it
may be gloomy; it may excite magnificent or me-
lancholy ideas; but it must fail in bringing forth
the sensation of supernatural awe, connected with
halls that have echoed to the sounds of remote ge-
nerations, and have been pressed by the footsteps


INTRODUCTION. XXI
of those who have long since passed away. Yet
Horace Walpole has attained in composition, what,
as an architect, he must have felt beyond the power
of his art. The remote and superstitious period in
which his scene is laid, the art with which he has
furnished forth its Gothic decorations, the sustain-
ed, and, in general, the dignified tone of feudal
manners, prepare us gradually for the favourable
reception of prodigies which, though they could
not really have happened at any period, were con-
sistent with the belief of all mankind at that in
which the action is placed. It was, therefore, the
author's object, not merely to excite surprise and
terror, by the introduction of supernatural agency,
but to wind up the feelings of his reader till they
became for a moment identified with those of a
ruder age, which
Held each strange tale devoutly true. •
i
The difficulty of attaining this nice accuracy
- i


XXIIINTRODUCTION.
of delineation may be best estimated by compa-
ring the Castle of Otranto with the less success-
ful efforts of later writers; where, amid all their
attempts to assume the tone of antique chivalry,
something occurs in every chapter so decidedly in-
congruous, as at once reminds us of an ill-sustained
masquerade, in which ghosts, knights-errant, ma-
gicians, and damsels gent, are all equipped in
hired dresses from the same warehouse in Tavi-
stock-street.
There is a remarkable particular in which Mr
Walpole's steps have been departed from by the
most distinguished of his followers.
Romantic narrative is of two kinds,—that which,
being in itself possible, may be matter of belief at
any period; and that which, though held impos-
sible by more enlightened ages, was yet conso-
/nant with the faith of earlier times. The subject
of the Castle of Otranto is of the latter class.
Mrs Radcliffe, a name not to be mentioned with-


INTRODUCTION. XXIIIout the respect due to genius, has endeavoured
to effect a compromise between those different
styles of narrative, by referring her prodigies to an
explanation, founded on natural causes, in the lat-
ter chapters of her romances. To this improve-
ment upon the Gothic romance there are so many
objections, that we own ourselves inclined to pre-
fer, as more simple and impressive, the narrativeN
of Walpole, which details supernatural incidents!
as they would have been readily believed and rel ceived in the eleventh or twelfth century. In the
first place, the reader feels indignant at discover-
ing he has been cheated into a sympathy with ter- L
rors which are finally explained as having proceed-
ed from some very simple cause; and the interest
of a second reading is entirely destroyed by his
having been admitted behind the scenes at the
conclusion of the first. Secondly, The precau-
tion of relieving our spirits from the influence
of supposed supernatural terror, seems as unne-


XXIV INTRODUCTION.
cessary in a work of professed fiction, as that of
the prudent Bottom, who proposed that the hu~
man face of the representative of his lion should
appear from under his masque,* and acquaint
the audience plainly that he was a man as other
men, and nothing more than Snug the joiner.
Lastly, These substitutes for supernatural agency
are frequently to the full as improbable as the
machinery which they are introduced to ex-
plain away and to supplant. The reader, who
* Honest Bottom's device seems to have been stolen by Mr John
Wiseman, schoolmaster of Linlithgow, who performed a lion in a pa-
geant presented before Charles I., but vindicated his identity in the
following verses put into his mouth by Drummond of Hawthornden:
Thrice royal sir, here do I thee beseech,
Who art a lion, to hear a lion's speech:
A miracle! for, since the days of JEsop,
No lion till those times his voice did raise up
To such a majesty: Then, King of Men,
The King of Beasts speaks to thee from his den,
Who, though he now inclosed be in plaster,
When he was free, was Lithgow's wise schoolmaster.


INTRODUCTION* XXV
is required to admit the belief of supernatural
interference, understands precisely what is de-
manded of him; and, if he be a gentle reader,
throws his mind into the attitude best adapted to
humour the deceit which is presented for his en-
tertainment, and grants, for the time of perusal,
the premises on which the fable depends' But if
the author voluntarily binds himself to account for
all the wondrous occurrences which he introduces,
we are entitled to exact that the explanation shall
be natural, easy, ingenious, and complete. Every
reader of such works must remember instances in
which the explanation of mysterious circumstan-
ces in the narrative has proved equally, nay, even
more incredible, than if they had been accounted
for by the agency of supernatural beings. For
* There are instances to the contrary however. For example, that
stern votary of severe truth, who cast aside Gulliver's Travels as con-
taining a parcel of improbable fictions.
d


XXVI INTRODUCTION.
the most incredulous must allow, that the inter-
ference of such agency is more possible than that
an effect resembling it should be produced by an
inadequate cause. But it is unnecessary to enlarge
further on a part of the subject, which we have
only mentioned to exculpate our author from the
charge of using machinery more clumsy than his
tale from its nature required. The bold assertion
of the actual existence of phantoms and apparitions
seems to us to harmonise much more naturally
with the manners of feudal times, and to produce a
more powerful effect upon the reader's mind, than
any attempt to reconcile the superstitious creduli-
ty of feudal ages with the philosophic Scepticism
of our own, by referring those prodigies to the
operation of fulminating powder, combined mir-
rors, magic lanthorns, trap-doors, speaking trum-
pets, and such like apparatus of German phantas-
magoria.


INTRODUCTION. .XXVll
OI<
It cannot, however, be denied, that the charac-
ter of the supernatural machinery in the Castle
Otranto is liable to objections. Its action and in-
terference is rather too frequent, and presses too
hard and constantly upon the same feelings in the
reader's mind, to the hazard of diminishing the
elasticity of the spring upon which it should ope-
rate. The fund of fearful sympathy which can be
afforded by a modern reader to a tale of wonder,
is much diminished by the present habits of life
and mode of education. Our ancestors could won-
der and thrill through all the mazes of an intermi-
nable metrical romance of fairy land, and of en-
chantment, the work perhaps of some
Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung.
But our habits and feelings and belief are differ-
ent, and a transient, though vivid, impression is
all that can be excited by a tale of wonder even in


XXV1U INTRODUCTION.
■
. the most fanciful mind of the present day. By
the too frequent recurrence of his prodigies, Mr
Walpole ran, perhaps, his greatest risk of awaken-
ing la raisonfroide, that cold common sense, which
he justly deemed the greatest enemy of the effect
which he hoped to produce. It may be added
also, that the supernatural occurrences of the
Castle of Otranto are brought forward into too
strong day-light, and marked by an over degree
of distinctness and accuracy of outline. A myste-
rious obscurity seems congenial at least, if not es-
sential, to our ideas of disembodied spirits, and
the gigantic limbs of the ghost of Alphonso, as
described by the terrified domestics, are somewhat
too distinct and corporeal to produce the feelings
which their appearance is intended to excite.
This fault, however, if it be one, is more than
compensated by the high merit of many of the
marvellous incidents in the romance. The descent
of the picture of Manfred's ancestor, although it


INTRODUCTION. XXIX

borders on extravagance, is finely introduced, and
interrupts an interesting dialogue with striking ef-
fect. We have heard it observed, that the anima-
ted figure should rather have been a statue than a
picture. We greatly doubt the justice of the criti-
cism. The advantage of the colouring induces us
decidedly to prefer Mr Walpole's fiction to the pro-
posed substitute. There are few who have not felt,
at some period of their childhood, a sort of terror
from the manner in which the eye of an ancient
portrait appears to fix that of the spectator from
every point of view. It is, perhaps, hypercritical
to remark, (what, however, Walpole of all authors
might have been expected to attend to,) that the
time assigned to the action, being about the ele-
venth century, is rather too early for the introduc-
tion of a full-length portrait. The apparition of
he skeleton hermit to the prince of Vicenza was
long accounted a master-piece of the horrible;
but of late the valley of Jehosophat could hardly


XXX INTRODUCTION.
supply the dry bones necessary for the exhibition
of similar spectres, so that injudicious and repeat-
ed imitation has, in some degree, injured the ef-
fect of its original model. What is most striking
in the Castle of Otranto, is the manner in which
the various prodigious appearances, bearing each
upon the other, and all upon the accomplishment
of the ancient prophecy, denouncing the ruin of
the house of Manfred, gradually prepare us for
the grand catastrophe. The moon-light vision of
Alphonso dilated to immense magnitude, the asto-
nished group of spectators in the front, and the
shattered ruins of the castle in the back-ground,
is briefly and sublimely described. We know no
passage of similar merit, unless it be the appari-
tion of Fadzean in an ancient Scottish poem.'' q This spectre, the ghost of a follower whom he had slain upon sus-
picion of treachery, appeared to no less a person than Wallace, the
champion of Scotland, in the ancient castle of Gask-hall.—See Ellis's
Specimens, vol. 1. x


INTRODUCTION. XXXI
That part of the romance which depends upon
human feelings and agency, is conducted with the
dramatic talent which afterwards was so conspi-
cuous in the Mysterious Mother. The persons are
indeed rather generic than individual, but this was
in a degree necessary to a plan, calculated rather
to exhibit a general view of society and man-
ners during the times which the author's ima-
gination loved to contemplate, than the more
minute shades and discriminating points of parti-
cular characters. But the actors in the romance
are strikingly drawn, with bold outlines becoming
the age and nature of the story. Feudal tyranny
was, perhaps, never better exemplified, than in *
the character of Manfred. He has the courage, j
the art, the duplicity, the ambition of a barbarous
chieftain of the dark ages, yet with touches of re-
^morse and natural feeling, which preserve some
sympathy for him when his pride is quelled, and
his race extinguished. The pious monk, and the


XXX11 INTRODUCTION.
patient Hippolita, are well contrasted with this
selfish and tyrannical prince. Theodore is the ju-
venile hero of a romantic tale, and Matilda has
more interesting sweetness than usually belongs to
its heroine. As the character of Isabella is studi-
ously kept down, in order to relieve that of the
daughter of Manfred, few readers are pleased with
the concluding insinuation, that she became at
length the bride of Theodore. This is in some de-
gree a departure from the rules of chivalry; and,
however natural an occurrence in common life, ra-
ther injures the magic illusions of romance. In
other respects, making allowance for the extraordi-
nary incidents of a dark and tempestuous age, the
story, so far as within the course of natural events,
is happily detailed, its progress is uniform, its
events interesting and well combined, and the
conclusion grand, tragical, and affecting.
The style of the Castle of Otranto is pure and
correct English of the earlier and more classical


INTRODUCTION. XXX111
standard. Mr Walpole rejected, upon taste and
principle, those heavy though powerful auxilia-
ries which Dr Johnson imported from the Latin
language, and which have since proved to many a
luckless wight, who has essayed to use them, as
unmanageable as the gauntlets of Eryx,
et pondus et ipsa
Hue illuc vinclorum immensa volumina versat.
Neither does the purity of Mr Walpole's lan-
guage, and the simplicity of his narrative, admit
that luxuriant, florid, and high-varnished land-
scape painting with which Mrs Radcliffe often
adorned, and not unfrequently incumbered, her
kindred romances. Description, for its own sake,
is scarcely once attempted in the Castle of Otran-
to; and if authors would consider how very much
this restriction tends to realise narrative, they
might be tempted to abridge at least the showy


XXXIV INTRODUCTION.
*
and wordy exuberance of a style fitter for poetry
than prose. It is for the dialogue that Walpole
reserves his strength; and it is remarkable how,
while conducting his mortal agents with all the
art of a modern dramatist, he adheres to the sus-
tained tone of chivalry, which marks the period of
the action. This is not attained by patching his
narrative or dialogue with glossarial terms, or an-
tique phraseology, but by taking care to exclude all
that can awaken modern associations. In the one
case, his romance would have resembled a modern
dress, preposterously decorated with antique orna-
ments; in its present shape, he has retained the
form of the ancient armour, but not its rust and cob-
webs. In illustration of what is above stated, we
refer the reader to the first interview of Manfred
with the prince of Vicenza, where the manners and
language of chivalry are finely painted, as well as
the perturbation of conscious guilt confusing itself


INTRODUCTION. XXXV
in attempted exculpation, even before a mute ac-
cuser. The characters of the inferior domestics
have been considered as not bearing a proportion
sufficiently dignified to the rest of the story, But
this is a point on which the author has pleaded
his own cause fully in the original prefaces.
We have only to add, in conclusion to these desul-
tory remarks, that if Horace Walpole, who led the
way in this new species of literary composition, has
been surpassed by some of his followers in diffuse
brilliancy of description, and perhaps in the art of
detaining the .mind of the reader in a state of fe-
verish and anxious suspense, through a protracted
and complicated narrative, more will yet remain
with him than the single merit of originality and
invention. The applause due to chastity and preci-
sion of style, to a happy combination of supernatu-
ral agency with human interest, to a tone of feu-
dal manners and language, sustained by characters


XXXVI INTRODUCTION.
strongly drawn and well discriminated, and to
unity of action producing scenes alternately of
interest and of grandeur ;—the applause, in fine,
which cannot be denied to him who can excite the
passions of fear and of pity, must be awarded to
the author of the Castle of Otranto.
6


INTRODUCTION. XXXVJl
THE ENTAIL'A FABLE.
In a fair summer's radiant morn,
A Butterfly, divinely born,
Whose lineage dated from the mud
Of Noah's or Deucalion's flood,
Long hov'ring round a perfumed lawn,
By various gusts of odour drawn,
At last establish'd his repose
On the rich bosom of a Rose.
The palace pleased the lordly guest:
What insect Own'd a prouder nest?
The dewy leaves luxurious shed
Their balmy essence o'er his head,
And with their silken tap'stry fold
His limbs enthroned on central gold.
* This piece was occasioned by the author being asked, (after he had finished the
little castle at Strawberry-hill, and adorned it with the portraits and arms of his an-
cestors,) if he did not design to entail it on his family?


XXXV1U INTRODUCTION.
He thinks the thorns embattled round
To guard his castle's lovely mound,
And all the bush's wide domain
Subservient to his fancied reign.
Such ample blessings swelled the Fly!
Yet in his mind's capacious eye
He roll'd the change of mortal things,
The common fate of flies and kings.
With grief he saw how lands and honours
Are apt to slide to various owners;
Where Mowbrays dwelt how grocers dwell,
And how cits buy what barons sell.
"Great Phoebus, patriarch of my line,
"Avert such shame from sons of thine!
"To them confirm these roofs," he said;
And then he swore an oath so dread,
The stoutest wasp that wears a sword,
Had trembled to have heard the word!
"If law can rivet down entails,
"These manours ne'er shall pass to snails.
"I swear"—and then he smote his ermine—
"These tow'rs were never built for vermine."
A Caterpillar grovell'd near,
A subtle slow conveyancer,
y Who, summon'd, waddles with his quill
To draw the haughty insect's will.


INTRODUCTION. XXXIX
None, but his heirs must own the spot,
Begotten, or to be begot:
Each leaf he binds, each bud he ties,
To eggs of eggs of Butterflies.
When lo! how Fortune loves to teaze
Those who would dictate her decrees!
A wanton boy was passing by;
The wanton child beheld the fly,
And eager ran to seize the prey j
But, too impetuous in his play,
Crush'd the proud tenant of an hour,
And swept away the mansion Flower.


xl
INTRODUCTION.
LA SUBSTITUTION.
FABLE TRADUITE DE l'aNGLOIS.
Aux portes de l'Orient l'amante de Cephale
Annonçoit aux mortels le plus beau jour d'été -
Quand parut dans les airs, d'une course inégale,
Un jeune Papillon, de noblesse entêté.
Il tiroit son origine,
Selon lui tout divine,
Et du Soleil et du limon
Qu'ensemença Deucalion;
Où de celui des eaux que le ciel en jcolere
Au tems du bon Noé repandit sur la terre.
Charmé de respirer les plus douces odeurs,
II voltigeoit dans une plaine,
Où des Zephirs la tendre haleine
Fesoit naitre au matin les plus brillantes fleurs.
Mais enivré de vanité,
Et fatigué de volupté,


INTRODUCTION. xli
Il fut se reposer sur le sein d'une Rose
Au lever du soleil nouvellement éclose:
Le lieu parut à sa grandeur
Propre à loger un gros seigneur;
Quel insecte eut jamais plus superbe demeure!
"C'est un Louvre, un palais," dit il, " ou que je meure."
Les larmes de l'Aurore, en remontant aux cieux,
Repandoient sur sa tête un parfum précieux;
Mollement étendu sur des coussins de soye,
«
Messire Papillon contemploit avec joye
Son trône radieux, où de l'or le plus pur
L'éclat éblouissant se meloit à l'azur:
Les épines des environs
Lui semblent une palissade
Qui garrantit de l'escalade
■ Sa fortresse et ses bastions:
Chaque buisson voisin aux yeux du nouveau Prince,
Pour former son état, paroit une province;
Tout concurroit, enfin, à combler ses desirs,
Lors qu'une triste idée altère ses plaisirs:
Les divers changements, l'ordinaire inconstance
Des choses d'ici bas agitent son esprit j
Pour la premiere fois Monseigneur réflechit:
Il voit que du destin la suprême puissance
Fait éprouver ses dures loix,
Aux Papillons ainsi qu'aux Roix.
f


xlii INTRODUCTION.
Sa memoire fidelle
Ausitôt lui rapelle,
Que ces palais, où demouroient jadis
Les Lusignans et les Montmorencis,
Sont habités par des gens de finance;
Que des marchands regorgeant d'opulence
Achètent sans pudeur, pour décorer leurs fils,
Les terres des Barons, les titres de Marquis,
Et qu'enfin les honneurs, les biens de toute espèce
Fuyent d'entre les mains de l'antique noblesse.
"Puissant Phœbus," dit il, " source de mes ayeux,
Epargne cet affront à nos derniers neveux,
Assure leur ces terres;" et d'une voix horrible
Il fit en même tems un serment si terrible,
Que la Guêpe portant le plus fier aiguillon
Eût tremblé du serment de notre papillon.
"Si de la loi," dit il, " le pouvoir respectable
Peut rendre pour toujours ma volonté durable,
J'invoque le secours des substitutions;
Ce sejours enchanté, ce superbe domaine,
Des papillons vrai patrimoine,
Ne passeront jamais à des vils limaçons:
Ces manoirs ne sont pas bâtis pour la vermine î
J'en apelle à temoin l'eclat de mon ermine." Une Chenille, animal fin,
Greffier, procureur, et notaire


INTRODUCTION.
xliii
Rusé matois, lent en affaire,
Rampoit sur un rameau voisin:
D l'apelle; aussitôt d'un air respectueux
L'insecte à plume aproche à replis tortueux j
Pour rediger de son altesse
Le testament dicté par la sagesse,
Apres les qualités, après l'avant propos,
En stile du palais il griffona ces mots.
"Je lègue ce domaine à ma posterité
Mes enfans nes, à naitre, en ligne masculine;
J'apelle à son défaut la branche feminine,
Pour les posseder seuls à perpetuité."
Termes misterieux, formule la plus sure,
Assuraient l'heritage à sa race future;
Mais la fortune, helas! par ses cruels decrets,
Se plait à deranger les plus justes projets.
Un jeune Ecolier, en traversant la plaine,
Aperçut Papillon; l'enfance est inhumaine:
Il voulut s'en saisir, trop vif en ses ébats,
II ecrase le Prince, et detruit ses etats:
D'un simple coup de main, adieu la Seigneurie,
Et les vastes projets, et la maison fleurie!
9


«*t
-



PREFACE
TO
THE FIRST EDITION.
The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catho-
lic family in the north of England.. It was printed at Naples, in the
black letter, in the year 1529- How much sooner it was written does
not appear. The principal incidents are such as were believed in the
darkest ages of Christianity; but the language and conduct have no-
thing that savours of barbarism. The style is the purest Italian. If
the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have hap-
pened, it must have been between 1095, the asra of the first crusade,
and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards. There is no
other circumstance in the work, that can lead us to guess, at the pe-
riod in which the scene is laid. The names of the actors are, evidently
fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names
of the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed
a



11
until the establishment of the Arragonian kings in Naples had made
Spanish appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the
diction, and the zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular
judgment), concur to make me think, that the date of the composi-
tion was little antecedent to that of the impression. Letters were
then in their most flourishing state in Italy, and contributed to dis-
pel the empire of superstition, at that time so forcibly attacked by
the reformers. It is not unlikely, that an artful priest might endea-
vour to turn their own arms on the innovators; and might avail
himself of his abilities as an author to confirm the populace in their
ancient errors and superstitions. If this was his view, he has certain-
ly acted with signal address. Such a work as the following would
enslave a hundred vulgar minds, beyond half the books of controversy
that have been written from the days of Luther to the present hour.
This solution of the author's motives is, however, offered as a mere
conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execu-
tion of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public
at present as a matter of entertainment. Even as such, some apology
for it is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other
preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances. That
was not the case when our author wrote; much less when the story
itself is supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy
was so established in those dark ages, that an author would not be
faithful to the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of
them. Hg is not bound to believe them himself, but he must repre-
sent his actors as believing them.


TO THE FIRST EDITION. Ill
If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing
else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and
all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situa-
tion. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unne-
cessary descriptions. Every thing tends directly to the catastrophe.
Never is the reader's attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are
almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters
are well drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the author's
principal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is
so often contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant
vicissitude of interesting passions.
Some persons may, perhaps, think the characters of the domestics^
too little serious for the general cast of the story; but, besides their
opposition to the principal personages, the art of the author is very
observable in his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many
passages essential to the story, which could not be well brought to
light but by their naivete and simplicity: in particular, the womanish
terror and foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially
towards advancing the catastrophe.
It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopt-
ed work. More impartial readers may not be so much struck with
the beauties of this piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my au-
thor's defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on a more use-
ful moral than this: that "the sins of fathers are visited on their chil-
dren to the third and fourth generation." I doubt whether, in his
time, any more than at present, ambition curbed its appetite of domi-
nion from the dread of so remote a punishment. And yet this moral
a 2


IV
PREFACE
is weakened by that less direct insinuation, that even such anathema
may be diverted, by devotion to St Nicholas. Here, the interest
of the monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the author.
However, with all its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader
will be pleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that
reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are inculcated, and the
rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from the censure to
which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with the success I
hope for, I may be encouraged ■ to re-print the original Italian,
though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language falls
far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony.
The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is difficult,
in English, to relate without falling too low, or rising too high; a
fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure lan-
guage in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman, of any
rank, piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with
choice. I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my au-
thor in this respect: his style is as elegant, as his conduct of the
passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to
what they were evidently proper for, the theatre.
I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark.
Though the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors ima-
t
ginary, I cannot but believe, that the ground work of the story is
founded on truth. The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle.
The author seems frequently, without design, to describe particular
parts. "The chamber," says he, "on the right hand; the door on
the left hand; the distance from the chapel to Conrad's apart-
_* . J±»
V
1
<Jt*>


TO THE FIRST EDITION.
nient." These, and other passages, are strong presumptions that
the author had some certain building in his eye" Curious persons,
who have leisure to employ in such researches, may possibly discover
in the Italian writers the foundation on which our author has built.
If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he describes, is believ-
ed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to interest
the reader, and will make the Castle of Otranto a still more
moving story.


PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION.
I he favourable manner in which this little piece has been received
by the public, calls upon the author to explain the grounds on which
he composed it. But, before he opens those motives, it is fit that he
should ask pardon of his readers for having offered his work to them
under the borrowed personage of a translator. As diffidence of his
own abilities, and the novelty of the attempt, were the sole induce-
ments to assume that disguise, he flatters himself he shall appear ex-
cusable. He resigned his performance to the impartial judgment of
the public; determined to let it perish in obscurity, if disapproved;
nor meaning to avow such a trifle, unless better judges should pro-
nounce that he might own it without a blush.
It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, the ancient
and the modern. In the former, all was imagination and improbabi-
* 4


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. Vll
lity: in the latter, nature is always intended to be, and sometimes
has been, copied with success. Invention has not been wanting; but
the great resources of fancy have been dammed up, by a strict adhe-
rence to common life. But if, in the latter species, Nature has cramp-
ed imagination, she did but take her revenge, having been totally
excluded from old romances. The actions, sentiments, and conver-
sations, of the heroes and heroines of ancient days, were as unnatural
as the machines employed to put them in motion.
The author of the following pages thought it possible to reconcile
the two kinds. Desirous of leaving the powers of fancy at liberty to
expatiate through the boundless realms of invention, and thence of
creating more interesting situations, he wished to conduct the mortal
agents in his drama according to the rules of probability; in short,
to make them think, speak, and act, as it might be supposed mere
men and women would do in extraordinary positions. He had obser-
ved, that, in all inspired writings, the personages under the dispensa-
tion of miracles, and witnesses to the most stupendous phenomena, never lose sight of their human character: whereas, in the produc-
tions of romantic story, an improbable event never fails to be attend-
ed by an absurd dialogue. The actors seem to lose their senses, the
moment the laws of nature have lost their tone. As the public have
applauded the attempt, the author must not say he was entirely un-
equal to the task he had undertaken: yet, if the new route he has
struck out shall have paved a road for men of brighter talents, he
shall own, with pleasure and modesty, that he was sensible the plan
was capable of receiving greater embellishments than his imagination,
or conduct of the passions, could bestow on it.
/


Vlll PREFACE
With regard to the deportment of the domestics, on which I have
touched in the former preface, I will beg leave to add a few words.—
The simplicity of their behaviour, almost tending to excite smiles,
which, at first, seems not consonant to the serious cast of the work,
appeared to me not only not improper, but was marked designedly in
that manner. My rule was nature. However grave, important, or
even melancholy, the sensations of princes and heroes may be, they
do not stamp the same affections on their domestics: at least the lat-
ter do not, or should not be made to, express their passions in the
same dignified tone. In my humble opinion, the contrast between
the sublime of the one and the naivete of the other, sets the pathetic
of the former in a stronger light. The very impatience which a rea-
der feels, while delayed, by the coarse pleasantries of vulgar actors,
from arriving at the knowledge of the important catastrophe he ex-
pects, perhaps heightens, certainly proves that he has been artfully
interested in, the depending event. But I had higher authority than
my own opinion for this conduct. That great master of nature,
Shakespeare, was the model I copied. Let me ask, if his tragedies
of Hamlet and Julius Caesarwould not lose a considerable share of
their spirit and wonderful beauties, if the humour of the grave-diggers,
the fooleries of Polonhis, and the clumsy jests of the Roman citizens,
were omitted, or vested in heroics? Is not the eloquence of Antony,
the nobler and affectedly-unaffected oration of Brutus, artificially ex-
alted by the rude bursts of nature from the mouths of their auditors?
These touches remind one of the Grecian sculptor, who, to convey the
idea of a Colossus, within the dimensions of a seal, inserted a little
boy measuring his thumb.
.
v
,*'


TO THE SECOND EDITION. IX
"No," says Voltaire, in his edition of Corneille, " this mixture of
buffoonery and solemnity is intolerable."—Voltaire is a genius *—but
not of Shakespeare's magnitude. Without recurring to disputable au-
thority, I appeal from Voltaire to himself. I shall not avail myself of
his former encomiums on our mighty poet; though the French critic
has twice translated the same speech in Hamlet, some years ago in
admiration, latterly in derision; and I am sorry to find that his judg-
ment grows weaker when it ought to be farther matured. But I shall
make use of his own words, delivered on the general topic of the
theatre, when he was neither thinking to recommend or decry Shake-
speare^Wactice; consequently, at a moment when Voltaire was im-
partiak In the preface to his Enfant Prodigue, that exquisite piece,
of which I declare my admiration, and which, should I live twenty
years longer, I trust I shall never attempt to ridicule, he has these
words, speaking of comedy, (but equally applicable to tragedy, if tra-
gedy is, as surely it ought to be, a picture of human life j nor can I
* The following remark is foreign to the present question, yet excusable in an Eng-
lishman, who is willing to think that the severe criticisms of so masterly a write* as Vol-
taire on our immortal countryman, may have been the effusions of wit and precipitation,
rather than the result of judgment and attention. May not the critic's skill, in the force
and powers of our language, have been as incorrect and incompetent as his knowledge of
our history i of the latter, his own pen has dropped glaring evidence. In his Preface to
Thomas Corneille's Earl of Essex, Monsieur de Voltaire allows that the truth of history
has been grossly perverted in that piece. In excuse he pleads, that when Corneille wrote, the noblesse of France were much unread in English story; but now, says the
commentator, that they study it, such misrepresentations would not be suffered—yet for-
getting that the period of ignorance is lapsed, and that it is not very necessary to instruct
the knowing, he undertakes, from the overflowing of his own reading, to give the nobility
of his own" country a detail of queen Elizabeth's favourites—of whom, says he, Robert
Dudley was the first, and the Earl of Leicester the second. Could one have believed that
it could be necessary to inform Monsieur de Voltaire himself, that Robert Dudley and
the Earl of Leicester were the same person?
b


X PREFACE
conceive why occasional pleasantry ought more to be banished from
the tragic scene, than pathetic seriousness from the comic,) On y voit
un melange de serieux et de plaisanterie, de comique et de touchant; sou-
vent même une seule aventure produit tous ces contrastes. Rien n'est
si commun qu'une maison dans laquelle un père gronde, un fille occupée
de sa passion pleure; lejils se moque des deux, et quelques parens pren~
nent part differemment à la scene, (etc.Nous n'inferons pas de là que
toute comedie doive avoir des scenes de bouffbnerie et des scenes atten-
drissantes: il y a beaucoup de très bonne pieces ou il ne règne que de la
gayetè; d'autres toutes serieuses; d'autres melangées: d'autres ou Vat-
tendrissement va jusquez aux larmes .- il ne faut donner l'ef^Bsion à
aucun genre: et si Ton me demandoit, quel genre est le meilleur•,- je re-
pondrois, celui qui est le mieux traité." Surely if a comedy may be toute
serieuse, tragedy may now and then, soberly, be indulged in a smile,
Who shall proscribe it ? Shall the critic, who, in self-defence, declares,
that no kind ought to be excluded from comedy, give laws to Shake-
speare?
I am aware that the preface from whence I have quoted these pas sages, does not stand in Monsieur de Voltaire's name, but in that of
his editor; yet who doubts that the editor and author were the same
person? or where is the editor, who has so happily possessed himself
of his author's style, and brilliant ease of argument? These passages
were indubitably the genuine sentiments of that great writer. In his
epistle to Mafiei, prefixed to his Merope, he delivers almost the same
opinion, though, I doubt, with a little irony. I will repeat his words,
and then give my reason for quoting them. After translating a pas-
sage in Maffei's Merope, Monsieur de Voltaire adds, " Tous ces traites


TO THE SECOND EDITION. XI
sontnaifs: touty est convenable a ceux que vous introduisez sur la scene*
et aux moeurs que vous leur donnez. Cesfamiliarites naturelles eussent
ete d ce que je crois, Men recues dans Athenes; mais Paris et notre par-
terre veulent une autre espece de shnplicite." I doubt, I say, whether
there is not a grain of sneer in this and other passages of that epistle;
yet the force of truth is not damaged by being tinged with ridicule.
Maffei was to represent a Grecian story: surely the Athenians were
as competent judges of Grecian manners, and of the propriety of in-
troducing them, as the parterre of Paris. "On the contrary," says
Voltaire, (and I cannot but admire his reasoning,) " there were but
ten thousand citizens at Athens, and Paris has near eight hundred
thousand inhabitants, among whom one may reckon thirty thousand
judges of dramatic works."—Indeed !—but allowing so numerous a
tribunal, I believe this is the only instance in which it was ever pre-
tended that thirty thousand persons, living near two thousand years
after the era in question, were, upon the mere face of the poll, decla-
red better judges than the Grecians themselves, of what ought to be
the manners of a tragedy written on a Grecian story.
I will not enter into a discussion of the espece de simplicite, which
the parterre of Paris demands, nor of the shackles with which the thir-
ty thousand judges have cramped their poetry, the chief merit of which,
as I gather from repeated passages in the New Commentary on Cor-
neille, consists in vaulting in spite of those fetters; a merit which, if
true, would reduce poetry from the lofty effort of imagination, to a
puerile and most contemptible labour—difficiles nug& with a witness!
I cannot, however, help mentioning a couplet, which, to my English
ears, always sounded as the flattest and most trifling instance of cir-


Xll PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
cumstantial propriety, but which Voltaire, who has dealt so severely
with nine parts in ten of Corneille's works, has singled out to defend
in Racine;
De son apartement cette porte est prochaine,
Et cette autre conduit dans celui de la Reine.
IN ENGLISH.
To Caesar's closet through this door you come,
And t'other leads to the Queen's drawing-room.
Unhappy Shakespeare! hadst thou made Rosencrantz inform his com-
peer, Guildenstern, of the ichnography of the palace of Copenhagen,
instead of presenting as with a moral dialogue between the Prince of
Denmark and the grave-digger, the illuminated pit of Paris would
have been instructed a second time to adore thy talents.
The result of all I have said, is, to shelter my own daring under
the canon of the brightest genius this country, at least, has produ-
ced. I might have pleaded that, having created a new species of ro-
mance, I was at liberty to lay down what rules I thought fit for the
conduct of it: but I should be more proud of having imitated, how-
ever faintly, weakly, and at a distance, so masterly a pattern, than to
enjoy the entire merit of invention, unless I could have marked my
work with genius, as well as with originality. Such as it is, the pub-
lic have honoured it sufficiently, whatever rank their suffrages allot
to it.


SONNET
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE.
The gentle maid, whose hapless tale
These melancholy pages speak;
Say, gracious lady, shall she fail
To draw the tear adown thy cheek?
No; never was thy pitying breast
Insensible to human woes;
Tender, though firm, it melts distrest
For weaknesses it never knows Oh! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell Ambition scourged by Fate,
From Reason's peevish blame.
Blest with thy smile, my dauntless trail I dare expand to Fancy's gale,
For sure thy smiles are fame.
H. TV.





THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO;
A GOTHIC STORY.

CHAP. I.
Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter;
the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called
Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely
youth, sickly, and of.no promising disposition; yet he was the
darling of his father, who never shewed any symptoms of af-
fection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for
his son with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella; and
•♦she had already been delivered by her guardians into the
hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as
soon as Conrad's infirm state of health would permit. Man-
fred's impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his fa-


THE CASTLE
mily and neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the
severity of their prince's disposition, did not dare to utter
their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an
amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger
of marrying their only son so early, considering his great
youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any
other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had
given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less
cautious in their discourses: they attributed this hasty wed-
ding to the prince's dread of seeing accomplished an ancient
prophecy, which was said to have pronounced, that the Castle
and Lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family
whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.
It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still
less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in
question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make
the populace adhere the less to their opinion.
Young Conrad's birth-day was fixed for his espousals. The
company was assembled in the chapel of the castle, and every
thing ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad him self was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and
who had not observed his son retire, dispatched one of his at-
tendants to summon the young prince. The servant, who had


OF OTRANTO. 3
not staid long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's
apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner,
his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing,
but pointed to the court. The company were struck with ter-
ror and amazement. The princess Hippolita, without know-
ing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned
away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the pro-
crastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domes-
tic, asked imperiously, what was the matter? The fellow made
no answer, but continued pointing towards the court-yard;
and, at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out,
"Oh! the helmet! the helmet!" In the mean time, some of
the company had run into the court, from whence was heard
a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred,
who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went him-
self, to get information of what occasioned this strange confu-
sion. Matilda remained, endeavouring to assist her mother;
and Isabella staid for the same purpose, and to avoid showing
any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she
had conceived little affection.
The first thing, that struck Manfred's eyes, was a group of his
servants, endeavouring to raise something, that appeared to him
a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed, without believing his
<


s' THE CASTLE
el-
sight. "What are ye doing?" cried Manfred, wrathfully;
"where is my son?" A volley of voices replied, "Oh!
my lord! the prince! the prince! the helmet! the helmet!"
Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew
not what, he advanced hastily; but, what a sight for a father's
eyes! he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried
under an enormous helmet, a hundred times more large than
any casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a
proportionable quantity of black feathers.
The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how
this misfortune had happened, and, above all, the tremendous
phenomenon before him, took away the prince's speech. Yet
his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He
fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision;
and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation
on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched,
he examined, the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding
mangled remains of the young prince, divert the eyes of Man-
fred from the portent before him. All, who had known his
partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much surprised at
their prince's insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the
miracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse
into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Man-


OF OTRANTO. 5
fred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in
the chapel: on the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy
princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped
from Manfred's lips were, " take care of the lady Isabella."
The domestics, without observing the singularity of this di-
rection, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to
consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation, and flew to
her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber, more dead
than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she
heard, except the death of her son. Matilda, who doated on
her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and
thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted
parent. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a
daughter, and who returned that tenderness with equal duty
and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the princess; at
the same time, endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight
of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom
she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet
her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts.
She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except com-
miseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a mar-
riage, which had promised her little felicity, either from her des-
tined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred; who,
A 2


O THE CASTLE
though he had distinguished her by great indulgence, had im-
pressed her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour to such
amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.
While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her
bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous
casque, and regardless of the crowd, which the strangeness of
the event had now assembled around him. The few words he, articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew
from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the
least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole ob-
ject of his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spec-
tators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as
the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of
their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had
drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed, that the
miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black
marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the
church of St Nicholas. "Villain! what sayest thou?" cried
Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of rage, and
seizing the young man by the collar; "how darest thou utter
such treason? thy life shall pay for it." The spectators, who
as little comprehended the cause of the prince's fury as all the
rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circum-
_ — , .1


OF OTRANTO. 7
stance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished,
not conceiving how he had offended the prince: yet, recollect-
ing himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, he disen-
gaged himself from Manfred's gripe, and then, with an obei-
sance, which discovered more jealousy of innocence, than dis-
may, he asked, with respect, of what he was guilty? Manfred,
more enraged at the vigour, however decently exerted, with
which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased
by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him; and, if
he had not been withheld by his friends, whom he had invited
to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peasant in their
arms.
During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run
to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came back
open-mouthed, declaring, that the helmet was missing from Al-
fonso's statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic;
and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest
within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying,
"Villain! monster! sorcerer! 'tis thou hast done this! 'tis
thou hast slain my son!" The mob, who wanted some object
within the scope of their capacities, on whom they might dis-
charge their bewildered reasonings, caught the words from the
mouth of their lord, and re-echoed, "Aye, aye; 'tis he! 'tis


8 THE CASTLE
he! He has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso's tomb, and
dashed out the brains of our young prince with it!" never re-
flecting, how enormous the disproportion was between the
marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel
before their eyes; nor, how impossible it was for a youth,
seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armour of so prodi-
gious a weight.
The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself:
yet, whether provoked at the peasant having observed the re-
semblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the
farther discovery of the absence of that in the church; or
wishing to bury any fresh rumour under so impertinent a sup-
position; he gravely pronounced that the young man was cer-
tainly a necromancer, and that, till the church could take cog-
nizance of the affair, he would have the magician, whom they
had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which
he ordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man
under it; declaring, he should be kept there without food,
with which his own infernal art might furnish him.
It was in vain for the youth to represent against this prepos-
terous sentence: in vain did Manfred's friends endeavour to
divert him from this savage and ill-grounded resolution. The
generality were charmed with their lord's decision, which, to


OF OTRANTO. 9
their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice; as
the magician was to be punished by the very instrument with
which he had offended: nor were they struck with the least
compunction at the probability of the youth being starved;
for they firmly believed, that, by his diabolical skill, he could
easily supply himself with nutriment.
Manfred thus saw his commands even chearfully obeyed;
and, appointing a guard, with strict orders to prevent any food
being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends and
attendants, and retired to his own chamber, after locking the
gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics
to remain.
In the mean time, the care and zeal of the young ladies had
brought the princess Hippolita to herself, who, amidst the
transports of her own sorrow, frequently demanded news of
her lord; would have dismissed her attendants to watch over
him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and
comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate
duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed
the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to
Isabella; and, enquiring of the domestics for her father, was
informed, that he was retired to his chamber, and had com-
manded that nobody should have admittance to him. Con-


10 THE CASTLE
eluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her
brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole
remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in
upon his affliction; yet, solicitude for him, backed by the com-
mands of her mother, encouraged her to venture disobeying
the orders he had given; a fault she had never been guilty of
before. The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for
some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his cham-
V ber, backwards and forwards, with disordered steps; a mood
which increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just
going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the
door; and, as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder
of his mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked an-
grily, who it was ?. Matilda replied, trembling, " My dearest
father, it is I, your daughter." Manfred, stepping back has-
tily, cried," Begone! I do not want a daughter;" and, flinging
back abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda.
She was too well acquainted with her father's impetuosity, to
venture a second intrusion. When she had a little recovered
the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears, to
prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give
to Hippolita, who questioned her, in the most anxious terms, on
the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda as-


OF OTRANTO. 11
sured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with man-
ly fortitude. "But, will he not let me see him?" said Hippo-
lita, mournfully; "will he not permit me to blend my tears
with his, and shed a mother's sorrows in the bosom of her I
lord? or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Man-
fred doated on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him?
has he not sunk under it? You do not answer me; alas! I
dread the worst! Raise me, my maidens; I will, I will, see
my lord. Bear me to him instantly: he is dearer to me
even than my children!" Matilda made signs to Isabella to
prevent Hippolita's rising; and both those lovely young wo-
men were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the
princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived, and
told Isabella, that his lord demanded to speak with her.
"With me!" cried Isabella. "Go," said Hippolila, reliev-
ed by a message from her lord: "Manfred cannot support
the sight of his own family. He thinks you less disordered
than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him,
dear Isabella; and tell him, I will smother my own anguish
rather than add to his."
As it was now evening, the servant, who conducted Isabella,
bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who
was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and said
B
S


12 THE CASTLE
hastily, " Take away that light, and begone!" Then, shutting
the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against
the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed, trembling.
"I sent for you, lady"—said he, and then stopped, under great
appearance of confusion. "My lord!" "Yes, I sent for you
on a matter of great moment," resumed he; "dry your tears,
young lady. You have lost your bridegroom—yes, cruel fate!
and I have lost the hopes of my race! but Conrad was not
worthy of your beauty." "How! my lord!" said Isabella;
"sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I
ought! my duty and affection would have always"—" Think no
more of him," interrupted Manfred ; " he was a sickly, puny
child; and heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might
not trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation.
The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish
fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence; but
it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason to
rejoice at the death of Conrad."
Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first,
she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred's under-
standing. ■ Her next thought suggested, that this strange dis-
course was designed to ensnare her: she feared that Manfred
had perceived her indifference for his son; and, in conse-


OF OTRANTO. 13
quence of that idea, she replied, " Good my lord, do not doubt
my tenderness! my heart would have accompanied my hand.
Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever
fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory,
and regard your highness, and the virtuous Hippolita, as my
parents." "Curse on Hippolita!" cried Manfred. "Forget
her from this moment, as I do. In short, lady, you have
missed a husband undeserving of your charms: they shall
0k be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy, you
shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know
how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous
offspring." "Alas! my lord," said Isabella, "my mind is■
too sadly engrossed, by the recent catastrophe in your family,
to think of another marriage. If ever my father returns, and
it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consent-
ed to give my hand to your son: but until his return, permit
me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the
melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita's, and the
fair Matilda's affliction."
"I desired you once before," said Manfred, angrily, "not
to name that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger
to you, as she must be to me; in short, Isabella, since I can-
not give you my son, I offer you myself." "Heavens!" cri- ■
* - *■
B 2


14 THE CASTLE
ed Isabella, waking from her delusion, "what do I hear!
you, my lord! you! my father-in-law! the father of Con-
rad! the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita I"—
"I tell you," said Manfred, imperiously, " Hippolita is no
longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has
she cursed me by her unfruitfulness. My fate depends on
having sons; and this night, I trust, will give a new date to my
hopes." At these words he seized the cold hand of Isabella,
who was half dead with fright and horror. She shrieked, afl^
started from him. Manfred rose to pursue her; when the
moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the opposite
casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal hel-
met, which rose to the height of the windows, waving back-
wards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompa-
nied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gather-
ed courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so
much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration, cried, " Look!
my lord! see! Heaven itself declares against your impious in-
tentions !"—" Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs \" said
Manfred, advancing again to seize the princess. At that in-
stant, the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the
bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and
heaved its breast.! Isabella, whose back was turned to the
4 ^'7


OF OTRANTO. 15
picture, saw not the motion, nor whence the sound came; but
started, and said, "Hark, my lord! what sound was that?"
and, at the same time, made towards the door. Manfred, dis- I
tracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached
the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture,
which began to move, had, however, advanced some steps af-
ter her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw
it quit its pannel, and descend on the floor, with a grave and » V
melancholy air. j "Do I dream?" cried Manfred, returning; - L, "or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak,
infernal spectre! or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou
too conspire against thy wretched descendant, who too dear-
ly pays for"—ere he could finish the sentence, the vision sigh-
ed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. "Lead
on!" cried Manfred; "I will follow thee to the gulph of per-
dition!" The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the f-
end of the gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right
hand. Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of
anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would have entered
the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an in-
visible hand. The prince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but
found that it resisted his utmost efforts. "Since hell will


l§ THE CASTLE
not satisfy my curiosity," said Manfred, "I will use the hu-
man means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall
not escape me."
That lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the mo-
ment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the
bottom of the principal stair-case. There she stopped, not
knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the
impetuosity of the prince. The gates of the castle, she knew,
were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she, as
her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel
destiny that awaited her; she did not doubt but Manfred
would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to
double the injury he meditated, without leaving room for them
to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give
him time to reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived,
or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she could, for
that night at least, avoid his odious purpose. Yet, where con-
ceal herself! how avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make
throughout the castle! As these thoughts passed rapidly through
■» her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage, which led
from the vaults of the castle to the church of St Nicholas.
"Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew
even Manfred's violence would not dare to profane the sacred-


OF OTRANTO. 17
ness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of
deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy
virgins, whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In
this resolution, she seized a lamp, that burned at the foot of
the stair-case, and hurried towards the secret passage.
The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intri-
cate cloisters; and it was not easy for one, under so much anxi-
ety, to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful
silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except,
now and then, some blasts of wind that shook the doors she
had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-
echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every mur-
mur struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear *
the wrathful voice of Manfred, urging his domestics to pursue
her. She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave,
yet frequently stopped, and listened to hear if she was followed.
In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh. She
shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought
she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she-,
concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion, that horror
could inspire, rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash
flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage, in a place
where her cries were not likely to draw any body to ber assis-


18 THE CASTLE
tance. Yet the sound seemed not to come from behind; if
Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her:
she was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had
heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come.
Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in
whoever was not the prince, she was going to advance, when
a door, that stood a-jar, at some distance to the left, was open-
ed gently; but, e'er her lamp, which she held up, could dis-
cover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately, on
seeing the light.
Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, he-
sitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred
soon outweighed every other terror. The very circumstance
of the person avoiding her, gave her a sort of courage. It
could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the
castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and
conscious innocence made her hope, that, unless sent by the
prince's order to seek her, his servants would rather assist
than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflec-
tions, and believing, by what she could observe, that she was
near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached
the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind,


OF OTRANTO. 19
that met her at the door, extinguished her lamp, and left her -,
in total darkness.
Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's situation.' Alone, in so dismal a place, her mind impressed with all the
terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting
every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil
on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not
whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts;
all these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she
was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed
herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their
assistance. For a considerable time she remained in an ago-
ny of despair. At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for
the door; and, having found it, entered trembling into the
vault, from whence she had heard the sigh and steps. It gave
her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of
clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which
seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of
earth or building, she could not distinguish which, that ap-
peared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly
towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form, stand- c. ing close against the wall.


20 THE CASTLE
She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Con-
rad. The figure, advancing, said in a submissive voice,
"Be not alarmed, lady; I will not injure you." Isabella, a
little encouraged by the words, and tone of voice, of the
stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who
had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply,
"Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched princess,
standing on the brink of destruction ! Assist me to escape from
this fatal castle, or in a few moments I may be made miserable
for ever!" "Alas!" said the stranger, "what can I do to as-
sist you? I will die in your defence; but I am unacquainted
with the castle, and want"—" Oh!" said Isabella, hastily in-
terrupting him, "help me but to find a trap-door, that must
be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can do me,
for I have not a minute to lose." Saying these words, she felt
about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search like-
wise, for a smooth piece of brass, inclosed in one of the stones.
"That," said she, "is the lock, which opens with a spring, of
which I know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape;
if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved
you in my misfortunes: Manfred will suspect you for the ac-
complice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his resent-
ment." "I value not my life," said the stranger, "and it will


OF OTRANTO. 21
be some comfort to lose it, in trying to deliver you from his
tyranny." "Generous youth!" said Isabella, "how shall I
ever requite"—as she uttered these words, a ray of moon-
shine, streaming through a cranny of the ruin above, shone /
directly on the lock they sought. "Oh! transport!" said
Isabella, "here is the trap-door \" and, taking out a key,
she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered
an iron ring. "Lift up the door," said the princess. The
stranger obeyed; and beneath appeared some stone steps,
descending into a vault totally dark. "We must go down
here," said Isabella : "follow me; dark and dismal as it is, we
cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St Ni-
cholas. But, perhaps," added the princess, modestly, "you
have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I further occasion
for your service; in a few minutes I shall be safe from Man-
fred's rage—only let me know, to whom I am so much obli-
ged?" "I will never quit you," said the stranger, eagerly, " until
I have placed you in safety—nor think me, princess, more ge-
nerous than I am; though you are my principal care"—the
stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices, that
seemed approaching, and they soon distinguished these words:
"Talk not to me of necromancers! I tell you she must be in
C 2


22 THE CASTLE
the castle; I will find her in spite of enchantment." "Oh!
heavens !" cried Isabella, " it is the voice of Manfred! make
haste, or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you."
Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately, and, as the
stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his
hands; it fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain
to open it, not having observed Isabella's method of touching
the spring; nor had he many moments to make an essay.—
The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who,
directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his ser-
vants with torches. "It must be Isabella," cried Manfred,
before he entered the vault; "she is escaping by the subter-
raneous passage, but she cannot have got far." What was the
astonishment of the prince, when, instead of Isabella, the light
of the torches discovered to him the young peasant, whom he
V thought confined under the fatal helmet!" Traitor!" said
Manfred, " how eamest thou here? I thought thee in durance
above in the court." "I am no traitor," replied the young
man, boldly, " nor am I answerable for your thoughts."—
"Presumptuous villain!" cried Manfred, "dost thou provoke
my wrath? tell me; how hast thou escaped from above ? thou
hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer it."—
"My poverty," said the peasant calmly, " will disculpate


OF OTRANTO. 23
them: though the ministers of a tyrant's wrath, to thee they
are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which
you unjustly imposed upon them." "Art thou so hardy as to
dare my vengeance?" said the prince; " but tortures shall
force the truth from thee. Tell me! I will know thy accompli-
ces." "There was my accomplice!" said the youth, smiling,
and pointing to the roof. Manfred ordered the torches to
be held up, and perceived, that one of the cheeks of the en-
chanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of —
the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and
had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through
which the peasant had pressed himself, some minutes before
he was found by Isabella. "Was that the way by which thou
didst descend?" said Manfred. "It was," said the youth.—
"But what noise was that," said Manfred, "which I heard as
I entered the cloister ?"—" A door clapped," said the pea-
sant ; "I heard it as well as you." "What door?" said Man-
fred, hastily. "I am not acquainted with your castle," said
the peasant; "this is the first time I ever entered it; and this
vault the only part of it within which I ever was." "But I
tell thee," said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had
discovered the trap-door), " it was this way I heard the noise:
my servants heard it too." "My lord," interrupted one of


24 THE CASTLE
them, officiously, "to be sure it was the trap-door, and he
was going to make his escape." "Peace! blockhead!" said
the prince, angrily; "if he was going to escape, how should
he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what
noise it was I heard. Tell me truly! thy life depends on thy
veracity." "My veracity is dearer to me than my life," \
said the peasant, "nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting
the other." "Indeed! young philosopher!" said Manfred,
contemptuously; "tell me, then, what was the noise I heard?"
"Ask me what I can answer," said he, "and put me to death
instantly if I tell you a lie." Manfred, growing impatient at
the steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried, "Well
then, thou man of truth! answer; was it the fall of the trap-
door that I heard?" "It was," said the youth. "It was!"
said the prince, " and how didst thou come to know there was
a trap-door here?" "I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of
moonshine," replied he. "But what told thee it was a lock?"
said Manfred; "how didst thou discover the secret of opening
it?" "Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was
able to direct me to the spring of a lock," said he. "Provi-
dence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee
out of the reach of my resentment," said Manfred; "when
Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned


OF OTRANTQ. 25
thee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its fa-
vours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for
thy escape? why didst thou shut the trap-door, before thou
hadst descended the steps?" "I might ask you, my lord," said
the peasant, "how I, totally unacquainted with your castle,
was to know that those steps led to any outlet? but I scorn
to evade your questions. Wherever those steps led to, per-
haps I should have explored the way—I could not be in
a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-
door fall: your immediate arrival followed. I had given the
alarm—what imported it to me whether I was seized a minute
sooner or a minute later?" "Thou art a resolute villain, for thy
years," said Manfred; "yet, on reflection, I suspect thou dost
but trifle with me: thou hast not yet told me how thou didst
open the lock?" "That I will show you, my lord," said the
peasant; and, taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen
from above, he laid himself on the trap-door, and began to
beat on the piece of brass that covered it; meaning to gain
time for the escape of the princess. This presence of mind,
joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He
even felt a disposition towards pardoning one, who had been
guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage ty- X
rants, who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances


26 THE CASTLE
of his fortune had given an asperity to his temper, which was
naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready to ope-
rate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.
While the prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of
voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the sound ap-
proached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domes-
tics, whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of
Isabella, calling out, "Where is my lord? where is the
prince?" "Here I am," said Manfred, as they came nearer;
"have you found the princess?" the first that arrived, replied,
"Oh! my lord! I am glad we have found you!" "Found
me!" said Manfred, "have you found the princess?" "We
thought we had, my lord," said the fellow, looking terrified,
"but"—" But what ?" cried the prince; "has she escaped?"
"Jaquez, and I, my lord"—" Yes, I and Diego," interrupt-
ed the second, who came up in still greater consternation—
"Speak one of you at a time!" said Manfred; "I ask you
where is the princess?" "We do not know," said they, both
together, "but we are frightened out of our wits \"—" So I
think, blockheads," said Manfred; "what is it has scared you
thus?" "Oh! my lord," said Jaquez, " Diego has seen such
a sight! your highness would not believe your eyes"—" What


OF OTRANTO. 27
new absurdity is this ?" cried Manfred; "give me a direct an-
swer, or by heaven"—" Why, my lord, if it please your high-
ness to hear me," said the poor fellow, "Diego and I"—"yes, I
and Jaquez," cried his comrade—" Did not I forbid you to
speak both at a time?" said the prince; "You, Jaquez, an-
swer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou
art. What is the matter?" "My gracious lord," said Jaquez,
"if it please your highness to hear me. Diego and I, ac-
cording to your highness's orders, went to search for the young
lady; but, being apprehensive that we might meet the ghost
of my young lord, your highness's son, God rest his soul, as he
has not received christian burial"—" Sot \" cried Manfred, in
a rage, "is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast seen?" " Oh!
worse! worse! my lord," cried Diego; " I had rather have
seen ten whole ghosts." "Grant me patience!" said Man-
fred, "these blockheads distract me. Out of my sight, Die-
go! and thou, Jaquez, tell me, in one word, art thou sober?
art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense; has the
other sot frightened himself and thee too? speak, what is it
he fancies he has seen?" "Why, my lord," replied Jaquez,
trembling, "I was going to tell your highness, that since the
calamitous misfortune of my young lord, God rest his precious
soul! not one of us, your highness's faithful servants—indeed
D


28 THE CASTLE
we are, my lord, though poor men—I say, not one of us
has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together:
so, Diego and I, thinking that my young lady might be in the
great gallery, went up there to look for her, and tell her your
highness wanted something to impart to her." "O blunder-
ing fools!" cried Manfred, "and, in the mean time, she has
made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins! Why,
thou knave! she left me in the gallery; I came from thence
myself." "For all that, she may be there still, for aught I
know," said Jaquez, "but the devil shall have me before I
seek her there again—poor Diego! I do not believe he will
ever recover it!" "Recover what?" said Manfred; "and never to learn what it is has terrified these rascals? but I
lose my time: follow me, slave; I will see if she is in the gal-
lery." "For heaven's sake, my dear good lord," cried Jaquez,
"do not go to the gallery! Satan himself, I believe, is in the
chamber next to the gallery." Manfred, who hitherto had
treated the terror of his servants as an idle panic, was struck
at this new circumstance. He recollected the apparition of
the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end of
the gallery—his voice faultered, and he asked with disorder,
"What is in the great chamber?" "My lord," said Jaquez,
"when Diego and I came into the gallery—he went first, for


OF OTRANTO. 29
he said he had more courage than I—So, when we came into
the gallery, we found nobody. We looked under every bench
and stool; and still we found nobody." "Were all the pic-
tures in their places?" said Manfred. "Yes, my lord," an-
swered Jaquez, "but we did not think of looking behind
them." "Well, well," said Manfred, "proceed." "When
we came to the door of the great chamber," continued Ja-
quez, "we found it shut." "And could not you open it?"
said Manfred. "Oh yes, my lord; would to heaven we had
not," replied he. "Nay, it was not I neither, it was Diego:
he was grown fool-hardy, and would go on, though I advised
him not—if ever I open a door that is shut again!" "Trifle
not," said Manfred, shuddering, "but tell me what you saw
in the great chamber, on opening the door." "I, my lord!"
said Jaquez, "I saw nothing; I was behind Diego; but I
heard the noise." "Jaquez," said Manfred, in a solemn tone
of voice, "tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ances-
tors, what was it thou sawest ? what was it thou heardest T "It
was Diego saw it, my lord, it was not I," replied Jaquez; "I
only heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door,
than he cried out, and ran back—I ran back too, and said,
is it the ghost? The ghost! no, no, said Diego, and his
hair stood an end—It is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in
X-.
D 2


30 THE CASTLE
■^ armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as
large as the helmet, below in the court. As he said these
words, my lord, we heard a violent motion, and the rattling
of armour, as if the giant was rising; for Diego has told me
^ since, that he believes the giant was lying down, for the foot
and leg were stretched at length on the floor. Before we
could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the door of the
great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back
to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it,
we must have heard him if he had pursued us. But, for hea-
ven's sake, good my lord, send for the chaplain, and have the
w castle exorcised! for, for certain, it is enchanted." "Aye, pray
do, my lord," cried all the servants at once, "or we must
leave your highness's service." "Peace, dotards!" said Man-
fred, "and follow me; I will know what all this means."—
"We, my lord!" cried they, with one voice, "we would not
go up to the gallery for your highness's revenue." The young
v peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke. "Will your high-
ness," said he, "permit me to try this adventure? my life is
of consequence to nobody: I fear no bad angel, and have of-
fended no good one." "Your behaviour is above your seem-
ing;" said Manfred, viewing him with surprise and admira-
tion—" hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now," con-


OF OTRANTO. 31
tinued he, with a sigh, "I am so circumstanced, that I dare
trust no eyes but my own—however, I give you leave to ac-
company me."
Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery,
had gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the
princess had retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step,
rose with anxious fondness to meet her lord, whom she had
not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown
in a transport, mixed of joy and grief, to his bosom; but he
pushed her rudely off, and said, " Where is Isabella ?"—" Isa-
bella, my lord!" said the astonished Hippolita. "Yes! Isa-
bella;" cried Manfred, imperiously; "I want Isabella."—
"My lord," replied Matilda, who perceived how much his
behaviour had shocked her mother, "she has not been with
us since your highness summoned her to your apartment."
"Tell me where she is," said the prince; "I do not want to
know where she has been." "My good lord," said Hippolita,
"your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your
command, and has not returned since; but, my good lord,
compose yourself; retire to your rest: this dismal day has
disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morn-
ing." "What then, you know where she is!" cried Manfred:
"Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant—and you,


