THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO

THE following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic 
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 
nothing that savours of barbarism.  The style is the purest Italian.

If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have 
happened, it must have been between 1095, the era 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 period 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 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 composition was 
little antecedent to that of the impression.  Letters were then in 
their most flourishing state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the 
empire of superstition, at that time so forcibly attacked by the 
reformers.  It is not unlikely that an artful priest might endeavour 
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 certainly 
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 
execution 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.  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 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.
                    
                    Horace Walpole
                    
                    Back to THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO

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