The Castle of Otranto | Page 2

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 adopted
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 author's defects.
I could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this:
that "the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and
fourth generation." I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at
present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so
remote a punishment. And yet this moral 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 reprint 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 language 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 author 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
imaginary, I cannot but believe that the groundwork 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 apartment:" 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 believed 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.

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,
tho' firm, it melts distrest For weaknesses it never knows.
Oh! guard the marvels I relate Of fell ambition scourg'd by fate, From
reason's peevish blame. Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail I dare
expand to Fancy's gale, For sure thy smiles are Fame.
H. W.
CHAPTER 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
showed any symptoms of affection 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.
Manfred's impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family
and neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity