The old English baronClara Reeve, Horace Walpole




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THE OLD ENGLISH BARON,
AND
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.


BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON






.CLARA REEVE


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1883





Clara Reeve—Horace Walpole
THE
OLD ENGLISH BARON
a Gotbic Storg
By CLARA REEVE
ALSO
s
THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO
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By HORACE WALFOLE
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LONDON
J. C. NIMMO AND BAIN
14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1883


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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
OLD ENGLISH BARON—
portrait OF CLARA reeve .... Frontispiece
EDMUND'S DREAM IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER, To face page 66
"HE OUTRODE HIS SERVANTS, AND WAS ALONE.
THEY KILLED HIM" ,,I5O
CASTLE OF OTRANTO—
portrait OF HORACE walpole .... Frontispiece
"WE MUST GO DOWN HERE," SAID ISABELLA.
"follow me" To face page 282
"HE STOLE TOWARDS THE TOMB OK ALFONSO" ,, 396
PUBLISHERS' NOTICE.
One thousand copies of this Edition have been printed and
the type distributed. No more will be published.





MEMOIR.
CLARA REEVE, the ingenious authoress of The Old
English Baron, was the daughter of the Reverend
William Reeve, M.A., Rector of Freston, and of
Kerton, in Suffolk, and perpetual Curate of Saint
Nicholas. Her grandfather was the Reverend
Thomas Reeve, Rector of Storeham Aspal, and
afterwards of St. Mary Stoke, in Ipswich, where the
family had been long resident, and enjoyed the rights
of free burghers. Miss Reeve's mother's maiden name
was Smithies, daughter of Smithies, goldsmith
and jeweller to King George I.
In a letter to a friend, Mrs. Reeve thus speaks
of her father :—" My father was an old Whig; from
him I have learned all that I know; he was my
oracle; he used to make me read the Parliamentary
debates while he smoked his pipe after supper. I
gaped and yawned over them at the time, but un-
awares to myself, they fixed my principles once and


2
MEMOIR.
for ever. He made me read Rapin's History of
England; the information it gave made amends for
its dryness. I read Cato's Letters, by Trenchard
and Gordon; I read the Greek and Roman Histories,
and Plutarch's Lives;—all these at an age when
few people of either sex can read their names."
The Reverend Mr. Reeves, himself one of a family
of eight children, had the same number; and it is
therefore likely, that it was rather Clara's strong
natural turn for study, than any degree of exclusive
care which his partiality bestowed, that enabled her
to acquire such a stock of early information. After
his death, his widow resided in Colchester with three
of their daughters; and it was here that Miss Clara
Reeve first became an authoress, by translating from
Latin Barclay's fine old romance, entitled Argenis,
published in 1762, under the title of The Phoenix.
It was in 1777, five years afterwards, that she pro-
duced her first and most distinguished work. It
was published by Mr. Dilly of the Poultry (who gave
ten pounds for the copyright) under the title of The
Champion of Virtue, a Gothic Story. The work came
to a second edition in the succeeding year, and was
then first called The Old English Baron. The cause
of the change we do not pretend to guess; for if
Fitz-Owen be considered as the Old English Baron,
we do not see wherefore a character, passive in him-


MEMOIR. 3
self from beginning to end, and only acted upon by-
others, should be selected to give a name to the
story. We ought not to omit to mention that this
work is inscribed to Mrs. Brigden, the daughter of
Richardson, who is stated to have lent her assistance
to the revisal and correction of the work.
The success of The Old English Baron encouraged
Miss Reeve to devote more of her leisure hours to
literary composition, and she published in succession
the following works:—The Two Mentors, a Modern
Story; The Progress of Romance, through Times,
Countries, and Manners; The Exile; or, Memoirs of
Count de Cronstadt, the principal incidents of which
are borrowed from a novel by M. D'Arnaud; The
School for Widows, a Novel; Plans of Education,
with Remarks on the System of other Writers, in a
duodecimo volume; and The Memoirs of Sir Roger
de Clarendon, a natural Son of Edward the Black
Prince; with Anecdotes of many other eminent
Persons of the fourteenth Century.
To these works we have to add another tale, of
which the interest turned upon supernatural appear-
ances. Miss Reeve informs the public, in a preface
to a late edition of The Old English Baron, that in
compliance with the suggestion of a friend, she had
composed Castle Connor, an Irish Story, in which
apparitions were introduced. The manuscript, being