32 THE CASTLE
woman," speaking to his wife, "order your chaplain to attend
me forthwith." "Isabella," said Hippolita, calmly, "is reti-
red, I suppose, to her chamber: she is not accustomed to
watch at this late hour. Gracious my lord," continued she,
"let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella offend-
ed you?" "Trouble me not with questions," said Manfred,
"but tell me where she is." "Matilda shall call her,"
said the princess—" Sit down, my lord, and resume your
wonted fortitude." "What! art thou jealous of Isabella," re-
plied he, " that you wish to be present at our interview?"
"Good heavens! my lord," said Hippolita, " what is it your
highness means ?"—" Thou wilt know ere many minutes are
past," said the cruel prince. "Send your chaplain to me, and
wait my pleasure here." At these words he flung out of the
room in search of Isabella; leaving the amazed ladies thun-
derstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in
vain conjectures on what he was meditating.
Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the
peasant, and a few of his servants, whom he had obliged to ac-
company him. He ascended the stair-case without stopping,
till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hip-
polita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by
Manfred, he had gone directly to the princess's apartment


OF OTRANTO. 33
with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent lady,
who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vi-
sion, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Wil-
ling, however, to save her lord from any additional shock, and
prepared by a series of grief not to tremble at any accession
to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice, if fate
had marked the present hour for their destruction. Dismis-
sing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for
leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her
chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and great cham-
ber; and now, with more serenity of soul than she had felt for
many hours, she met her lord, and assured him that the vision
of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and, no doubt, an
impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the
night, on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had
examined the chamber, and found every thing in the usual
order.
Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision
had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest
of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him.
Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a princess, who re-
turned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty;
he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes—but not less


OF OTRANTO. 35
CHAP. II.
JVIatilda, who, by Hippolita's order, had retired to her
apartment, was ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking
fate of her brother had deeply affected her. She was surpri-
sed at not seeing Isabella; but the strange words which had
fallen from her father, and his obscure menace to the princess,
his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had fil-
led her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited anxi-
ously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended
her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of Isabella.
Bianca soon appeared, and informed her mistress of what she
had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was no where to
be found. She related the adventure of the young peasant,
who had been discovered in the vault, though with many sim-
ple additions from the incoherent account of the domestics;<
and she dwelled principally on the gigantic leg and foot, which
had been seen in the gallery chamber. This last circumstance
had terrified Bianca so much, that she was rejoiced when
E


36 THE CASTLE
Matilda told her that she should not go to rest, but would
watch till the princess should rise.
The young princess wearied herself in conjectures on the
flight of Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother.
"But what business could he have so urgent with the chap-
lain," said Matilda; "does he intend to have my brother's
body interred privately in the chapel?" "Oh! madam," said
Bianca, "now I guess. As you are become his heiress,
he is impatient to have you married; he has always been ra-
ving for more sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grand-
sons. As sure as I live, madam, I shall see you a bride at
last—Good madam, you won't cast off your faithful Bianca!
you won't put Donna Rosara over me, now you are a great
princess!" "My poor Bianca," said Matilda, "how fast your
thoughts amble! I a great princess! What hast thou seen in
Manfred's behaviour, since my brother's death, that bespeaks
any increase of tenderness tome—but he is my father, and I must
not complain. Nay, if heaven shuts my father's heart against
me, it over-pays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother.
O that dear mother! yes, Bianca, 'tis there I feel the rugged
temper of Manfred. I can support his harshness to me with
patience; but it wounds my soul when I am witness to his
causeless severity towards her." "Oh! madam," said Bian-


OF OTRANTO.
ca, "all men use their wives so, when they are weary of them."/
"And yet, you congratulated me but now," said Matilda,
"when you fancied my father intended to dispose of me!"
"I would have you a great lady," replied Bianca, "come what
will. I do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you
would be if you had your will, and if my lady, your mother,
who knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at
all, did not hinder you—Bless me! what noise is that! St
Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest." "It is the wind,"
said Matilda, "whistling through the battlements in the tower
above: you have heard it a thousand times." "Nay," said
Bianca, "there was no harm in what I said: it is no sin to
talk of matrimony—and so, madam, as I was saying, if my
lord Manfred should offer you a handsome young prince for a
bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsy, and tell him you
would rather take the veil?" "Thank heaven! I am in no
such danger," said Matilda: "you know how many propo-
sals for me he has rejected." "And you thank him, like a du-
tiful daughter, do you, madam? but come, madam; suppose,
to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great coun-
cil chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely
young prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead,
and manly curling locks like jet; in short, madam, a young
E 2


38 THE CASTLE
(
hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the galle-
ry, which you sit and gaze at for hours together." "Do not
speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda, sighing:
"I know the adoration, with which I look at that picture, is
uncommon—but I am not in love with a coloured pannel. The
character of that virtuous prince, the veneration with which
my mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which,
I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour forth at his
tomb, all have concurred to persuade me, that, some how or
\ other, my destiny is linked with something relating to him."
"Lord! madam, how should that be?" said Bianca; "I have
always heard that your family was no way related to his; and
I am sure I cannot conceive why my lady, the princess, sends
you in a cold morning, or a damp evening, to pray at his
tomb: he is no saint by the almanack. If you must pray,
why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St Ni-
cholas? I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband."—
"Perhaps my mind would be less affected," said Matilda, "if
my mother would explain her reasons to me: but it is the
mystery she observes, that inspires me with this—I know not
what to call it. As she never acts from caprice, I am sure
there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know there is: in
her agony of grief for my brother's death she dropped some


OF OTRANTO. . 39
words that intimated as much." "Oh! dear madam," cried
Bianca, " what were they T "No," said Matilda ; if a parent
lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a dhild to
utter it." "What! was she sorry for what she had said?" ask-
ed Bianca; "I am sure, madam, you may trust me." "With
my own little secrets, when I have any, I may," said Matilda;
"but never with my mother's: a child ought to have no ears ~
or eyes, but as a parent directs." "Well, to be sure, madam,
you was born to be a saint," said Bianca, "and there is no r
resisting one's vocation: you will end in a convent at last.
But there is my lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me;
she will let me talk to her of young men; and when a hand-
some cavalier has come to the castle, she has owned to me
that she wished your brother Conrad resembled him." "Bi-
anca," said the princess, "I do not allow you to mention my
friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition,
but her soul is as pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle
babbling humour, and perhaps has now and then encouraged
it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude in which my
father keeps us"—" Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting,
"there it is again! dear madam, do you hear nothing? this
castle is certainly haunted !"—" Peace!" said Matilda, "and
listen! I did think I heard a voice—but it must be fancy:


40 THE CASTLE
your terrors, I suppose, have infected me." "Indeed! indeed!
madam," said Bianca, half weeping with agony, "I am sure
I heard a voice!" "Does any body lie in the chamber be-
neath?" said the princess. "Nobody has dared to lie there,"
answered Bianca, "since the great astrologer, that was your
brother's tutor, drowned himself. For certain, madam, his
ghost and the young prince's are now met in the chamber be-
low—for heaven's sake let us fly to your mother's apartment!"
"I charge you not to stir," said Matilda; "if they are spirits
in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them.
They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them;
and if they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than
another? reach me my beads; we will say a prayer, and then
speak to them." "Oh! dear lady, I would not speak to a
ghost for the world!" cried Bianca. As she said these words,
they heard the casement of the little chamber, below Matil-
da's, open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutes
thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish
the words. "This can be no evil spirit," said the princess, in
a low voice: "it is undoubtedly one of the family—open
the window, and we shall know the voice." "I dare not in-
deed, madam," said Bianca. "Thou art a very fool," said
Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The noise the


OF OTRANTO. 41
princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath, who
stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement open.
"Is any body below?' said the princess: "if there is, speak."
"Yes," said an unknown voice. "Who is it?" said Matil-
da. "A stranger," replied the voice. "What stranger?"
said she; "and how didst thou come here at this unusual
hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?" "I am not
here willingly," answered the voice—" but pardon me, lady,
if I have disturbed your rest: I knew not that I was overheard.
Sleep had forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to
waste the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach of
morning, impatient to he dismissed from this castle." "Thy
words and accents," said Matilda, "are of a melancholy cast:
if thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let
me know it: I will mention thee to the princess, whose benefi-
cent soul ever melts for the distressed; and she will relieve thee."
"I am indeed unhappy," said the stranger, "and I know
not what wealth is; but I do not complain of the lot which
heaven has cast for me: I am young and healthy, and am not
ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet think me not
proud, or that I disdain your generous offers! I will remem-
ber you in my orisons, and I will pray for blessings on your
gracious self and your noble mistress. If I sigh, lady, it is for


42 THE CASTLE
others, not for myself." "Now I have it, madam!" said Bian-
ca, whispering the princess; "this is certainly the young
peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love—well this is a
charming adventure !—do, madam, let us sift him. He does
not know you, but takes you for one of my lady Hippolita's
women." "Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!" said the prin-
cess: "what right have we to pry into the secrets of this
young man's heart? he seems virtuous and frank, and tells us
he is unhappy: are those circumstances that authorise us to
make a property of him? how are we entitled to his confi-
dence?" "Lord! madam, how little you know of love!" re-
plied Bianca: "why lovers have no pleasure equal to talking
of their mistress!" "And would you have me become a pea-
sant's confidant?" said the princess. "Well, then, let me talk
to him," said Bianca; "though I have the honour of being
your highness's maid of honour, I was not always so great:
besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too: I have a res-
pect for a young man in love." "Peace, simpleton!" said
the princess; "though he said he was unhappy, it does not
follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has happen-
ed to day, and tell me, if there are no misfortunes but what
love causes !—Stranger," resumed the princess, "if thy mis-
fortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are


OP OTRANTO. 43
within the compass of the princess Hippolita's power to re-
dress, I will take upon me to answer that she will be thy pro-
tectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to
holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of
St Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou
thinkest meet: he will not fail to inform the princess, who is
the mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell: it is
not seemly for me to hold farther converse with a man, at this
unwonted hour." "May the saints guard thee, gracious lady!"
replied the peasant—" but oh! if a poor and worthless stran-
ger might presume to beg a minute's audience farther—am
I so happy? the easement is not shut—might I venture to
ask"—" Speak quickly," said Matilda; "the morning dawns
apace; should the labourers come into the fields and perceive
us—what wouldst thou ask?" "I know not how—I know not
if I dare," said the young stranger, faultering, "yet the hu-
manity with which you have spoken to me emboldens—lady!
dare I trust you?" "Heavens \" said Matilda, "What dost
thou mean? with what wouldst thou trust me? speak boldly,
if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous breast." "I
would ask," said the peasant, recollecting himself, "whether
what I have heard from the domestics is true, that the princess
is missing from the castle?" "What imports it to thee to
F


44 THE CASTLE
know?" replied Matilda. "Thy first words bespoke a pru-
dent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry
into the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken
in thee." Saying these words, she shut the casement hastily,
without giving the young man time to reply. "I had acted
more wisely," said the princess to Bianca, with some sharp-
ness, " if I had let thee converse with this peasant: his inqui-
sitiveness seems of a piece with thy own." "It is not fit for
me to argue with your highness," replied Bianca; "but per-
haps the questions, I should have put to him, would have been
more to the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask
him." "Oh! no doubt;" said Matilda: "you are a very
discreet personage! may I know what you would have asked
him?" "A by-stander often sees more of the game than
those that play;" answered Bianca. "Does your highness
think, madam, that his question about my lady Isabella was
the result of mere curiosity? No, no, madam; there is more
in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me, that
all the servants believe this young fellow contrived my lady
Isabella's escape: now, pray, madam, observe—you and I
both know that my lady Isabella never much fancied the
prince your brother—well! he is killed just in the critical mi-
nute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so


OF OTRANTO. 45
my lord, your father, says; but Lopez and all the servants say,
that this young spark is a magician, and stole it from Alfonso's
tomb." "Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence," said
Matilda. "Nay, madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet
it is very particular, though, that my lady Isabella should be
missing the very same day, and that this young sorcerer should
be found at the mouth of the trap-door; I accuse nobody;
but if my young lord came honestly by his death"—" Dare
not, on thy duty," said Matilda, "to breathe a suspicion on
the purity of my dear Isabella's fame." "Purity or not pu-
rity," said Bianca, " gone she is—a stranger is found that no-
body knows: you question him yourself: he tells you he is in
love, or unhappy, it is the same thing—nay, he owned he was
unhappy about others; and is any body unhappy about ano-
ther, unless they are in love with them? And at the very next
word, he asks innocently, poor soul! if my lady Isabella is
missing." "To be sure," said Matilda, " thy observations are
not totally without foundation—Isabella's flight amazes me:
the curiosity of this stranger is very particular—yet Isabella
never concealed a thought from me." "So she told you,"
said Bianca, "to fish out your secrets; but who knows, ma-
dam, but this stranger may be some prince in disguise? do,
madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions!"
F 2


46 THE CASTLE
"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself: if he knows
aught of Isabella, he is not worthy that I should converse far-
ther with him." She was going to open the casement, when
they heard the bell ring at the postern gate of the castle, which
is on the right hand of the tower, where Matilda lay. This
prevented the princess from renewing the conversation with
the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time, "I am persuaded,"
said she to Bianca, "that whatever be the cause of Isabella's
flight, it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger was acces-
sary to it, she must be satisfied of his fidelity and worth. I
observed, did not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured
with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was no ruffian's
speech: his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth."
"I told you, madam," said Bianca, "that I was sure he was
some prince in disguise." "Yet," said Matilda, "if he was
privy to her escape, how will you account for his not accom-
panying her in her flight? why expose himself unnecessarily
and rashly to my father's resentment?" "As for that, ma-
dam," replied she, "if he could get from under the helmet, he
will find ways of eluding your father's anger. I do not doubt
but he has some talisman or other about him." "You resolve
every thing into magic," said Matilda; " but a man, who has


OF OTKANTO. 47
any intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use
of those tremendous and holy words, which he uttered. Didst
thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to remember
me to heaven in his prayers? yes; Isabella was undoubtedly
convinced of his piety." "Commend me to the piety of a
young fellow and a damsel, that consult to elope!" said Bianca.
"No, no, madam: my lady Isabella is of another guess mould
than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up
her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint—
but when your back was turned"—" You wrong her," said
Matilda: "Isabella is no hypocrite: she has a due sense of
devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the con-
trary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister;
and, though I own the mystery she has made to me of her
flight, confounds me; though it seems inconsistent with the
friendship between us; I cannot forget the disinterested
warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil:
she wished to see me married, though my dower would have
been a loss to her and my brother's children. For her sake I
will believe well of this young peasant." "Then you do think
there is some liking between them?" said Bianca. While she
was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber, and I
told the princess that the lady Isabella was found. "Where?"


4?
THE CASTLE
said Matilda. "She has taken sanctuary in St Nicholas's
church," replied the servant: "father Jerome has brought
the news himself: he is below with his highness." "Where is
my mother?" said Matilda. "She is in her own chamber,
madam, and has asked for you."
Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to
Hippolita's apartment, to enquire if she knew aught of Isa-
bella. While he was questioning her, word was brought that
Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manned, little sus-
pecting the cause of the friar's arrival, and knowing he was
employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be ad-
mitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his
search after Isabella. "Is your business with me or the prin-
cess?" said Manfred. "With both," replied the holy man.
"The lady Isabella"—" What of her?" interrupted Manfred,
eagerly: "Is at St Nicholas's altar," replied Jerome. "That
is no business of Hippolita!" said Manfred, with confusion:
"let us retire to my chamber, father; and inform me how she
came thither." "No, my lord," replied the good man, with an
air of firmness and authority, that daunted even the resolute
\ Manfred, who could not help revering the saint-like virtues of
Jerome—" my commission is to both; and, with your high-
ness's good liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver it—


OF OTRANTO.
but first, my lord, I must interrogate the princess, whether
she is acquainted with the cause of the lady Isabella's retire-
ment from your castle." "No, on my soul;" said Hippolita:
"does Isabella charge me with being privy to it ?"—" Father,"
interrupted Manfred, " I pay due reverence to your holy pro-
fession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling
priest to interfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have
aught to say, attend me to my chamber—I do not use to let
my wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state;
they are not within a woman's province." "My lord," said
the holy man, "I am no intruder into the secrets of families.
My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach
repentance, and teach mankind to curb their head-strong pas-
sions. I forgive your highness's uncharitable apostrophe: I
know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than
Manfred. Hearken to him, who speaks through my organs."
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita's counte-
nance declared her astonishment and impatience, to know
where this would end: her silence more strongly spoke her
observance of Manfred.
"The lady Isabella," resumed Jerome, "commends herself
to both your highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness
with which she has been treated in your castle: she deplores
-.


50 THE CASTLE
the loss of your son, and her own misfortune in not becoming
the daughter of such wise and noble princes, whom she shall
always respect as parents; she prays for uninterrupted union
and felicity between you: (Manfred's colour changed) but, as
it is no longer possible to be allied to you, she entreats your
consent to remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her
father; or, by the certainty of his death, be at liberty, with the
approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable
marriage." "I shall give no such consent," said the prince;
"but insist on her return to the castle without delay: I am
answerable for her person to her guardians, and will not brook
her being in any hands but my own." "Your highness will
recollect whether that can any longer be proper," replied the
friar. "I want no monitor," said Manfred, colouring; "Isa-
bella's conduct leaves room for strange suspicions—and that
young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if
not the cause of it"—" The cause!" interrupted Jerome;
"was a young man the cause ?"—" This is not to be borne!"
cried Manfred. "Am I to be bearded in my own palace by
an insolent monk? thou art privy, I guess, to their amours."—
"I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable sur-
mises," said Jerome, "if your highness were not satisfied in
your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to


OF OTRANTO. 51
heaven to pardon that uncharitableness: and I implore your
highness to leave the princess at peace in that holy place,
where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain and
worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man." "Cant
not to me," said Manfred, " but return and bring the princess
to her duty." "It is my duty to prevent her return hither;"
said Jerome. "She is where orphans and virgins are safest
from the snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a pa-
rent's authority shall take her thence." "I am her parent,"
cried Manfred, "and demand her." "She wished to have
you for her parent:" said the friar: "but heaven that forbad
that connection, has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you:
and I announce to your highness"—" Stop! audacious man,"
said Manfred, "and dread my displeasure." "Holy father,"
said Hippolita, " it is your office to be no respecter of persons:
you must speak as your duty prescribes—but it is my duty to
hear nothing that it pleases not my lord I should hear. At-
tend the prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory,
and pray the blessed virgin to inspire you with her holy coun-
sels, and to restore the heart of my gracious lord to its wonted
peace and gentleness." "Excellent woman!" said the friar.
"My lord, I attend your pleasure."
G


52 THE CASTLE
Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his own apart-
ment, where, shutting the door, ." I perceive, father," said he,
that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now,
hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent
reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I
should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hip-
polita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her
back; and you must do more. I know the influence you
have with Hippolita: her conscience is in your hands. She
is, I allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on heaven, and
scorns the little grandeur of this world: you can withdraw
her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the dissolu-
tion of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery: she shall
endow one if she will; and shall have the means of being as
liberal to your order, as she or you can wish. Thus you will
divert the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have
the merit of saving the principality of Otranto from destruc-
tion. You are a prudent man; and, though the warmth of
my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I
honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the re-
pose of my life and the preservation of my family."
"The will of heaven be done \" said the friar. "I am but
its worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue, to tell


OF OTRANTO. 53
thee, prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The injuries of
the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity.
By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of
repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to pursue thine
incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven, that
delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments, so recently
fallen on thy house, ought to have inspired thee with other
thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor
and despised friar, am able to protect her from thy violence.
I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your highness,
as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the allure-
ments with which it has pleased thee to tempt my honesty. I
love my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of
thy princess; but will not betray the confidence she reposes in
me, nor serve even the cause of religion by foul and sinful
compliances; but, forsooth! the welfare of the state depends
on your highness having a son! Heaven mocks the short-
sighted views of man. But yester-mom, whose house was so
great, so flourishing as Manfred's? Where is young Conrad
now! My lord I respect your tears, but I mean not to check
them: let them flow, prince: they will weigh more with hea-
ven, toward the welfare of thy subjects, than a marriage, which,
founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The sceptre,
<C_
G 2


54 THE CASTLE
which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be pre-
served by a match which the church will never allow. If it
is the will of the Most High that Manfred's name must
perish, resign yourself, my lord, to its decrees: and thus de-
serve a crown that can never pass away. Come, my lord; I
like this sorrow; let us return to the princess: she is not ap-
prised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to
alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what
efforts of love, she heard, she rejected hearing the extent of
your guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms, and as-
sure you of her unalterable affection." "Father," said the
prince, " you mistake my compunction: true; I honour Hip-
polita's virtues; I think her a saint; and wish it were for my
soul's health to tie faster the knot that has united us—but
alas! father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs. It is
some time that I have had scruples on the legality of our
union: Hippolita is related to me in the fourth degree. It is
true, we had a dispensation; but I have been informed that
she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits
heavy at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute
the visitation that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!
Ease my conscience of this burden: dissolve our marriage, and


OF OTRANTO. 55
accomplish the work of godliness which your divine exhorta-
tions have commenced in my soul."
How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt,
when he perceived this turn in the wily prince! He trembled
for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was determined; and he
feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that his
impatience for a son would direct him to some other object,
who might not be equally proof against the temptation of
Manfred's rank. For some time the holy man remained ab-
sorbed in thought. At length, conceiving some hopes from
delay, he thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the
prince from despairing of recovering Isabella. Her, the friar
knew he could dispose, from her affection to Hippolita, and
from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred's ad-
dresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church
could be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention,
as if struck with the prince's scruples, he at length said; "my
lord, I have been pondering on what your highness has said:
and if, in truth, it is delicacy of conscience that is the real mo-
tive of your repugnance to your virtuous lady, far be it from
me to endeavour to harden your heart. The church is an in-
dulgent mother: unfold your griefs to her: she alone can ad-
minister comfort to your soul, either by satisfying your con-


56 THE CASTLE
science, or, upon examination of your scruples, by setting you
at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of continu-
ing your lineage. In the latter case, if the lady Isabella can
"be brought to consent"—Manfred, who concluded that he
had either over-reached the good man, or that his first warmth
had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed at
his sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises,
if he should succeed by the friar's mediation. The well-
meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully deter-
mined to traverse his views, instead of seconding them.
"Since we now understand one another," resumed the
prince, " I expect, father, that you satisfy me in one point.
Who is the youth that I found in the vault? He must have
been privy to Isabella's flight; tell me truly; is he her lover?
or is he an agent for another's passion? I have often suspect-
ed Isabella's indifference to my son: a thousand circumstances
crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself
was so conscious of it, that, while I discoursed with her, in the
gallery, she outran my suspicions, and endeavoured to justify
herself from coolness to Conrad." The friar, who knew no-
thing of the youth, but what he had learnt occasionally from
V^the princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not suffi-
ciently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred's temper,


OF OTRANTO. 57
conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jea-
lousy in his mind: they might be turned to some use hereaf-
ter, either by prejudicing the prince against Isabella, if he per-
sisted in that union; or, by diverting his attention to a wrong
scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue, pre-
vent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy
policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the
belief of some connection between Isabella and the youth.
The prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them
into a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the friar had
suggested. "I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue;"
cried he; and quitting Jerome abruptly, with a command to
remain there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of
the castle, and ordered the peasant to be brought before him.
"Thou hardened young impostor \" said the prince, as soon
as he saw the youth; "what becomes of thy boasted veracity
now? it was Providence, was it, and the light of the moon,
that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee 2 Tell me,
audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been
acquainted with the princess—and take care to answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall
wring the truth from thee." The young man, perceiving that
his share in the flight of the princess was discovered, and con-


58 THE CASTLE
eluding that any thing he should say, could no longer be of
service or detriment to her, replied, "I am no impostor, my
lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I answered
to every question, your highness put to me last night, with the
same veracity that I shall speak now; and that will not be
from fear of your tortures, but because my soul abhors a false-
hood. Please to repeat your questions, my lord; I am ready
to give you all the satisfaction in my power." "You know
my questions," replied the prince, "and only want time to
prepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how
long hast thou been known to the princess?" "I am a la-
bourer at the next village," said the peasant; my name is
Theodore. The princess found me in the vault last night;
before that hour I never was in her presence." I may believe
as much, or as little as I please of this;" said Manfred; "but
I will hear thy own story, before I examine into the truth of it.
Tell me what reason did the princess give thee for making her
escape? thy life depends on thy answer." "She told me,"
replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink of destruction,
and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in
danger, in a few moments, of being made miserable for ever."
"And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report," said
Manfred, "thou didst hazard my displeasure?" "I fear no


OF OTRANTO. 59
man's displeasure," said Theodore, "when a woman in dis-
tress puts herself under my protection." During this exami-
nation, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita.
At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a board-
ed gallery with latticed windows, through which Matilda and
Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father's voice, and seeing
the servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the
occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention; the steady
and composed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry \
of his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinct-
ly, interested her in his favour. His person was noble, hand-
some, and commanding, even in that situation; but his coun-
tenance soon engrossed her whole care. "Heavens! Bianca!"
said the princess softly, " do I dream? or is not that youth the
exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery?" She
could say no more, for her father's voice grew louder at every
word. "This bravado," said he, " surpasses all thy former in-
solence. Thou shalt experience the wrath with which thou
darest to trifle. Seize him," continued Manfred, "and bind
him: the first news the princess hears of her champion shall
be, that he has lost his head for her sake." "The injustice of
which thou art guilty towards me," said Theodore, " convinces
me that I have done a good deed, in delivering the princess
H


THE CASTLE
from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of
me!" "This is a lover!" cried Manfred in a rage: "a peasant
within sight of death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell
me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack shall force thy
secret from thee." "Thou hast threatened me with death al-
ready," said the youth, " for the truth I have told thee: if that
is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am
not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther." "Then
thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred. "I will not," replied
he. "Bear him away into the court-yard," said Manfred:
"I will see his head this instant severed from his body." Ma-
tilda fainted at hearing these words. Bianca shrieked, and
cried, " Help! help! the princess is dead!" Manfred started
at this ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter? The
young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror, and
asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him
to be hurried into the court, and kept there for execution, till
he had informed himself of the cause of Bianca's shrieks.
When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish
panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment,
he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his guards, bad
Theodore kneel down and prepare to receive the fatal blow.


OF OTRANTO. 6l
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a
resignation that touched every heart but Manfred's. He wish-
ed earnestly to know the meaning of the words he had heard
relating to the princess; but fearing to exasperate the tyrant
more against her, he desisted. The only boon he deigned to
ask, was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and v
make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped, by the
confessor's means, to come at the youth's history, readily grant-
ed his request: and being convinced that father Jerome was
now in his interest, he ordered him to be called and shrieve
the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the ca-
tastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to
the prince, and adjured him, in the most solemn manner, not
to shed innocent blood. He accused himself, in the bitterest
terms, for his indiscretion, endeavoured to exculpate the
youth, and left no method untried to soften the tyrant's rage.
Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's interces-
sion, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been im-
posed upon by both, commanded the friar to do his duty, tel-
ling him he would not allow the prisoner many minutes for
confession. "Nor do I ask many, my lord;" said the un-
happy young man. "My sins, thank heaven! have not been
numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at my years.
H 2,


62 THE CASTLE
-■i.
Dry your tears, good father, and let us dispatch: this is a bad
world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret." "Oh!
wretched youth!" said Jerome; "how canst thou bear the
sight of me with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have
brought this dismal hour upon thee." "I forgive thee from
my soul," said the youth, "as I hope heaven will pardon
me. Hear my confession, father; and give me thy blessing."
"How can I prepare thee for thy passage, as I ought?" said
Jerome. "Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy
foes—and can'st thou forgive that impious man there T "I
can;" said Theodore; "I do." "And does not this touch
thee? cruel prince!" said the friar. "I sent for thee to con-
fess him," said Manfred sternly; "not to plead for him. Thou
didst first incense me against him; his blood be upon thy
head!" " It will! it will!" said the good man, in an agony of
sorrow. "Thou and I must never hope to go where this bles-
sed youth is going!" "Dispatch!" said Manfred: "I am no
more to be moved by the whining of priests, than by the
shrieks of women." "What!" said the youth; "is it possi-
ble that my fate could have occasioned what I heard! is the
princess then again in thy power?" "Thou dost but remember
me of my wrath," said Manfred: "prepare thee, for this mo-
ment is thy last." The youth, who felt his indignation rise,


OF OTRANTO. 63
and who was touched with the sorrow which he saw he had
infused into all the spectators, as well as into the friar, sup-
pressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbut-
toning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped,
his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the
mark of a bloody arrow. "Gracious heaven!" cried the holy /
man, starting, "what do I see! It is my child! my Theodore!" dThe passions that ensued, must be conceived; they cannot
be painted. The tears of the assistants were suspended by
wonder, rather than stopped by joy. They seemed to inquire
into the eyes of their lord what they ought to feel. Surprize,
doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the coun-
tenance of the youth. He received, with modest submission,
the effusion of the old man's tears and embraces; yet, afraid
of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting, from what had pas-
sed, the inflexibility of Manfred's temper, he cast a glance to-
wards the prince, as if to say, canst thou be unmoved at such
a scene as this?
Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot
his anger in his astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning
himself affected. He even doubted whether this discovery
was not a contrivance of the friar to save the youth. "What
may this mean?" said he: "how can he be thy son? is it


64 THE CASTLE
consistent with thy profession, or reputed sanctity, to avow a
peasant's offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours?"
"Oh! God," said the holy- man, "dost thou question his be-
ing mine? could I feel the anguish I do, if I were not his fa-
ther? Spare him! good prince, spare him! and revile me as
thou pleasest." "Spare him! spare him!" cried the attend-
ants, "for this good man's sake!" "Peace \" said Manfred,
sternly: "I must know more, ere I am disposed to pardon.
A saint's bastard may be no saint himself." "Injurious lord \"
said Theodore; "add not insult to cruelty. If I am this ve-
nerable man's son, though no prince, as thou art, know, the
blood that flows in my veins"—" Yes," said the friar, inter-
rupting him, " his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing,
my lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son; and Sicily
can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara—
but alas! my lord, what is blood! what is nobility! we are all
reptiles, miserable, sinful, creatures. It is piety alone that can
distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whether
we must return." "Truce to your sermon," said Manfred:
"you forget, you are no longer friar Jerome, but the Count^of
Falconara. Let me know your history; you will have time
enough to moralize hereafter, if you should not happen to ob-
tain the grace of that sturdy criminal there." "Mother of


OF OTRANTO. 65
God!" said the friar, "is it possible my lord can refuse a fa-
ther the life of his only, his long-lost child! Trample me, my
lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my
son!" "Thou canst feel then," said Manfred, "whatjt is to
lose an only son! a little hour ago, thou didst preach up resig-
nation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must perish—but
the Count of Falconara"—" Alas! my lord," said Jerome, " I
confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old man's suf-
ferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities:
it is nature that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the
dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?"
"Her soul has long been with the blessed," said Theodore.
"Oh! how?" cried Jerome, "tell me—no—she is happy!
Thou art all my care now! Most dread lord! will you—will
you grant me my poor boy's life?" "Return to thy convent;"
answered Manfred; "conduct the princess hither; obey me
in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy
son." "Oh! my lord," said Jerome, "is my honesty the
price I must pay for this dear youth's safety?" "For me!"
cried Theodore: "let me die a thousand deaths, rather than -
stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of
thee? is the princess still safe from his power? protect her,
thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath


66 THE CASTLE
fall on me." Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of
the youth; and ere Manfred could reply, the trampling of
horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung without
the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same
instant, the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still
remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously
agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible
wearer.


OP OTRANTO. 67
CHAP. III.
JManfred's heart misgave him, when he beheld the plumage
on the miraculous casque shaken in concert with the sounding
of the brazen trumpet. "Father!" said he to Jerome, whom
he now ceased to treat as Count of Falconara, "what mean
these portents? If I have offended"—the plumes were shaken
with greater violence than before. "Unhappy prince that I
am!" cried Manfred: "Holy father! will you not assist me
with your prayers?" "My lord," replied Jerome, "heaven is
no doubt displeased with your mockery of its servants. Sub-
mit yourself to the church; and cease to persecute her mini-
sters. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to respect the
holy character I wear: heaven will not be trifled with: you
see"—the trumpet sounded again. "I acknowledge I have
been too hasty;" said Manfred. "Father, do you go to the
wicket, and demand who is at the gate." "Do you grant me
the life of Theodore?" replied the friar. "I do," said Man-
fred; "but inquire who is without!"
I


68 THE CASTLE
•
Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of
tears that spoke the fulness of his soul. "You promised to go
to the gate," said Manfred. "I thought," replied the friar,
"your highness would excuse my thanking you first in this
tribute of my heart." "Go, dearest sir," said Theodore;
"obey the prince—I do not deserve that you should delay his
satisfaction for me."
Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, a herald.
"From whom?' said he. "From the knight of the gigantic
sabre;" said the herald; " and I must speak with the usurper
of Otranto." Jerome returned to the prince, and did not fail
to repeat the message, in the very words it had been uttered.
The first sounds struck Manfred with terror; but when he
heard himself stiled usurper, his rage re-kindled, and all his
courage revived. "Usurper! insolent villain!" cried he,
"who dares to question my title? Retire, father; this is no
business for monks: I will meet this presumptuous man my-
self. Go to your convent, and prepare the princess's return:
your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: his life depends
on your obedience." "Good heaven! my lord," cried Jerome,
"your highness did but this instant freely pardon my child—
have you so soon forgot the interposition of heaven?" "Hea-
ven," replied Manfred, " does not send heralds to question the


OF OTRANTO. . 69
title of a lawful prince; I doubt whether it even notifies its
will through friars—but that is your affair, not mine. At pre-
sent you know my pleasure; and it is not a saucy herald that
shall save your son, if you do not return with the princess."
It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred com-
manded him to be conducted to the postern gate, and shut
out from the castle: and he ordered some of his attendants to
carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard him
strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange a
hasty embrace at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and,
seating himself in princely state, ordered the herald to be ad-
mitted to his presence.
"Well! thou insolent!" said the prince, "what wouldst
thou with me?" "I come," replied he, "to thee, Manfred,
usurper of the principality of Otranto, from the renowned and
invincible knight, the knight of the gigantic sabre: in the name
of his lord, Frederic Marquis of Vicenza, he demands the lady
Isabella, daughter of that prince, whom thou hast basely, and
traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians
during his absence; and he requires thee to resign the princi-
pality of Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord
Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last rightful lord, Alfonso
the good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these just
I 2


70 THE CASTLE
demands, he defies thee to single combat to the last extremity."
And so saying, the herald cast down his warder.
"And where is this braggart, who sends thee?" said Man-
fred. "At the distance of a league," said the herald: "he
comes to make good his lord's claim against thee, as he is a
true knight, and thou an usurper and ravisher."
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it
was not his interest to provoke the Marquis. He knew how
well founded the claim of Frederic was; nor was this the first
time he had heard of it. Frederic's ancestors had assumed
the stile of princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the
good without issue: but Manfred, his father, and grandfather,
had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess
them. Frederic, a martial and amorous young prince, had
married a beautiful young lady of whom he was enamoured,
and who had died in child-bed of Isabella. Her death affect-
ed him so much, that he had taken the cross, and gone to the
holy land, where he was wounded in an engagement against
the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. When
the news reached Manfred's ears, he bribed the guardians of
the lady Isabella to deliver her up to him, as a bride for his son
Conrad, by which alliance he had proposed to unite the claims
of the two houses. This motive, on Conrad's death, had
/


OF OTRANTO. 71
co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on espousing her
himself; and the same reflection determined him now to en-
deavour at obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage.
A like policy inspired him with the thought of inviting Fre-
deric's champion into his castle, lest he should be informed of
Isabella's flight, which he strictly enjoined his domestics not
to disclose to any of the knight's retinue.
"Herald," said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these
reflections, "return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liqui-
date our differences by the sword, Manfred would hold some
converse with him. Bid him welcome to my castle, where, by
my faith, as I am a. true knight, he shall have courteous recep-
tion, and full security for himself and followers. If we can-
not adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall de-
part in safety, and shall have full satisfaction, according to the
laws of arms: so help me God, and his holy Trinity \" The
herald made three obeisances and retired.
During this interview, Jerome's mind was agitated by a
thousand contrary passions. He trembled for the life of his
son, and his first thought was, to persuade Isabella to return to
the castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at the thought of
her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita's unbounded
submission to the will of her lord; and though he did not


72 THE CASTLE
doubt but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce,
if he could get access to her; yet, should Manfred discover
that the obstruction came from him, it might be equally fatal
to Theodore. He was impatient to know whence came the
herald, who, with so little management, had questioned the
title of Manfred: yet he did not dare absent himself from the
convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be im-
puted to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery,
uncertain on what conduct to resolve. A monk, who met
him in the porch, and observed his melancholy air, said,
"Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent
^princess Hippolita?" The holy man started, and cried, " What
meanest thou, brother? I come this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health." "Martelli," replied the other
friar, "passed by the convent, but a quarter of an hour ago, on
his way from the castle, and reported that her highness was
dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her
happy transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival.
They know thy holy attachment to that good lady, and are
anxious for the affliction it will cause in thee; indeed we have
all reason to weep; she was a mother to our house; but this
life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur; we shall all
follow her! may our end be like her's \" "Good brother, thou
&


OF OTRANTO. 73
dreamest," said Jerome: "I tell thee I come from the castle,
and left the princess well. Where is the lady Isabella?" "Poor
gentlewoman!" replied the friar; "I told her the sad news,
and offered her spiritual comfort; I reminded her of the tran-
sitory condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil:
I quoted the example of the holy princess Sanchia of Arra-
gon." "Thy zeal was laudable," said Jerome, impatiently;
"but at present it was unnecessary: Hippolita is well; at
least I trust in the lord she is; I heard nothing to the contra-
ry 5 yet, methinks, the prince's earnestness—well, brother, but
where is the lady Isabella?" "I know not:" said the friar:
"she wept much, and said she would retire to her chamber."
Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the prin-
cess, but she was not in her chamber. He enquired of the
domestics of the convent, but could learn no news of her.
He searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church,
and dispatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get
intelligence if she had been seen; but to no purpose. No-
thing could equal the good man's perplexity. He judged that
Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitated his wife's
death, had taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to some
more secret place of concealment. This new flight would
probably carry the prince's fury to the height. The report
L_


74 THE CASTLE
of Hippolita's death, though it seemed almost incredible,
increased his consternation; and though Isabella's escape be-
spoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jerome could
feel no comfort from it, while it endangered the •life of his son.
He determined to return to the castle, and made several of his
brethren accompany him, to attest his innocence to Manfred,
and, if necessary, join their intercessions with his for Theodore.
The prince, in the mean time, had passed into the court,
and ordered the gates of the castle to be flung open, for the re-
ception of the stranger knight and his train. In a few minutes
the cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers with wands.
Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpeters.
Then an hundred foot guards. These were attended by as
many horse. After them fifty footmen, cloathed in scarlet
and black, the colours of the knight. Then a led horse.
Two heralds on each side of a gentleman on horseback, bear-
ing a banner, with the arms of Vicenza and Otranto quarterly;
a circumstance that much offended Manfred, but he stifled
his resentment. Two more pages. The knight's confessor,
telling his beads. Fifty more footmen, clad as before. Two
knights, habited in complete armour, their beavers down, com-
rades to the principal knight. The squires of the two knights,
carrying their shields and devices. The knight's own squire.


