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. He is not
bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as
believing them. 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 situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary
descriptions. Everything 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
_naïveté_ 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 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 wedding 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 birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was
assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning
the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient
of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched
one of his attendants to summon the young Prince.