4 MEMOIR.
intrusted with some careless or unfaithful person, fell
aside, and was never recovered.
The various novels of Clara Reeve are all marked
by excellent good sense, pure morality, and a com-
petent command of those qualities which constitute
a good romance. They were, generally speaking,
favourably received at the time, but none of them
took the same strong possession of the public mind
as The Old English Baron, upon which the fame of
the author may be considered as now exclusively
rested.
Miss Reeve, respected and beloved, led a retired
life, admitting no materials for biography, until 3d
December 1803, when she died at Ipswich, her
native city, at the advanced age of seventy-eight
years. She was buried in the churchyard of Saint
Stephens, according to her particular direction, near
to the grave of her friend, the Reverend Mr. Derby.
The authoress has herself informed us that The
Old English Baron is the "literary offspring of The
Castle of Otranto; " and she has obliged us by point-
ing out the different and more limited view which
she had adopted, of the supernatural machinery
employed by Horace Walpole. She condemns the
latter for the extravagance of several of his concep-
tions; for the gigantic size of his sword and helmet;
and for the violent fictions of a walking picture, and


MEMOIR. 5
a ghost in a hermit's cowl. A ghost, she contends,
to be admitted as an ingredient in romance, must
behave himself like ghosts of sober demeanour, and
subject himself to the common rules still preserved
in grange and hall, as circumscribing beings of his
description.
We must, however, notwithstanding her authority,
enter our protest against fettering the realm of
shadows by the opinions entertained of it in the
world of realities. If we are to try ghosts by the|
ordinary rules of humanity, we bar them of their)
privileges entirely. For instance, why admit the
existence of an aerial phantom, and deny it the
terrible attribute of magnifying its stature? why
admit an enchanted helmet, and not a gigantic one?
why allow as impressive the fall of a suit of armour,
under circumstances which attribute its fall to a
supernatural influence, and deny the same super-
natural influence the power of producing the illusion
(for it is only represented as such), upon Manfred, by
the portrait of his ancestor appearing to be ani-
mated? It may be said, and it seems to be Miss
Reeve's argument, that there is a verge of probability
which even the most violent figment must not trans-
gress; but we reply by the cross question, that if we
are once to subject our preternatural agents to the
limits of human reason, where are we to stop? We


6
MEMOIR.
might, under such a rule, demand of ghosts an
account of the very circuitous manner in which they
are pleased to open their communications with the
living world. We might, for example, move a quo
,warranto, against the spectre of the murdered Lord
Lovel, for lurking about the eastern apartment,
when it might have been reasonably expected that
if he did not at once impeach his murderers to the
next magistrate, he might at least have put Fitz-Ovven
into the secret, and thus obtained the succession of
his son more easily than by the circuitous route of a
single combat. If there should be an appeal against
this imputation, founded on the universal practice of
ghosts in such circumstances, who always act with
singular obliquity in disclosing the guilt of which
they complain, the matter becomes a question of
precedent; in which view of the case, we may vindi-
cate Horace Walpole for the gigantic exaggeration
of his phantom, by the similar expansion of the
very terrific vision of Fawdoun, in Blind Harry's
Life of Wallace; and we could, were we so disposed,
have paralleled his moving picture, by the example
of one with which we ourselves had some acquaint-
ance, which was said both to move and to utter
groans, to the great alarm of a family of the highest
respectability.
Where, then, may the reader ask, is the line to be


MEMOIR. 7
drawn? On this principle we reply, solely, that the
author himself, being in fact the magician, shall
evoke no spirits whom he is not capable of endowing
with manners and language corresponding to their
supernatural character. Thus Shakespeare, drawing
such characters as Caliban and Ariel, gave them
reality, not by appealing to actual opinions which his
audience might entertain respecting the possibility
or impossibility of their existence, but by investing
them with such attributes as all readers and spec-
tators recognised as those which must have corre-
sponded to such extraordinary beings, had their
existence been possible. If he had pleased to put
into language the "squeaking and gibbering" of
those disembodied phantoms which haunted the
streets of Rome, no doubt his wonderful imagination
could have filled up the sketch, which, marked by
these two emphatic and singularly felicitous expres-
sions, he has left as characteristic of the language of
the dead.
In this point of view, our authoress has, with equal
judgment and accuracy, confined her flight within
those limits on which her opinions could support
her; and though we are disposed to contest her
general principle, we are willing to admit it as a wise
and prudent one, so far as applied to regulate her
own composition. In no part of The Old English


8 MEMOIR.
Baron, or of any other of her works, does Miss Reeve
show the possession of a rich or powerful imagina-
tion. Her dialogue is sensible, easy, and agreeable,
but neither marked by high flights of fancy nor
strong bursts of passion. Her apparition is an
ordinary fiction, of which popular superstition used
to furnish a thousand instances, when nights were
long, and a family had little better to do, when
assembled round a Christmas log, than to listen to
such tales. She is very felicitously cautious in
showing us no more of Lord Lovel's ghost than she
needs must—he is a silent apparition, palpable to the
sight only, and never brought forward into such
broad daylight as might have dissolved our rever-
ence. And so far, we repeat, the authoress has used
her own power to the utmost advantage, and gained
her point by not attempting a step beyond it. But
we cannot allow that the rule which, in her own case,
has been well and wisely adopted, ought to circum-
scribe a bolder and a more imaginative writer.
In what may be called the costume, or keeping, of
the chivalrous period in which the scene of both is
laid, the language and style of Horace Walpole,
together with his intimate acquaintance with the
manners of the Middle Ages, form an incalculable
difference bewixt The Castle of Otranto and The Old
English Baron. Clara Reeve, probably, was better


MEMOIR. 9
acquainted with Plutarch and Rapin than with
Froissart or Olivier de la Marche. This is no impu-
tation on the taste of that ingenious lady. In her
days, Macbeth was performed in a general's full
uniform, and Lord Hastings was dressed like a
modern high chamberlain going to court. Now,
more attention to costume is demanded, and authors,
as well as players, are obliged to make attempts,
however fantastic or grotesque, to imitate the
manners, on the one hand, and the dress, on the
other, of the times in which their scene is laid.
Formerly, nothing of this kind was either required
or expected; and it is not improbable that the
manner in which Walpole circumscribes his dialogue
(in most instances) within the stiff and stern precincts
prescribed by a strict attention to the manners and
language of the times, is the first instance of such
restrictions. In The Old English Baron, on the
contrary, all parties speak and act much in the
fashion of the seventeenth century; employ the
same phrases of courtesy ; and adopt the same tone
of conversation. Baron Fitz-Owen, and the principal
characters, talk after the fashion of country squires
of that period, and the lower personages like gaffers
and gammers of the same era. And "were but the
combat in lists left out," or converted into a modern
duel, the whole train of incidents might, for any


io MEMOIR.
peculiarity to be traced in the dialect or narration,
have taken place in the time of Charles II., or in
either of the two succeeding reigns. As it is, the
story reads as if it had been transcribed into the
language, and according to the ideas, of this latter
period. Yet we are uncertain whether, upon the
whole, this does not rather add to than diminish the
interest of the work ;—at least it gives an interest of a
different kind, which, if it cannot compete with that
which arises out of a highly exalted and poetical
imagination, and a strict attention to the character
and manners of the Middle Ages, has yet this
advantage, that it reaches its point more surely,
than had a higher, more difficult, and more ambitious
line of composition been attempted.


PREFACE.
As this Story is of a species which, though not new,
is out of the common track, it has been thought
necessary to point out some circumstances to the
reader which will elucidate the design, and, it is
hoped, will induce him to form a favourable as well
as a right judgment of the work before him.
The Story is the literary offspring of The Castle'
of Otranto, written upon the same plan, with a
design to unite the most attractive and interesting
circumstances of the ancient Romance and modern
Novel, at the same time it assumes a character and
manner of its own that differs fromjjath; it is dis-
tinguished by the appellation of a Gothic story, being
a picture of Gothic times and manners. Fictitious
stories have been the delight of all times and all
countries, by oral tradition in barbarous, by writing
in more civilised ones; and although some persons
of wit and learning have condemned them indiscri-
minately, I would venture to affirm that even those


12
PREFACE.
who so much affect to despise them under one form,
will receive and embrace them under another.
Thus, for instance, a man shall admire and almost
adore the Epic poems of the Ancients, and yet
despise and execrate the gncient romances, which
are only FrP;rc; 'P p™"p
History represents human nature as it is in
real life, alas, too often a melancholy retrospect!
Romance displays only- ih& amiable side of the
picture; it shows the pleasing features, and throws
a veil over the blemishes. Mankind are naturally
pleased with what gratifies their vanity; and vanity,
like all other passions of the human heart, may be
rendered subservient to good and useful purposes.
I confess that it may be abused, and become an
instrument to corrupt the manners and morals of
mankind; so may poetry, so may plays, so may
every kind of composition; but that will prove
nothing more than the old saying lately revived by
the philosophers, the most in fashion, "that every
earthly thing has two handles."
The business of Romance is, first, to excite the
attention; and, secondly, to direct it- to some useful,
or at least innocent, end. Happy the writer who
attains both these points, like Richardson; and not
unfortunate, or undeserving praise, he who gains
only the latter, and furnishes out an entertainment
for the reader.
Having in some degree opened my design, I


PREFACE.
'3
beg leave to conduct my reader back again, till he
comes within view of The Castle of Otranto; a work
which, as already has been observed, is an attempt
to unite the various merits and graces of the ancient,
Romance and modern Novel. To attain this end,
there is required a sufficient degree of the marvel-
lous to excite attention; enough of the manners of
real life to give an air of probability to the work;
and enough of the jjathetic to engage the heart in its
behalf.
The book we have mentioned is excellent in the
two last points, but has a redundancy in the first.
The opening excites the attention very strongly; the
conduct of the story is artful and judicious; the
characters are admirably drawn and supported; the
diction polished and elegant; yet with all these
brilliant advantages, it palls upon the mind (though
it does not upon the ear); and the reason is obvious,
the machinery is so violent that it destroys the effect
it is intended to excite. Had the story been kept]
within the utmost verge of probability, the effect had!
been preserved, without losing the least circumstance
that excites or detains the attention.
For instance; we can conceive, and allow of, the
appearance of a ghost; we can even dispense with
an enchanted sword and helmet; but then they
must keep within certain limits of credibility. A
sword so large as to require a hundred men to lift
it; a helmet that by its own weight forces a passage


14 PREFACE.
through a courtyard, into an arched vault big
enough for a man to go through; a picture that
walks out of its frame; a skeleton ghost in a hermit's
cowl:—when your expectation is wound up to the
highest pitch, these circumstances take it down with
a witness, destroy the work of imagination, and
instead of attention excite laughter. I was both
surprised and vexed to find the enchantment dis-
solved, which I wished might continue to the end of
the book; and several of its readers have confessed
the same disappointment to me. The beauties are
so numerous that we cannot bear the defects, but
want it to be perfect in all respects.
In the course of my observations upon this singular
book, it seemed to me that it was possible to com-
pose a work upon the same plan, wherein these
defects might be avoided; and the keeping, as in
fainting, might be preserved.
But then I began to fear it might happen to me as
to certain translators and imitators of Shakespeare;
the unities may be preserved, while the spirit is
evaporated. However, I ventured to attempt it; I
read the beginning to a circle of friends of approved
judgment, and by their approbation was encouraged
to proceed and to finish it.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.


I;


THE
OLD ENGLISH BARON.
IN the minority of Henry the Sixth, King of
England, when the renowned John, Duke of Bed-
ford, was Regent of France, and Humphry, the good
Duke of Gloucester, was Protector of England, a
worthy knight, called Sir Philip Harclay, returned
from his travels to England, his native country. He
had served under the glorious King Henry the Fifth
with distinguished valour, had acquired an honour-
able fame, and was no less esteemed for Christian
virtues than for deeds of chivalry. After the death
of his prince, he entered into the service of the
Greek emperor, and distinguished his courage against
the encroachments of the Saracens. In a battle
there, he took prisoner a certain gentleman, by name
M. Zadisky, of Greek extraction, but brought up by
a Saracen officer; this man he converted to the
Christian faith; after which he bound him to himself
by the ties of friendship and gratitude, and he re-
solved to continue with his benefactor. After thirty i
years travel and warlike service, he determined to re-
turn to his native land, and to spend the remainder of
B


18 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
his life in peace; and by devoting himself to works of
piety and charity, prepare for a better state hereafter.
This noble knight had, in his early youth, con-
tracted a strict friendship with the only son of the
Lord Lovel, a gentleman of eminent virtues and
accomplishments. During Sir Philip's residence in
foreign countries, he had frequently written to his
friend, and had for a time received answers; the last
informed him of the death of old Lord Lovel, and
the marriage of the young one; but from that time
he had heard no more from him. Sir Philip imputed
it not to neglect or forgetfulness, but to the difficulties
of intercourse, common at that time to all travellers
and adventurers. When he was returning home he
resolved, after looking into his family affairs, to visit
the Castle of Lovel and inquire into the situation
of his friend. He landed in Kent, attended by his
Greek friend and two faithful servants, one of which
was maimed by the wounds he had received in the
defence of his master.
Sir Philip went to his family seat in Yorkshire.
He found his mother and sister were dead, and his
estates sequestered in the hands of commissioners
appointed by ihe Protector. He was obliged to
prove the reality of his claim, and the identity of his
person (by the testimony of some of the old servants
of his family), after which everything was restored to
him. He took possession of his own house, estab-
lished his household, settled the old servants in their
former stations, and placed those he brought home
in the upper offices of his family. He then left his
friend to superintend his domestic affairs; and at-
tended by only one of his old servants, he set out


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 19
for the Castle of Lovel, in the west of England.
They travelled by easy journeys; but towards the
evening of the second day, the servant was so ill and
fatigued he could go no farther; he stopped at an
inn, where he grew worse every hour, and the next
day expired. Sir Philip was under great concern for
the loss of his servant, and some for himself, being
alone in a strange place; however, he took courage,
ordered his servant's funeral, attended it himself,
and having shed a tear of humanity over his grave,
proceeded alone on his journey.
As he drew near the estate of his friend, he began
to inquire of every one he met, whether the Lord
Lovel resided at the seat of his ancestors? He was
answered by one, he did not know; by another, he
could not tell; by a third, that he never heard of
such a person. Sir Philip thought it strange that a
man of Lord Lovel's consequence should be unknown
in his own neighbourhood, and where his ancestors
had usually resided. He "ruminated on the uncer-
tainty of human happiness. "This world," said he,
"has nothing for a wise man to depend upon. I
have lost all my relations, and most of my friends,
and am even uncertain whether any are remaining.
I will, however, be thankful for the blessings that are
spared to me, and I will endeavour to replace those
that I have lost. If my friend lives, he shall share
my fortune with me; his children shall have the
reversion of it; and I will share his comforts in
return. But perhaps my friend may have met with
troubles that have made him disgusted with the
world; perhaps he has buried his amiable wife, or his
promising children, and tired of public life, he has