OF OTRANTO. 75
An hundred gentlemen, bearing an enormous sword, and seem-
ly
ing to faint under the weight of it. The knight himself on a
chesnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his
face entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted
by a large plume of scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-
guards, with drums and trumpets, closed the procession, which
wheeled off to the right and left, to make room for the princi-
pal knight.
As soon as he approached the gate, he stopped; and the
herald advancing, read again the words of the challenge.
Manfred's eyes were fixed on the gigantic sword, and he
scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his attention was
soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him.
He turned and beheld the plumes of the enchanted helmet, k
agitated in the same extraordinary manner as before. It re-
quired intrepidity like Manfred's not to sink under a concur-
rence of circumstances, that seemed to announce his fate. Yet *
scorning, in the presence of strangers, to betray the courage he
had always manifested, he said boldly, "Sir knight, whoever
thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal mould,
thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true knight,
thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be
these omens from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the
K


76 THE CASTLE
righteousness of his cause, and to the aid of St Nicholas, who
has ever protected his house. Alight, Sir knight, and repose
thyself: to-morrow thou shalt have a fair field; and heaven
befriend the juster side!"
The knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted
by Manfred to the great hall of the castle. As they traversed
the court, the knight stopped to gaze on the miraculous
casque; and, kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly for
some minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the prince to lead
on. As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to
the stranger to disarm, but the knight shook his head in token
of refusal. "Sir knight," said Manfred, "this is not cour-
teous; but, by my good faith, I will not cross thee; nor shalt
thou have cause to complain of the prince of Otranto. No
treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is intended on
thine; here, take my gage (giving him his ring); your friends
and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here, until
refreshments are brought: I will but give orders for the ac-
commodation of your train, and return to you." The three
knights bowed, as accepting his courtesy. Manfred directed
the stranger's retinue to be conducted to an adjacent hospital,
founded by the princess Hippolita for the reception of pil-
grims. As they made the circuit of the court to return to-


78 THE CASTLE
and was rising from the board—" Sir knight," said Manfred,
"what I said was but in sport: I shall constrain you in no
thing; use your good liking. Since mirth is not your mood,
let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better: let us
withdraw; and hear if what I have to unfold, may be better
relished, than the vain efforts I have made for your pastime."
Manfred, then conducting the three knights into an inner
chamber, shut the door, and inviting them to be seated, began
thus, addressing himself to the chief personage.
/f « you come, Sir knight, as I understand, in the name of
the Marquis of Vicenza, to re-demand the lady Isabella, his
daughter, who has been contracted, in the face of holy church,
to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians; and to re-
quire me to resign my dominions to your lord, who gives him-
self for the nearest of blood to prince Alfonso, whose soul God
rest! I shall speak to the latter article of your demands first.
You must know—your lord knows, that I enjoy the principa-
lity of Otranto from my father Don Manuel, as he received it
from his father Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dy-
ing childless in the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my
grandfather Don Ricardo, in consideration of his faithful ser-
vices." The stranger shook his head—" Sir knight," said Man-
fred, warmly, "Ricardo was a valiant and upright man; he


OF OTRANTO. 79
was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the
adjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly pa-
tronised by St Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I
say, sir, Don Ricardo was incapable—excuse me, your inter-
ruption has disordered me. I venerate the memory of my
grandfather—well! Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by his
good sword, and by the favour of St Nicholas—so did my fa-
ther; and so, sirs, will I, come what come will—but Frederic,
your lord, is nearest in blood—I have consented to put my title
to the issue of the sword—does that imply a vicious title? I
might have asked, where is Frederic your lord? Report speaks
him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he lives—I
question it not—I might, sirs, I might, but I do not. Other
princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if, he
can; they would not stake their dignity on a single combat—
they would not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes—
pardon me, gentlemen, I am too warm; but suppose your-
selves in my situation; as ye are stout knights, would it not
move your choler, to have your own, and the honour of your
ancestors, called in question? but to the point. Ye require me
to deliver up the lady Isabella—Sirs, I must ask if ye are au-
thorised to receive hej>r The knight nodded. "Receive
her," continued Manfred; "well! you are authorised to


80 THE CASTLE
■v.
receive her; but, gentle knight, may I ask if you have full
powers?" The knight nodded. "Tis well," said Manfred;
"then hear what I have to offer: ye see, gentlemen, before
you, the most unhappy of men! (he began to weep) afford me
your compassion; I am entitled to it; indeed I am. Know,
I have lost my only hope, my joy, the support of my house—
Conrad died yester-morning." The knights discovered signs
of surprise. "Yes, sirs, fate has disposed of my son; Isabella
is at liberty"—" Do you then restore her?" cried the chief
knight, breaking silence. "Afford me your patience," said
Manfred. ** I rejoice to find, by this testimony of your good
will, that this matter may be adjusted without blood. It is
no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to say.
Ye behold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of
my son has weaned me from earthly cares. Power and great-
ness have no longer any charms in my eyes. I wished to trans-
mit the sceptre I had received from my ancestors with honour
to my son—but that is over! life itself is so indifferent to me,
that I accepted your defiance with joy: a good knight cannot
go to the grave with more satisfaction, than when falling in his
vocation: whatever is the will of heaven, I submit; for, alas!
sirs, I am a man of many sorrows. Manfred is no object of
envy—but no doubt you are acquainted with my story." The


OF OTRANTO. 81
knight made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to have
Manfred proceed. "Is it possible, sirs," continued the prince,
"that my story should be a secret to you? have you heard no-
thing relating to me and the princess Hippolita?" They shook
their heads. "No! thus then, sirs, it is. You think me am-
bitious: ambition, alas! is composed of more rugged mate-
rials. If I were ambitious, I should not, for so many years,
have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious scruples—but
I weary your patience: I will be brief. Know then, that I
have long been troubled in mind on my union with the prin-
cess Hippolita. Oh! sirs, if ye were acquainted with that ex-
cellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like a mistress,
and cherish her as a friend—but man was not born for perfect
happiness! she shares my scruples, and, with her consent, I
have brought this matter before the church, for we are related
within the forbidden degrees. I expect every hour the defini-
tive sentence that must separate us for ever—I am sure you
feel for me—I see you do—pardon these tears!" The knights
gazed on each other, wondering where this would end. Man-
fred continued: "The death of my son betiding, while my
soul was under this anxiety, I thought of nothing but resigning
my dominions, and retiring for ever from the sight of mankind.
My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would be
2/


82 OF OTRANTO.
tender of my people, and to dispose of the lady Isabella, who is
dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore the line
of Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred: and though, par-
don me, I am satisfied it was his will, that Ricardo's lineage
should take place of his own relations; yet where was I to
search for those relations? I knew of none but Frederic your
lord; he was a captive to the infidels, or dead; and were he
living, and at home, would he quit the flourishing state of Vi-
cenza, for the inconsiderable principality of Otranto? if he
would not, could I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeel-
ing viceroy set over my poor faithful people? for, sirs, I love
my people, and, thank heaven, am beloved by them: but ye
will ask, whither tends this long discourse? briefly then, thus,
sirs. Heaven, in your arrival, seems to point out a remedy for
those difficulties and my misfortunes. The lady Isabella is at
liberty; I shall soon be so. I would submit to any thing for
the good of my people—were it not the best, the only way to
extinguish the feuds between our families, if I was to take the
lady Isabella to wife—you start—but, though Hippolita's vir-
tues will ever be dear to me, a prince must not consider him-
self; he is born for his people." A servant at that instant en-
tering the chamber, apprised Manfred that Jerome and several
of his brethren demanded immediate access to him.


84 THE CASTLE
could determine how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trem-
bled for his son's life, did not dare to contradict this false-
hood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety,
declared, frankly, that she had fled to their church in the pre-
ceding night. The prince, in vain, endeavoured to stop this
discovery, which overwhelmed him with shame and confusion.
The principal stranger, amazed at the contradictions he heard,
and more than half persuaded that Manfred had secreted the
princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her
flight, rushing to the door, said, " Thou traitor prince! Isa-
bella shall be found." Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but
the other knights assisting their comrade, he broke from
the prince, and hastened into the court, demanding his at-
tendants. Manfred, finding it in vain to divert him from
the pursuit, offered to accompany him, and summoning his
attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the friars to guide
them, they issued from the castle; Manfred privately giving
orders to have the knight's company secured, while to the
knight he affected to dispatch a messenger to require their
assistance.
The company had no sooner quitted the castle, than Ma-
tilda, who felt herself deeply interested for the young peasant,
since she had seen him condemned to death in the hall, and
11


OF OTRANTO. 85
whose thoughts had been taken up with concerting measures
to save him, was informed by some of the female attendants,
that Manfred had dispatched all his men various ways in pur-
suit of Isabella. He had, in his hurry, given this order in ge-
neral terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set
upon Theodore, but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to
obey so peremptory a prince, and urged by their own curiosity,
and love of novelty, to join in any precipitate chace, had, to a
man, left the castle. Matilda disengaged herself from her wo-
men, stole up to the black tower, and unbolting the door, pre- i
sented herself to the astonished Theodore. "Young man,"
said she, "though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn
the step I am taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other
ties, justifies this act. Fly, the doors of thy prison are open:
my father and his domestics are absent, but they may soon
return; be gone in safety, and may the angels of heaven di-
rect thy course I"—" Thou art surely one of those angels I"
said the enraptured Theodore: "none but a blessed saint
could speak, could act, could look, like thee !—May I not
know the name of my divine protectress? Methought thou
namedst thy father: is it possible? can Manfred's blood feel
holy pity ?—Lovely lady, thou answerest not—but how art
thou here thyself? why dost thou neglect thy own safety, and


80 THE CASTLE
waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore? Let us fly toge-
ther: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy de-
fence."—" Alas! thou mistakest," said Matilda, sighing; "I
am Manfred's daughter, but no dangers await me."—■" Amaze-
ment \" said Theodore; "but last night I blessed myself for
yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charita*
bly returns me now."—a Still thou art in an error," said the
princess; but this is no time for explanation. Fly, virtuous
youth, while it is in my power to save thee: should my father
return, thou and I both should, indeed, have cause to trem-
ble."—" How," said Theodore, *' thinkest thou, charming
maid, that I will accept of life at the hazard of aught calami-
tous to thee? better I endured a thousand deaths."—" I run
no risk," said Matilda, " but by thy delay. Depart, it cannot
be known that I assisted thy flight."—" Swear by the saints
above," said Theodore, "that thou canst not be suspected;
else here I vow to await whatever can befal me."—" Oh!
thou art too generous," said Matilda, "but rest assured that
no suspicion can alight on me."—" Give me thy beauteous
hand, in token that thou dost not deceive me," said Theodore
»
"and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude."—
"Forbear," said the princess, "this must not be."—" Alas!"
said Theodore, "I have never known but calamity until this


88 THE CASTLE
to the sanctuary."—" To sanctuary," said Theodore, " no,
princess, sanctuaries are for helpless damsels, or for criminals.
Theodore's soul is free from guilt, nor will wear the appear-
ance of it. Give me a sword, lady, and thy father shall
learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight' s Rash
youth!" said Matilda, " thou wouldst not dare to lift thy pre-
sumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto ?"—" Not
against thy father, indeed, I dare not;" said Theodore, "ex-
cuse me, lady, I had forgotten—but could I gaze on thee, and
remember thou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred ?—but he
! is thy father, and, from this moment, my injuries are buried in
'oblivion." A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come
from above, startled the princess and Theodore. "Good hea-
ven! we are overheard \" said the princess. They listened,
but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the ef-
- , feet of pent-up vapours; and the princess, preceding Theo-
dore softly, carried him to her father's armoury, where, equip-
ping him with a complete suit, he was conducted by Matilda
to the postern gate. "Avoid the town," said the princess,
"and all the western side of the castle: 'tis there the search
must be making by Manfred and the strangers: but hie thee
to the opposite quarter. Yonder, behind that forest, to the
east, is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns,


OF OTRANTO. 89
that reach to the sea-coast. There thou mayest lie concealed,
till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore and
take thee off. Go; heaven be thy guide I.-.. and sometimes in
thy prayers remember—Matilda!" Theodore flung himself at
her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with struggles she
suffered him to kiss, he vowed, on the earliest opportunity, to
get himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission
to swear himself eternally her knight.—Ere the princess could
reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly heard, that shook the
battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest, would have
urged his suit; but the princess, dismayed, retreated hastily
into the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone, with an
air that would not be disobeyed. He sighed, and retired, but
with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an
end to an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk
so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the first
time.
Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his
father with his deliverance.—There he learned the absence of
Jerome, and the pursuit that was making after the Lady Isa-
bella, with some particulars of whose story he now first be-
came acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature
prompted him to wish to assist her; but the monks could


OF OTRANTO. $1
"lax,A v
■ •_
to be infested by robbers than by those infernal agents who
are reported to molest and bewilder travellers. He had long
burned with impatience to approve his valour—drawing his
sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing his steps,
as the imperfect rustling sound before him led the way. The
armour he wore was a like indication to the person who
avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he was not mis-
taken, redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the per-
son that fled, whose haste increasing, Theodore came up just
as a woman fell breathless before him. He hastened to raise her,
but her terror was so great, that he apprehended she would
faint in his arms. He used every gentle word to dispel her
alarms, and assured her, that, far from injuring, he would de-
fend her at the peril of his life. The lady, recovering her
spirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her pro-
tector, said, "Suva I have heard that ^oice before 1"—" Not
to my knowledge," replied Theodore, " unless, as I con-
jecture, thou art the Lady Isabella."—" Merciful heaven!"
cried she, "thou art not sent in quest of me, art thou?" and
saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, and besought
him not to deliver her up to Manfred. "To Manfred I" cried
Theodore—" no, lady; I have once already delivered thee
from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I
M


92 THE CASTLE
place thee out of the reach of his daring."—" Is it possible,"
said she, " that thou shouldst be the generous unknown whom
I met last night in the vault of the castle ? Sure thou art not a
mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees let me thank", —" Hold, gentle princess," said Theodore, " nor demean thy-
self before a poor and friendless young man/ If heaven has
selected me for thy deliverer, it will accomplish its work, and
strengthen my arm in thy cause—but come, lady, we are too
near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its inmost recesses:
I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee beyond the
reach of danger."—" Alas i what mean you, sir?" said she.
"Though all your actions are noble, though your sentiments
speak the purity of your soul, is it fitting that I should ac-
company you alone into these perplexed retreats? should we
j be found together, what would a censorious world think of
■'/\ my conduct ?"—" I respect your virtuous delicacy," said
Theodore; "nor do you harbour a suspicion that wounds my
honour, I meant to conduct you into the most private cavity
of these rocks, and then, at the hazard of my life, to guard
their entrance against every living thing. Besides, lady," con-
tinued he, drawing a deep sigh, " beauteous and all-perfect as
your form is, and though my wishes are not guiltless of aspi-
ring, know, my soul is dedicated to another; and although"
v ,


OF OTRANTO. 93
a sudden noise prevented Theodore from proceeding. They
soon distinguished these sounds, " Isabella! what ho! Isa-
bella !"—the trembling princess relapsed into her former agony
of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain.
He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return
under Manfred's power; and, begging her to remain conceal-
ed, he went forth to prevent the person in search of her from
approaching.
At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed knight, dis-
coursing with a peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady
enter the passes of the rock. The knight was preparing to
seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in his way, with his
sword drawn, sternly forbade him, at his peril, to advance.
"And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?" said the
knight, haughtily. '* One who does not dare more than he
will perform," said Theodore. "I seek the Lady Isabella,"
said the knight, " and understand she has taken refuge among
these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent having pro-
voked my resentment." "Thy purpose is as odious as thy re-
sentment is contemptible," said Theodore. "Return whence
thou eamest, or we shall soon know whose resentment is most
terrible." The stranger, who was the principal knight that had
arrived from the Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from


94 THECASTLE
Manfred as he was busied in getting information of the prin-
cess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the
power of the three knights. Their chief had suspected Man-
fred of being privy to the princess's absconding; and this in-
sult from a man, who, he concluded, was stationed by that
prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no
reply, but discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore,
would soon have removed all obstruction, if Theodore, who
took him for one of Manfred's captains, and who had no
sooner given the provocation than prepared to support it, had
not received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so
long been smothered in his breast, broke forth at once; he
rushed impetuously on the knight, whose pride and wrath
were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds. The com-
bat was furious, but not long: Theodore wounded the knight
in three several places, and at last disarmed him, as he fainted
by the loss of blood. The peasant, who had fled on the first
onset, had given the alarm to some of Manfred's domestics,
who, by his orders, were dispersed through the forest, in pur-
suit of Isabella. They came up as the knight fell, whom they
soon discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwith-
standing his hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory
he had gained; without emotions of pity and generosity: but


OF OTR.ANTO. 95
he was more touched when he learned the quality of his ad-
versary, and was informed that he was no retainer, but an ene-
my of Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter in dis-
arming the knight, and in endeavouring to staunch the blood
that flowed from his wounds. The knight, recovering his
speech, said, in a faint and faultering voice, "Generous foe,
we have both been in an error: I took thee for an instrument
of the tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake—it
is too late for excuses—I faint—if Isabella is at hand—call her
—I have important secrets to"—" He is dying!" said one of
the attendants; "has nobody a crucifix about them? An-
drea, do thou pray over him." —" Fetch some water," said
Theodore, " and pour it down his throat, while I hasten to
the princess."—Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and, in few
words, told her, modestly, that he had been so unfortunate,
by mistake, as to wound a gentleman from her father's court,
who wished, ere he died, to impart something of consequence
to her.—The princess, who had been transported at hearing
the voice of Theodore, as he called her to come forth, was
astonished at what she heard. Suffering herself to be con-
ducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled
her dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding knight lay
speechless on the ground—but her fears returned, when she


QQ THE CASTLE
beheld the domestics of Manfred. She would again have fled,
if Theodore had not made her observe that they were unarm-
ed, and had not threatened them with instant death, if they
should dare to seize the princess. The stranger opening his
eyes, and, beholding a woman, said,—" Art thou—pray, tell
me truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza ?"—" I am," said she;
"Good heaven restore thee \"—" Then thou—then thou"—
said the knight, struggling for utterance—" seest—thy father
give me one"—" Oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear!
what do I see!" cried Isabella. "My father! you my fa-
ther! how came you here, sir? for heaven's sake speak !—oh!
run for help, or he will expire !"—" Tis most true," said the
wounded knight, exerting all his force; "lam Frederic, thy
father—yes, I came to deliver thee—It will not be—give me a
parting kiss, and take"—" Sir," said Theodore, "do not ex-
haust yourself: suffer us to convey you to the castle."—" To
the castle!" said Isabella; "is there no help nearer than the
castle? would you expose my father to the tyrant? if he goes
thither, I dare not accompany him—and yet can I leave
him !"—" My child," said Frederic, "it matters not for me
whither I am carried: a few minutes will place me beyond
danger—but while I have eyes to doat on thee, forsake me
not, dear Isabella! This brave knight—I know not who he is,


OF OTRANTO. 97
will protect thy innocence—Sir, you will not abandon my
child, will you ?"—Theodore, shedding tears over his victim,
and vowing to guard the princess at the expence of his life,
persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conducted to the
castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to one of the
domestics, after binding up his wounds as well as they were
able. Theodore marched by his side, and the afflicted Isa-
bella, who could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully
behind.


OF OTRANTO. 99
ed of Frederic the cause of his having taken that mysterious
course for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apo-
logies to excuse her lord for the match contracted between
their children. Frederic, however incensed against Manfred,
was not insensible to the courtesy and benevolence of Hip-
polita: but he was still more struck with the lovely form of
Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bed-side, he inform-
ed Hippolita of his story. He told her, that, while prisoner to
the infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he
had learned no news since his captivity, was detained" in
a castle, where she was in danger of the most dreadful
misfortunes: and that if he obtained his liberty, and repaired
to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed at this
dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it,
his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his
thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his liber-
ty, he received the agreeable news, that the confederate
princes, who were warring in Palestine, had paid his ransom.
He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in his
dream. For three days he and his attendants had wandered
in the forest, without seeing a human form ; but, on the even-
ing of the third, they came to a cell, in which they found a
venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying rich cor-
TH


100 THE CASTLE
dials, they brought the saint-like man to his speech. "My
sons," said he, " I am bounden to your charity—but it is in
vain—I am going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the satis-
faction of performing the will of heaven. When first I repair-
ed to this solitude, after seeing my" country become a prey to
unbelievers—it is, alas! above fifty years since I was witness
to that dreadful scene! St Nicholas appeared to me, and re-
vealed a secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal
man, but on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour,
and ye are, no doubt, the chosen warriors to whom I was or-
dered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye have done the last
offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh tree on
the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh!
good heaven receive my soul!" With those words, the devout
man breathed his last. "By break of day," continued Fre-
deric, "when we had committed the holy relics to earth, we
dug according to direction—but what was our astonishment,
when, about the depth of six feet, we discovered an enormous
sabre—the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade,
which was then partly out of the scabbard, though since
closed by our efforts in removing it, were written the follow-
ing lines—no; excuse me, madam," added the marquis, turn-
ing to Hippolita, " if I forbear to repeat them: I respect


OF OTRANTO: 101
your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your
ear with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you."—He
paused: Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic
was destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to
threaten her house. Looking with anxious fondness at Ma-
tilda, a silent tear stole down her cheek; but recollecting her-
self, she said, "proceed, my lord; heaven does nothing in
vain; mortals must receive its divine behests with lowliness
and submission. It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or bow
to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my lord, we listen re-
signed." Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far.
The dignity and patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him
with respect, and the tender silent affection with which the
princess and her daughter regarded each other, melted him
almost to tears. Yet, apprehensive that his forbearance to
obey would be more alarming, he repeated, in a faultering
and low voice, the following lines :—
Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass'd round;
Alfonso's blood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long restless prince's shade."What is there in these lines," said Theodore impatiently,
"that affects these princesses? why were they to be shocked
11
A


102 THE CASTLE
by a mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation ?"—
"Your words are rude, young man," said the marquis; "and
though fortune has favoured you once"—" My honoured lord,"
said Isabella, who resented Theodore's warmth, which she
perceived was dictated by his sentimeDts for Matilda, "dis-
compose not yourself for the closing of a peasant's son: he
forgets the reverence he owes you; but he is not accustomed"—
Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked
Theodore for his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his
areal; and, changing the conversation, demanded of Frederic
where he had left her lord? As the marquis was going to re-
ply, they heard a noise without, and rising to inquire the
cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met
an imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the
chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towards Frederic's bed,
to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn the cir-
cumstances of the combat, when, starting in an agony of ter-
ror and amazement, he cried, " Ha! what art thou? thou
dreadful spectre! is my hour come ?"—" My dearest, gracious
lord," cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms, "what is it
you see? why do you fix your eye-balls thus ?"—" What!"
cried Manfred, breathless, "dost thou see nothing, Hippo-'
lita? is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone—to me, who


OF OTRANTO. 103
did not"—" For mercy's sweetest self,, my lord," said Hip-
polita, "resume your soul, command your reason. There is
none here but we, your friends."—" What! is not that Al-
fonso?" cried Manfred: "Dost thou not see him? can it be
my brain's delirium ?"—" This! my lord," said Hippolita;
"this is Theodore, the youth who has been so unfortunate"—
"Theodore!" said Manfred, mournfully, and striking his fore-
head—" Theodore, or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul
of Manfred—but how comes he here? and how cqpaes he
in armour ?"—" I believe he went in search of Isabella," said
Hippolita. "Of Isabella!" said Manfred, relapsing into rage
—" yes, yes, that is not doubtful—but how did he escape
from durance in which I left him? was it Isabella, or this hy-
pocritical old friar, that procured his enlargement ?"—" And
would a parent be criminal, my lord," said Theodore, "if he
meditated the deliverance of his child?" Jerome, amazed to
hear himself, in a manner, accused by his son, and without
foundation, knew not what to think. He could not compre-
hend how Theodore had escaped; how he came to be armed,
and to encounter Frederic. Still he would not venture to ask
any questions that might tend to inflame Manfred's wrath
against his son. Jerome's silence convinced Manfred that he
had contrived Theodore's release—" And is it thus, thou un-


104 THE CASTLE
grateful old man," said the prince, addressing himself to the
friar, " that thou repayest mine and Hippolita's bounties?
And, not content with traversing my heart's nearest wishes,
thou armest thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle
to insult me !"—" My lord," said Theodore, " you wrong my
father: nor he nor I are capable of harbouring a thought
against your peace. Is it insolence thus to surrender myself
to your highness's pleasure ?u added, he, laying his sword re-
spec) at Manfred's feet.—" Behold my bosom; strike,
my lord, if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there.
There is not a sentiment engraven on my heart, that does not
venerate you and yours." The grace and fervour with which
Theodore uttered these words, interested every person present
in his favour.—Even Manfred was touched—yet still possess-
ed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed
with secret horror. "Rise," said he; "thy life is not my
present purpose. But tell me thy history, and how thou
eamest connected with this old traitor here."—" My lord,"
said Jerome, eagerly—" Peace, impostor," said Manfred; "I
will not have him prompted."—" My lord," said Theodore,
(( I want no assistance. My story is very brief. I was carried,
at five years of age, to Algiers, with my mother, who had been
taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief


OF OTRANTO. 105
in less than a twelvemonth. [The tears gushed from Jerome's
eyes, on whose countenance a thousand anxious passions
stood expressed.] Before she died," continued Theodore,we "she bound a writing about my arm under my garments,
which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara"—" It is
most true," said Jerome; " I am that wretched father."—
"Again I enjoin thee silence," said Manfred; " proceed."—
"I remained in slavery," said Theodore, "until within these
two years, when attending on my master in his cruizes, I was
delivered by a Christian vessel, which overpowered the pi-
rate; and discovering myself to the captain, he generously
put me on shore in Sicily—but alas! instead of finding a
father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the
coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover,
who had carried my mother and me into captivity; that his
castle had been burnt to the ground, and that my father, on
his return, had sold what remained, and was retired into reli-
gion in the kingdom of Naples, but where no man could in-
form me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost of attain-
ing the transport of a parent's embrace, I took the first oppor-
tunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence, within these
six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting
myself by the labour of my hands; nor until yester-morn did


106 THE CASTLE
I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for me but peace
of mind and contented poverty. This, my lord, is Theodore's
story. I am blessed, beyond my hope, in finding a father: I
am unfortunate, beyond my desert, in having incurred your
highness's displeasure." He ceased. A murmur of approba-
tion gently arose from the audience. "This is not all," said
Frederic: "I am bound in honour to add what he suppresses.
Though he is modest, I must be generous—he is one of the
bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and,
from the short knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself
for his veracity: if what he reports of himself were not true,
he would not utter it—and for me, youth, I honour a frank-
ness which becomes thy birth. But now, and thou didst
offend me: yet the noble blood, which flows in thy veins,
may well be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently
traced itself to its source. Come, my lord, [turning to Man-
fred,] if I can pardon him, surely you may. It is not the
youth's fault, if you took him for a spectre." This bitter
taunt galled the soul of Manfred. "If beings from another
world," replied he, haughtily, "have power to impress my
mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could
a stripling's arm"—" My lord," interrupted Hippolita, "your
guest has occasion for repose: shall we not leave him to


OF OTRANTO. 107
rest?" Saying this, and taking Manfred by the hand, she took
leave of Frederic, and led the company forth. The prince
not sorry to quit a conversation, which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered
himself to be conducted to his own apartment, after permit-
ting Theodore, though under engagement to return to the
castle on the morrow, (a condition the young man gladly
accepted,] to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda
and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflec-
tions, and too little content with each other, to wish for X
farther converse that night. They separated each to her cham-
ber, with more expressions of ceremony, and fewer of af-
fection, than had passed between them since their childhood.
If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with
greater impatience as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds
were in a situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected
a thousand questions which she wished she had put to the
other overnight. Matilda reflected that Isabella had been
twice delivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which
she could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was true, had
been fixed on her in Frederic's chamber; but that might have
been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of
both. It were better to clear this up—She wished to know


Of OTKANTO. 109
In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart
entirely to Matilda, she went to that princess's chamber,
whom she found already dressed, and leaning pensively on
her arm. This attitude, so correspondent to what she felt
herself, revived Isabella's suspicions, and destroyed the con-
fidence she had purposed to place in her friend. They blush-
ed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their
sensations with address. After some unmeaning questions
and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her
flight? The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred's
passion, so entirely was she occupied by her own, concluding
that Matilda referred to her last escape from the convent,
which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,
replied, "Martelli brought word to the convent that your
mother was dead.''.. —" Oh!" said Matilda, interrupting her,
"Bianca has explained that mistake to me: on seeing me
faint, she cried out, ' the princess is dead!' and Martelli, who
had come for the usual dole to the castle"—" And what
made you faint?" said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.—
Matilda blushed, and stammered—" My father—he was sit-
ting in judgment on a criminal."—"What criminal?" said
Isabella, eagerly. "A young man," said Matilda; "I believe
—I think it was that young man that"—" What, Theodore?"


110 THE CASTLE
VC/ V
said Isabella. "Yes!" answered she; " I never saw him be-
fore ; I do not know how he had offended my father—but as he
has been of service to you, I am glad my lord has pardoned
him."—" Served me I" replied Isabella, "do you term it ser-
ving me, to wound my father, and almost occasion his death?
Though it is but since yesterday that I am blessed with
knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I am such a
stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of
that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to
feel any affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the
author of my being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors him;
and if you still retain the friendship for me that you have
vowed from your infancy, you will detest a man who has
been on the point of making me miserable for ever." Matilda
held down her head, and replied, " I hope my dearest Isa-
bella does not doubt her Matilda's friendship: I never beheld
that youth until yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but,
as the surgeons have pronounced your father out of danger,
you ought not to harbour uncharitable resentment against
one, who, I am persuaded, did not know the marquis was
related to you.'',--" You plead his cause very pathetically,"
said Isabella, "considering he is so much a stranger to you f
I am mistaken, or he returns your charity."—" What mean


OF OTRANTO. Ill
you?" said Matilda: "Nothing," , said Isabella: repenting
that she had given Matilda a hint of Theodore's inclination
for her. Then, changing the discourse, she asked Matilda
what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?
"Bless me," said Matilda, "did not you observe his extreme
resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took
notice of it to Bianca even before I saw him in armour; but
with the helmet on, he is the very image of that picture."—" I
do not much observe pictures," said Isabella; "much less
t have I examined this young man so attentively as you seem
to have done—ah! Matilda, your heart is in danger—but let
me warn you as a friend—he has owned to me that he is in
love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first time
you ever met—was it not ?"—" Certainly," replied Matilda;
** but why does my dearest Isabella conclude from any thing
I have said, that—[she paused—then continuing;] he saw you
first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my
little portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you
—may you be happy, Isabella, whatever is the fate of
Matilda !"—" My lovely friend," said Isabella, whose heart
was too honest to resist a kind expression, "it is you that
Theodore admires; I saw it; I am persuaded of it; nor shall
a thought of my own happiness suffer me to interfere with


112 THE CASTLE
yours." This frankness drew *ears from the gentle Matilda;
and jealousy, that, for a moment, had raised a coolness be-
tween these amiable maidens, soon gave way to the natural
sincerity and candour of their souls. Each confessed to the
other the impression that Theodore had made on her; and
this confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each
insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. At length, the
dignity of Isabella's virtue reminding her of the preference
which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her
determine to conquer her passion, and cede the beloved
object to her friend.
During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daugh-
ter's chamber. "Madam," said she to Isabella, " you have so
much tenderness for Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly
in whatever affects our wretched house, that I can have no
secrets with my child which are not proper for you to hear."
The princesses were all attention and anxiety. "Know then,
madam," continued Hippolita, " and you, my dearest Matilda,
* that, being convinced, by all the events of these two last
ominous days, that Heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto
should pass from Manfred's hands into those of the Marquis
Frederic, I have been, perhaps, inspired with the thought of
averting our total destruction by the union of our rival


114 THE CASTLE
"To divorce me I.''-- " To divorce my mother!" cried Hippo-
lita and Matilda at once. "Yes," said Isabella; and to
complete his crime he meditates—I cannot speak it !"—
"What can surpass what thou hast already uttered!" said
Matilda. Hippolita was silent. Grief choaked her speech;
and the recollection of Manfred's late ambiguous discourses
confirmed what she heard. "Excellent, dear lady! madam!
mother!" cried Isabella, flinging herself at Hippolita's feet in
a transport of passion; "trust me, believe me, I will die a
thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield
to so odious—oh !"—" This is too much!" cried Hippolita:
"What crimes does one crime suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I
do not doubt your virtue. Oh! Matilda, this stroke is too
heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I
charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!"—" But you
are my mother too," said Matilda, fervently; "and you are
virtuous, you are guiltless !—Oh! must not I, must not I
complain ?"—" You must not," said Hippolita; "come, all
will yet be well. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy
brother, knew not what he said: perhaps Isabella misunder-
stood him: his heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest
not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of
Providence is stretched out—Oh! could I but save thee from


OF OTRANTO. 115
the wreck !—Yes" continued she, in a firmer tone; "perhaps
the sacrifice of myself may atone for all—I will go and offer
myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of me. I
will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the
remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the
prince !"—" Thou art as much too good for this world," said
Isabella, " as Manfred is execrable—but think not, lady, that
thy weakness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye
angels"—" Stop, I adjure thee," cried Hippolita; "remem-
ber thou dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father,"—
"My father is too pious, too noble," interrupted Isabella, " to
command an impious deed. But should he command it; can
a father enjoin a cursed act? I was contracted to the son, can
I wed the father ?—No, madam, no; force should not drag
me to Manfred's hated bed. I loath him, I abhor him: divine
and human laws forbid—and my friend, my dearest Matilda!
would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother?
my own mother—I never have known another."—" Oh! she
is the mother of both!" cried Matilda: "Can we, can we,
Isabella, adore her too much ?"—" My lovely children," said
the touched Hippolita, " your tenderness overpowers me—but
I must not give way to it It is not ours to make election for
ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands, must decide
p


116 THE CASTLE
for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and
Frederic have determined. If the marquis accepts Matilda's
hand, I know she will readily obey. Heaven may interpose
and prevent the rest.—What means my child?" continued
she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of speechless
tears—" But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not
hear a word against the pleasure of thy father."—" OhI doubt
not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to
you!" said Matilda. "But can I, most respected of women,
can I experience all this tenderness, this world of goodness,
and conceal a thought from the best of mothers ?"—" What
art thou going to utter?" said Isabella, trembling. "Recollect
thyself, Matilda."—" No, Isabella," said the princess, " I should
not deserve this incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of
my soul harboured a thought without her permission—nay, I
have offended her; I have suffered a passion to enter my heart
without her avowal—but here I disclaim it; here I vow to
heaven and her"—" My child! my child!" said Hippolita,
"what words are these! what new calamities has fate in store
for us ! Thou, a passion! Thou, in this hour of destruction !"—
"Oh! I see all my guilt I" said Matilda.—" I abhor myself,
if I cost my mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have
on earth—Oh! I will never, never behold him more !"—-


OF OTRANTO. 117
"Isabella\" said Hippolita, " thou art conscious to this
unhappy secret; whatever it is, speak !"—" What!" cried
Matilda, " have I so forfeited my mother's love, that she
will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh!
wretched, wretched Matilda!"—" Thou art too cruel," said
Isabella to Hippolita: "canst thou behold this anguish of
a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it ?"—" Not pity my
child !" said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms—" Oh!
I know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness, and du ty.
I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope !" The princesses
then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for Theo-
dore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda.—
Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and shewed them the
improbability that either father would consent to bestow his
heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Some comfort
it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and that
Theodore had but little cause to suspect it in either. She
strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him.
This Matilda fervently promised; but Isabella, who flattered
herself that she meant no more than to promote his union
with her friend, could not determine to avoid him; and made
no reply. "I will go to the convent," said Hippolita, "and
order new masses to be said for a deliverance from these


118 THE CASTLE
calamities."—" Oh! my mother," said Matilda, "you mean
to quit us: you mean to take sanctuary, and to give my
father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal intention. Alas!
on my knees I supplicate you to forbear—will you leave me a
prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent."—" Be at
peace, my child," said Hippolita; "I will return instantly.—
I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of
heaven, and for thy benefit."—" Do not deceive me," said
Matilda. "I will not marry Frederic until thou commandest
it.—Alas! what will become of me ?"—" Why that exclama-
tion?" said Hippolita.—" I have promised thee to return."—
"Ah! my mother," replied Matilda, " stay and save me from
myself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father's
severity. I have given away my heart, and you alone can
make me recal it." —" No more," said Hippolita; "thou
must not relapse, Matilda."—" I can quit Theodore," said she,
"but must I wed another? let me attend thee to the altar,
and shut myself from the world for ever."—" Thy fate depends
on thy father," said Hippolita; "I have ill bestowed my ten-
derness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him.
Adieu! my child: I go to pray for thee."
Hippolita's real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether
in conscience she might not consent to the divorce. She had


OF OTRANTO. 119
oft urged Manfred to resign the principality, which the deli-
cacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burden to her.
These scruples concurred to make the separation from her
husband appear less dreadful to her, than it would have
seemed in any other situation.
Jerome, at quitting the castle over-night, had questioned
Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of
being privy to his escape. Theodore owned it had been with
the design to prevent Manfred's suspicion from alighting on
Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome's life and charac-
ter secured him from the tyrant's wrath. Jerome was heartily
grieved to discover his son's inclination for that princess; and
leaving him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint
him with important reasons for conquering his passion. Theo-
dore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental
authority, to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his
heart. He had little curiosity to learn the friar's reasons, and
less disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda had made
stronger impressions on him than filial affection. All night he
pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not till late
after the morning-office, that he recollected the friar's com-
mands to attend him at Alfonso's tomb.


120 THE CASTLE
"Young man," said Jerome, when he saw him, " this tardi-
ness does not please me. Have a father's commands already
so little weight?" Theodore made awkward excuses, and attri-
buted his delay to having overslept himself. "And on whom
were thy dreams employed?" said the friar, sternly. His son
blushed.—" Come, come," resumed the friar, "inconsiderate
youth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from
thy breast."—" Guilty passion !" cried Theodore, " Can guilt
dwell with innocent beauty and virtuous modesty ?"—" It is
sinful," replied the friar, "to cherish those whom heaven has
doomed to destruction. A tyrant's race must be swept from
the earth to the third and fourth generation."—" Will heaven
visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?" said Theo-
dore. "The fair Matilda has virtues enough"-" To undo
thee," interrupted Jerome. "Hast thou so soon forgotten
that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sen-
tence ?"—" Nor have I forgotten, sir," said Theodore, "that
the charity of his daughter delivered me from his power. I
can forget injuries, but never benefits."—" The injuries thou
hast received from Manfred's race," said the friar, "are
beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view this
holy image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of


OF OTRANTO. 121
the good Alfonso; a prince adorned with every virtue! the
father of his people! the delight of mankind! kneel, head-
strong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a tale of horror,
that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but sensations
of sacred vengeance.—Alfonso! much-injured prince! let thy
unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these
trembling lips—Ha! who comes there ?"—" The most wretch-
ed of women!" said Hippolita, entering the choir. "Good
father, art thou at leisure ?—but why this kneeling youth?
what means the horror imprinted on each countenance? why
at this venerable tomb—alas! hast thou seen aught ?"—" We
were pouring forth our orisons to heaven," replied the friar,
with some confusion, "to put an end to the woes of this
deplorable province. Join with us, lady! thy spotless soul
may obtain an exemption from the judgments which the
portents of these days but too speakingly denounce against
thy house."—" I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,"
6aid the pious princess. "Thou knowest it has been the
occupation of my life to wrest a blessing for my lord and
my harmless children—One, alas! is taken from me! would
heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! intercede
for her !"—" Every heart will bless her," cried Theodore, with
rapture, "Be dumb, rash youth!" said Jerome. "And


OFOTRANTO. 123
her, in the severest terms, to treat any such proposition with
every mark of indignation and refusal.
Manfred, in the mean time, had broken his purpose to Fre- 7 ^
deric, and proposed the double marriage. That weak prince,
who had been struck with the charms of Matilda, listened
but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot his enmity to Man-
fred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by force;
and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the
union of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own
succession to the principality as facilitated by wedding Ma-
tilda. He made faint opposition to the proposal; affecting,
for form only, not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should con-
sent to the divorce.—Manfred took that upon himself. Tran-
sported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a
situation to expect sons, he hastened to his wife's apartment,
determined to extort her compliance. He learned with indig-
nation that she was absent at the convent. His guilt suggest-
ed to him that she had probably been informed by Isabella of
his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the con-
vent did not import an intention of remaining there, until she
could raise obstacles to their divorce; and the suspicions he
had already entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend that
the friar would not only traverse his views, but might have
Q


124 THE CASTLE
inspired Hippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary.
Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its success, Man-
fred hastened to the convent, and arrived there, as the friar
was earnestly exhorting the princess never to yield to the
divorce.
"Madam," said Manfred, " what business drew you hither?
why did you not await my return from the marquis i'''-" I
came to implore a blessing on your councils;" replied Hip-
polita. "My councils do not need a friar's intervention:"
said Manfred—" and of all men living is that hoary traitor
the only one whom you delight to confer with ?"—" Profane
prince!" said Jerome; "is it at the altar that thou chusest
to insult the servants of the altar ?—but, Manfred, thy impi-
ous schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know
them—nay, frown not, prince. The church despises thy me-
naces. Her thunders will be heard above thy wrath. Dare
to proceed in thy curst purpose of a divorce, until her sen-
tence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head."
—" Audacious rebel!" said Manfred, endeavouring to con-
ceal the awe with which the friar's words inspired him ; " dost
thou presume to threaten thy lawful prince ?"—" Thou art no
lawful prince," said Jerome; " thou art no prince—go, discuss
thy claim with Frederic: and when that is done"—" It is
-


OF OTRANTO. 125
done," replied Manfred; "Frederic accepts Matilda's hand,
and is content to wave his claim, unless I have no male
issue"—as he spoke those words, three drops of blood fell from
the nose of Alfonso's statue. Manfred turned pale, and the
princess sunk on her knees. "Behold !" said the friar; "mark
this miraculous indication that the blood of Alfonso will never
mix with that of Manfred !"—" My gracious lord," said Hip-
polita, "let us submit ourselves to heaven.—Think not thy
ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority. I have no
will but that of my lord and the church. To that revered tri-
bunal let us appeal. It does not depend on us to burst the
bonds that unite us. If the church shall approve the dissolu-
tion of our marriage, be it so—I have but few years, and those
of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn away so well as
at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda's
safety ?"—" But thou shalt not remain here until then," said
Manfred. "Repair with me to the castle, and there I will ad-
vise on the proper measures for a divorce; but this meddling
friar comes not thither: my hospitable roof shall never more
harbour a traitor—and for thy reverence's offspring," continued
he, " I banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sa-
cred personage, nor under the protection of the church. Who-
ever weds Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara's started-

■I-


126 THE CASTLE
up son."—" They start up," said the friar, " who are suddenly
beheld in the seat of lawful princes; but they wither away
like the grass, and their place knows them no more." Man-
fred, casting a look of scorn at the friar, led Hippolita forth;
but, at the door of the church, whispered one of his attendants
to remain concealed about the convent, and bring him instant
notice, if any one from the castle should repair thither.


128 THE CASTLE
ous thoughts, as he marched silently with Hippolita to the
castle, he at last discoursed with that princess on the subject
of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and plausible argu-
ment to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting
the divorce. Hippolita needed little persuasion to bend her
to his pleasure. She endeavoured to win him over to the
measure of resigning his dominions; but, finding her exhorta-
tions fruitless, she assured him, that, as far as her conscience
would allow, she would raise no opposition to a separation,
though, without better-founded scruples than what he yet al-
ledged, she would not engage to be active in demanding it.
This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise
Manfred's hopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would
easily advance his suit at the court of Rome, whither he resol-
ved to engage Frederic to take a journey on purpose. That
prince had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that
Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished, by holding out or
withdrawing his daughter's charms, according as the marquis
should appear more or less disposed to co-operate in his views.
Even the absence of Frederic would be a material point gain-
ed, until he could take farther measures for his security.
Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that
of the marquis, but crossing the great hall, through which he
\Z


OF OTRANTO. 131
highness remarked it ?"—" Yes, yes,—No—thou torturest me,"
said Manfred; "Where did they meet ?—when ?"—" Who!
my Lady Matilda?" said Bianca. "No, no, not Matilda;
Isabella. When did Isabella first become acquainted with this
Theodore ?"—" Virgin Mary!" said Bianca, "how should I
know ?"—" Thou dost know," said Manfred, " and I must
know; I will."—" Lord! your highness is not jealous of young
Theodore!" said Bianca. "Jealous! no, no: why should I
be jealous ?—perhaps I mean to unite them. If I were sure
Isabella would have no repugnance"—" Repugnance! no, I'll
warrant her," said Bianca: "he is as comely a youth as ever
trod on Christian ground. We are all in love with him; there
is not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him
for our prince—I mean, when it shall please Heaven to call
your highness to itself."—" Indeed !" said Manfred; "has it
gone so far! oh! this cursed friar!—but I must not lose time:
—go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but, I charge thee, not a word
of what has passed. Find out how she is affected towards
Theodore: bring me good news, and that ring has a compa-
nion. Wait at the foot of the winding staircase: I am going
to visit the marquis, and will talk farther with thee at my
return."
X


132 THE CASTLE
i
Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic
to dismiss the two knights, his companions, having to talk
with him on urgent affairs. As soon as they were alone, he
began, in artful guise, to sound the marquis on the subject of
Matilda; and, finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop
hints on the difficulties that would attend the celebration of
their marriage, unless—at that instant Bianca burst into the
room, with a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the
utmost terror. "Oh! my lord, my lord!" cried she, " we are
all undone! it is come again! it is come again !"—" What
is come again?" cried Manfred, amazed. "Oh! the hand!
the giant! the hand !—support me! I am terrified out of my
senses," cried Bianca. " I will not sleep in the castle to-night.
Where shall I go ?—my things may come after me to-morrow
—would I had been content to wed Francisco I—this comes
of ambition \"—" What has terrified thee thus, young wo-
man?" said the marquis; "thou art safe here; be not alarm-
ed."—" Oh ! your greatness is wonderfully good," said Bianca,
"but I dare not—no, pray, let me go—I had rather leave
every thing behind me, than stay another hour under this
roof."—" Go to—thou hast lost thy senses," said Manfred.
"Interrupt us not; we were communing on important mat-


134 THE CASTLE
it so, proceed; but be brief."—" Lord! your highness thwarts
one so!" replied Bianca: "I fear my hair—I am sure I never
in my life—well! as I was telling your greatness, I was going,
by his highness's order, to my Lady Isabella's chamber: she
lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, on the right hand, one
pair of stairs: so when I came to the great stairs—I was look-
ing on his highness's present here"—" Grant me patience,"
said Manfred: "will this wench never come to the point?
what imports it to the marquis, that I gave thee a bauble for
thy faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know
what thou sawest."—" I was going to tell your highness," said
Bianca, "if you would permit me.—So as I was rubbing the
ring—I am sure I had not gone up three steps, but I heard
the rattling of armour; for all the world such a clatter, as
Diego says he heard when the giant turned him about in the
, gallery-chamber."—" What does she mean, my lord!" said
the marquis: " is your castle haunted by giants and goblins?"
"Lord! what, has not your greatness heard the story of the
giant in the gallery-chamber?" cried Bianca. "I marvel his
highness has not told you—mayhap you do not know there is
a prophecy"—" This trifling is intolerable," interrupted Man-
fred. "Let us dismiss this silly wench, my lord! we have
more important affairs to discuss."—" By your favour," said


OF OTRANTO. 135
Frederic, "these are no trifles: the enormous sabre I was di-
rected to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow—are these visions
of this poor maiden's brain ?"—" So Jaquez thinks, may it
please your greatness," said Bianca. "He says this moon will
not be out without our seeing some strange revolution. For
my part I should not be surprised if it was to happen to-mor-
row; for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of ar-
mour, I was all in a cold sweat—I looked up, and, if your
greatness will believe me, I saw upon the uppermost bannister
of the great stairs a hand in armour as big, as big—I thought
I should have swooned—I never stopped until I came hither
—would I were well out of this castle! My Lady Matilda told
me but yester-morning that her highness Hippolita knows
something"—" Thou art an insolent I" cried Manfred—" Lord
Marquis, it much misgives me that this scene is concerted to
affront me. Are my own domestics suborned to spread tales
injurious to my honour? Pursue your claim by manly daring;
or let us bury our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage
of our children: but trust me, it ill becomes a prince of your
bearing to practise on mercenary wenches."—" I scorn your
imputation," said Frederic; "until this hour I never set eyes
on this damsel: I have given her no jewel! my lord, my lord,
your conscience, your guilt accuses you, and you would throw


ISf? THE CASTLE
the suspicion on me—but keep your daughter, and think no
more of Isabella: the judgments already fallen on your house
forbid me matching into it."
Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederic de-
livered these words, endeavoured to pacify him. Dismissing
Bianca, he made such submissions to the marquis, and threw
in such artful encomiums on Matilda, that Frederic was once
more staggered. However, as his passion was of so recent a
date, it could not, at once, surmount the scruples he had con-
ceived. He had gathered enough from Bianca's discourse to
persuade him that Heaven declared itself against Manfred.
The proposed marriages too removed his claim to a distance;
and the principality of Otranto was a stronger temptation,
than the contingent reversion of it with Matilda. Still he
would not absolutely recede from his engagements; but pur-
posing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true
in fact, that Hippolita consented to the divorce. The prince,
transported to find no other obstacle, and depending on his in-
fluence over his wife, assured the marquis it was so, and that
he might satisfy himself of the truth from her own mouth.
As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the
banquet was prepared. Manfred conducted Frederic to the
great hall, where they were received by Hippolita and the


OF OTRANTO: 137
young princesses. Manfred placed the marquis next to Ma-
tilda, and seated himself between his wife and Isabella. Hip-
polita comported herself with an easy gravity; but the young
ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred, who was de-
termined to pursue his point with the marquis in the remain-
der of the eyening, pushed on the feast until it waxed late;
affecting unrestrained gaiety, and plying Frederic with repeat-
ed goblets of wine. The latter, more upon his guard than
Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on pretence
of his late loss of blood; while the prince, to raise his own
disordered spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged him-
self in plentiful draughts, though not to the intoxication of his
senses*
The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded.
Manfred would have withdrawn with Frederic; but the latter
pleading weakness, and want of repose, retired to his cham-
ber, gallantly telling the prince, that his daughter should
amuse his highness until himself could attend him. Manfred
accepted the party, and, to the no small grief of Isabella,
accompanied her to her apartment. Matilda waited on her
mother to enjoy the freshness of the evening on the ramparts
of the castle.
11
f


OF OTEANTO. 141
cannot speak," cried Frederic, bursting from her—" Oh!
Matilda \"
Quitting the princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own
apartment. At the door of it he was accosted by Manfred,
who, flushed by wine and love, had come to seek him, and to
propose to waste some hours of the night in music and revel-
ling. Frederic, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the
mood of his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and, entering his
chamber, flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and
bolted it inwards. The haughty prince, enraged at this unac-
countable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of
the most fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met
by the domestic whom he had planted at the convent, as a
spy on Jerome and Theodore. This man, almost breathless
with the haste he had made, informed his lord, that Theodore
and some lady from the castle, were, at that instant, in pri-
vate conference at the tomb of Alfonso, in St Nicholas's church.
He had dogged Theodore thither, but the gloominess of the
night had prevented his discovering who the woman was.
Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella
had driven from her on his urging his passion with too little
reserve, did not doubt but the inquietude she had expressed
had been occasioned by her impatience to meet Theodore.


142 THE CASTLE
Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he
hastened secretly to the great church. Gliding softly between
the aisles, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine
that shone faintly through the illuminated windows, he stole
towards the tomb of Alfonso, to which he was directed by in-
distinct whispers of the persons he sought.—The first sounds
he could distinguish were—" Does it, alas! depend on me?
Manfred will never permit our union."—" No, this shall pre-
vent it \" cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger, and plunging
it over her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke—
"Ah, me! I am slain!" cried Matilda, sinking, "good Hea-
ven, receive my soul !"—" Savage, inhuman monster! what
hast thou done ?" cried Theodore, rushing on him, and wrench-
ing his dagger from him—" Stop, stop thy impious hand!"
cried Matilda; " it is my father !" Manfred, waking as from a
trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in his locks, and en-
deavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore, to dispatch
himself. Theodore, scarce less distracted, and only mastering
the transports of his grief to assist Matilda, had now, by his
cries, drawn some of the monks to his aid. While part of
them endeavoured, in concert with the afflicted Theodore, to
stop the blood of the dying princess, the rest prevented Man?
fred from laying violent hands on himself.


OF OTRANTO. 143
Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknow-
ledged, with looks of grateful love, the zeal of Theodore. Yet,
oft as her faintness would permit her speech its way, she beg-
ged the assistants to comfort her father. Jerome, by this time,
had learnt the fatal news, and reached the church. His looks
seemed to reproach Theodore: but, turning to Manfred, he
said, " Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe fulfilled
on thy impious and devoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried
to Heaven for vengeance, and Heaven has permitted its altar
to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy
own blood at the foot of that prince's sepulchre !"—** Cruel
man!" cried Matilda, '< to aggravate the woes of a parent!
may Heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My
lord, my gracious sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed, I
came not hither to meet Theodore! I found him praying at
this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee,
for her—dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive
her."—" Forgive thee ! murderous monster \" cried Manfred—
"can assassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but Heaven
directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child—oh! Ma-
tilda—I cannot utter it—canst thou forgive the blindness of
my rage ?"—" I can, I do! and may Heaven confirm it!"
said Matilda—" but, while I have life to ask it—Oh! my mo..
*■


OFOTRANTO. 145
ther. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his
hand and her mother's, locked them in her own, and then
clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this
act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and
cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these
struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support,
took upon herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apart-
ment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest
chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter,
was regardless of every thing but her: but when the tender
Isabella's care would have likewise removed her, while the
surgeons examined Matilda's wound, she cried, " Remove
meI never! never! I lived but in her, and will expire with
her." Matilda raised her eyes, at her mother's voice, but
closed them again without speaking. Her sinking pulse, and
the damp coldness of her hand, soon dispelled all hopes of re-
covery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer cham-
ber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence, with a
transport equal to phrenzy—" Since she cannot live mine,"
cried he, "at least she shall be mine in death! Father! Je-
rome! will you not join our hands V cried he to the friar,
who, with the marquis, had accompanied the surgeons. "What
means thy distracted rashness r" said Jerome: " Is this an


146 THE CASTLE
hour for marriage ?"—" It is, it is," cried Theodore; "alas!
there is no other !"—" Young man, thou art too unadvised,"
said Frederic :—" Dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond
transports in this hour of fate ?—what pretensions hast thou to
the princess ?"—" Those of a prince," said Theodore—" of the
sovereign of Otranto. This reverend man, my father, has in-
formed me who I am."—" Thou ravest," said the marquis:
"there is no Prince of Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by
murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all pretensions."
—" My lord," said Jerome, assuming an air of command,
"he tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should
have been divulged so soon; but fate presses onward to its
work. What his hot-headed passion has revealed, my tongue
confirms. Know, prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the
Holy Land"—" Is this a season for explanations ?" cried Theo-
dore :—" Father, come and unite me to the princess; she shall
be mine—in every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My
life, my adored Matilda!" continued Theodore, rushing back
into the inner chamber, " will you not be mine? will you not
bless your"—Isabella made signs to him to be silent, appre-
hending the princess was near her end. "What! is she
dead?" cried Theodore: "is it possible !"—The violence of
his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up her


OF OTRANTO. 147
eyes, she looked round for her mother—" Life of my soul! I
am here," cried Hippolita; "think not I will quit thee !"—
"Oh! you are too good," said Matilda—" but weep not for
me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells—Isa-
bella, thou hast loved me; wo't thou not supply my fondness
to this dear, dear woman ?—indeed I am faint!"—" Oh! my
child! my child \" said Hippolita, in a flood of tears; "can
I not withhold thee a moment ?"—" It will not be," said Ma-
tilda—" commend me to Heaven:—where is my father ?—for-
give him, dearest mother1—forgive him my death; it was an
error—Oh! I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowed never
to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down this ca-
lamity—but it was not intentional—can you pardon me ?"—
"Oh! wound not my agonizing soul!" said Hippolita;
"thou never could'st offend me—Alas! she faints! help!
help \"—" I would say something more," said Matilda, strug-
gling; "but it wonnot be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake
—Oh !"—she expired. Isabella and her women tore Hippolita
from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all
who attempted to remove him from it. He printed a thou-
sand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expres-
sion that despairing love could dictate.


148 THE CASTLE

if
/
Isabella, in the mean time, was accompanying the afflicted
Hippolita to her apartment; but, in the middle of the court,
they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own
thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was
advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon was
now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhap-
py company, the event he dreaded. "What! is she dead?"
cried he, in wild confusion—a clap of thunder, at that instant,
shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and the
clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Fre-
deric and Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The
latter, forcing Theodore along them, rushed into the court.
The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle be-
hind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the
form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared
in the centre of the ruins. "Behold in Theodore the true heir
of Alfonso!" said the vision: and having pronounced these
words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it ascended so-
lemnly towards Heaven, where, the clouds parting asunder,
the form of St Nicholas was seen, and, receiving Alfonso's
shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of
glory.
4


OF OTRANTO. 149
The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging
the divine will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.
"My lord," said she, to the desponding Manfred, " behold
the vanity of human greatness! Conrad is gone ! Matilda is
no more ! in Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By
what miracle he is so, I know not—suffice it to us, our doom
is pronounced! shall we not,—can we do other than dedicate
the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the far-
ther wrath of heaven? Heaven ejects us—whither can we fly,
but to yon holy cells that yet offer us a retreat ?"—" Thou
guiltless, but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!" re-
plied Manfred, "my heart, at last, is open to thy devout ad-
monitions. Oh! could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in won-
der—let me at last do justice on myself! To heap shame on
my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer to of-
fended Heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:
let my confession atone—but ah! what can atone for usurpa-
tion, and a murdered child! a child murdered in a consecra-
ted place !—List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warn-
ing to future tyrants 1
"Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would
interrupt me; ye would say he came not fairly to his end—it
is most true—why else this bitter cup which Manfred must
r


150 THE CASTLE
drink to the dregs? Ricardo, my grandfather, was his cham-
berlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor's crimes—but it
is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared
Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no
Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A
storm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt, he vowed to St
Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to
reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appear-
ed to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo's posterity
should reign in Otranto, until the rightful owner should be
grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male
from Ricardo's loins should remain to enjoy it—Alas! alas!
nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretch-
ed race !—I have done—the woes of these three days speak
the rest. How this young man can be Alfonso's heir, I know
not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these dominions; I re-
sign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question
not the will of Heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the
woeful space until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo."
"What remains, is my part to declare," said Jerome. "When
Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land, he was driven by a storm on
the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and
his train, as your lordship must have heard, was separated


OF OTRANTO. 151
from him."—" It is most true," said Manfred; "and the title
you give me is more than an outcast can claim—well! be it
so—proceed." Jerome blushed, and continued. ** For three
months, Lord Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily. There he
became enamoured of a fair virgin, named Victoria. He was
too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They were
married.—Yet, deeming this amour incongruous with the holy
vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to con-
ceal their nuptials, until his return from the Crusade, when he
purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife.
He left her pregnant. During his absence, she was delivered
of a daughter: but scarce had she felt a mother's pangs, ere
she heard the fatal rumour of her lord's death, and the succes-
sion of Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do?
Would her testimony avail ?—yet, my lord, I have an authen-
tic writing"—" It needs not," said Manfred; "the horrors of
these days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate
thy evidence beyond a thousand parchments. Matilda's death,
and my expulsion"—" Be composed, my lord," said Hippoli-
ta; "this holy man did not mean to recal your griefs." Je-
rome proceeded.
"I shall not dwell on what is needless.—The daughter of
which Victoria was delivered, was, at her maturity, bestowed
u


152 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
in marriage on me. Victoria died; and the secret remained
locked in my breast. Theodore's narrative has told the rest."
The friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the
remaining part of the castle. In the morning, Manfred signed
his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of
Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion, in the
neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the
new prince, which Hippolita's tenderness for Isabella concur-
red to promote: but Theodore's grief was too fresh to admit
the thought of another love; and it was not until after fre-
quent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he
was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society
of one, with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy
that had taken possession of his soul.
THE END.
Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Company.





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