20
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
retired into a monastery. At least I will know what
all this silence means."
When he came within a mile of the Castle of Lovel,
he stopped at a cottage and asked for a draught of
water; a peasant, master of the house, brought it,
and asked if his honour would alight and take a
moment's refreshment. Sir Philip accepted his offer,
being resolved to make further inquiry before he
approached the castle. He asked the same questions
of him that he had before of others.
"Which Lord Lovel," said the man, "does your
honour inquire after?"
"The man whom I knew was called Arthur," said
Sir Philip.
"Ay," said the peasant, "he was the only surviving
son of Richard, Lord Lovel, as I think."
"Very true, friend, he was so."
"Alas, sir," said the man, "he is dead! He sur-
vived his father but a short time."
"Dead! say you? how long since?"
"About fifteen years, to the best of my remem-
brance."
Sir Philip sighed deeply.
"Alas!" said he, "what do we, by living long, but
survive all our friends! But pray tell me how he
died?"
"I will, sir, to the best of my knowledge. An't
please your honour, I heard say, that he attended
the king when he went against the Welsh rebels, and
he left his lady big with child; and so there was a
battle fought, and the king got the better of the
rebels. There came first a report that none of the
officers were killed; but a few days after there came


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 21
a messenger with an account very different, that
several were wounded, and that the Lord Lovel was
slain; which sad news overset us all with sorrow, for
he was a noble gentleman, a bountiful master, and
the delight of all the neighbourhood."
"He was indeed," said Sir Philip, "all that is
amiable and good; he was my dear and noble friend,
and I am inconsolable for his loss. But the unfor-
tunate lady, what became of her?"
"Why, an't please your honour, they said she died
of grief for the loss of her husband; but her death
was kept private for a time, and we did not know it
for certain till some weeks afterwards."
"The will of heaven be obeyed!" said Sir Philip;
"but who succeeded to the title and estate?"
"The next heir," said the peasant, "a kinsman of
the deceased, Sir Walter Lovel by name."
"I have seen him," said Sir Philip, "formerly; but
where was he when these events happened?"
"At the Castle of Lovel, sir; he came there on a
visit to the lady, and waited there to receive my lord,
at his return from Wales. When the news of his
death arrived, Sir Walter did everything in his
power to comfort her, and some said he was to marry
her; but she refused to be comforted, and took it so
to heart that she died."
"And does the present Lord Lovel reside at the
castle?"
"No, sir."
"Who then?"
"The Lord Baron Fitz-Owen."
"And how came Sir Walter to leave the seat of
his ancestors?"


22 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"Why, sir, he married his sister to this said lord;
and so he sold the castle to him, and went away, and
built himself a house in the north country, as far as
Northumberland, I think they call it."
"That is very strange," said Sir Philip.
"So it is, please your honour; but this is all I
know about it."
"I thank you, friend, for your intelligence. I have
taken a long journey to no purpose, and have met
with nothing but cross accidents. This life is indeed
a pilgrimage! Pray, direct me the nearest way to the
next monastery."
"Noble sir," said the peasant, "it is full five miles
off, the night is coming on, and the ways are bad; I
am but a poor man, and cannot entertain your
honour as you are used to; but if you will enter my
poor cottage, that, and everything in it, are at your
service."
"My honest friend, I thank you heartily," said Sir
Philip; "your kindness and hospitality might shame
many of higher birth and breeding; I will accept
your kind offer;—but pray let me know the name of
my host?"
"John Wyatt, sir; an honest man though a poor
one, and a Christian man though a sinful one."
"Whose cottage is this?"
"It belongs to the Lord Fitz-Owen."
"What family have you?"
"A wife, two sons, and a daughter, who will all be
proud to wait upon your honour. Let me hold your
honour's stirrup whilst you alight."
He seconded these words by the proper action, and
having assisted his guest to dismount, he conducted


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 23
him into his house, called his wife to attend him, and
then led his horse under a poor shed that served him
as a stable. Sir Philip was fatigued in body and
mind, and was glad to repose himself anywhere. The
courtesy of his host engaged his attention, and satis-
fied his wishes. He soon after returned, followed by
a youth of about eighteen years.
"Make haste, John," said the father, " and be sure
you say neither more nor less than what I have told
you."
"I will, father," said the lad; and immediately set
off, ran like a buck across the fields, and was out of
sight in an instant.
"I hope, friend," said Sir Philip, "you have not
sent your son to provide for my entertainment; I am
a soldier, used to lodge and fare hard; and if it were
otherwise, your courtesy and kindness would give a
relish to the most ordinary food."
"I wish heartily," said Wyatt, " it was in my power
to entertain your honour as you ought to be; but as
I cannot do so, I will, when my son returns, acquaint
you with the errand I sent him on."
After this they conversed together on common
subjects, like fellow-creatures of the same natural form
and endowments, though different kinds of education
had given a conscious superiority to the one, a con-
scious inferiority to the other; and the due respect
was paid by the latter, without being exacted by the
former. In about half an hour young John returned.
"Thou hast made haste," said the father.
"Not more than good speed," quoth the son.
"Tell us, then, how you sped?"
"Shall I tell all that passed?" said John.


24 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"All," said the father; "I don't want to hide any-
thing."
John stood with his cap in his hand, and thus told
his tale—
"I went straight to the castle as fast as I could
run; it was my hap to light on young Master
Edmund first, so I told him just as you bade me,
that a noble gentleman was come a long journey
from foreign parts to see the Lord Lovel, his friend;
and having lived abroad many years, he did not
know that he was dead, and that the castle was
fallen into other hands; that upon hearing these
tidings he was much grieved and disappointed, and
wanting a night's lodging to rest himself before he
returned to his own home, he was fain to take up
with one at our cottage; that my father thought my
lord would be angry with him, if he were not told of
the stranger's journey and intentions, especially to
let such a man lie at our cottage, where he could
neither be lodged nor entertained according to his
quality."
Here John stopped, and his father exclaimed—
"A good lad! you did your errand very well; and
tell us the answer."
John proceeded—
"Master Edmund ordered me some beer, and went
to acquaint my lord of the message; he stayed a
while, and then came back to me.—' John,' said he,
'tell the noble stranger that the Baron Fitz-Owen
greets him well, and desires him to rest assured that
though Lord Lovel is dead, and the castle fallen into
other hands, his friends will always find a welcome
there; and my lord desires that he will accept of a


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
lodging there, while he remains in this country.'—So
I came away directly, and made haste to deliver my
errand."
Sir Philip expressed some dissatisfaction at this
mark of old Wyatt's respect.
"I wish," said he, "that you had acquainted me
with your intention before you sent to inform the
Baron I was here. I choose rather to lodge with
you; and I propose to make amends for the trouble
I shall give you."
"Pray, sir, don't mention it," said the peasant,
"you are as welcome as myself; I hope no offence:
the only reason of my sending was, because I am both
unable and unworthy to entertain your honour."
"I am sorry," said Sir Philip, "you should think
me so dainty; I am a Christian soldier; and Him I
acknowledge for my Prince and Master accepted the
invitations of the poor, and washed the feet of His
disciples. Let us say no more on this head; I am
resolved to stay this night in your cottage, to-morrow
I will wait on the Baron, and thank him for his hos-
pitable invitation."
"That shall be as your honour pleases, since you
will condescend to stay here. John, do you run back
and acquaint my lord of it."
"Not so," said Sir Philip, "it is now almost dark."
"'Tis no matter," said John, "I can go it blind-
fold."
Sir Philip then gave him a message to the Baron
in his own name, acquainting him that he would pay
his respects to him in the morning. John flew back
the second time, and soon returned with new com-
mendations from the Baron, and that he would expect


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
him on the morrow. Sir Philip gave him an angel of
gold, and praised his speed and abilities.
He supped with Wyatt and his family upon new-
laid eggs and rashers of bacon, with the highest
relish. They praised the Creator for His gifts, and
acknowledged they were unworthy of the least of
His blessings. They gave the best of their two lofts
up to Sir Philip, the rest of the family slept in the
other, the old woman and her daughter in the bed,
the father and his two sons upon clean straw. Sir
Philip's bed was of a better kind, and yet much
inferior to his usual accommodations; nevertheless,
the good knight slept as well in Wyatt's cottage, as
he could have done in a palace.
During his sleep, many strange and incoherent
.dreams arose to his imagination. He thought he
received a message from his friend Lord Lovel, to
come to him at the castle; that he stood at the gate
and received him; that he strove to embrace him,
but could not; but that he spoke to this effect:—
"Though I have been dead these fifteen years, I still
command here, and none can enter these gates with-
out my permission; know that it is I that invite, and
bid you welcome; the hopes of my house rest upon
you." Upon this he bid Sir Philip follow him; he
led him through many rooms, till at last he sunk
down, and Sir Philip thought he still followed him,
till he came into a dark and frightful cave, where he
disappeared, and in his stead he beheld a complete
suit of armour stained with blood, which belonged to
his friend, and he thought he heard dismal groans
from beneath. Presently after, he thought he was
hurried away by an invisible hand, and led into a


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
27
wild heath, where the people were enclosing the
ground and making preparations for two combat-
ants; the trumpet sounded, and a voice called out
still louder, "Forbear! It is not permitted to be
revealed till the time is ripe for the event; wait with
patience on the decrees of Heaven." He was then
transported to his own house, where, going into an
unfrequented room, he was again met by his friend,
who was living, and in all the bloom of youth, as
when he first knew him; he started at the sight, and
awoke. The sun shone upon his curtains, and per-
ceiving it was day, he sat up, and recollected where
he was. The images that impressed his sleeping
fancy remained strongly on his mind waking; but his
reason strove to disperse them; it was natural that
the story he had heard should create these ideas, that
they should wait on him in his sleep, and that every
dream should bear some relation to his deceased
friend. The sun dazzled his eyes, the birds serenaded
him and diverted his attention, and a woodbine forced
its way through the window, and regaled his sense
of smelling with its fragrance. He arose, paid his
devotions to Heaven, and then carefully descended
the narrow stairs, and went out at the door of the
cottage. There he saw the industrious wife and
daughter of old Wyatt at their morning work, the - <i
one milking her cow, the other feeding her poultry. ^'c',(
He asked for a draught of milk, which, with a slice-,
of rye-bread, served to break his fast. He walked?
about the fields alone, for old Wyatt and his two sons
were gone out to their daily labour. He was soon
called back by the good woman, who told him that a
servant from the Baron waited to conduct him to the


28
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
castle. He took leave of Wyatt's wife, telling her he
would see her again before he left the country. The
daughter fetched his horse, which he mounted, and
set forward with the servant, of whom he asked many
questions concerning his master's family.
"How long have you lived with the Baron?"
"Ten years."
"Is he a good master?"
"Yes, sir, and also a good husband and father."
"What family has he?"
"Three sons and a daughter."
"What age are they of?"
"The eldest son is in his seventeenth year, the
second in his sixteenth, the others several years
younger; but besides these, my lord has several
woung gentlemen brought up with his own sons, two
of which are his nephews; he keeps in his house a
learned clerk to teach them languages: and as for
'all bodily exercises, none come near them; there is
a fletcher to teach them the use of the cross-bow;
a master to teach them to ride; another the use of
the sword; another learns them to dance; and then
they wrestle and run, and have such activity in all
their motions, that it does one good to see them;
and my lord thinks nothing too much to bestow on
their education."
"Truly," says Sir Philip, "he does the part of a
good parent, and I honour him greatly for it; but
are the young gentlemen of a promising disposition?"
"Yes, indeed, sir," answered the servant, "the
young gentlemen, my lord's sons, are hopeful youths,
but yet there is one who is thought to exceed them
all, though he is the son of a poor labourer."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
29
"And who is he?" said the knight.
"One Edmund Twyford, the son of a cottager in
our village; he is, to be sure, as fine a youth as ever
the sun shone upon, and of so sweet a disposition,
that nobody envies his good fortune."
"What good fortune does he enjoy?"
"Why, sir, about two years ago, my lord, at his
sons' request, took him into his own family, and
gives him the same education as his own children;
the young lords doat upon him, especially Master
William, who is about his own age; it is supposed
that he will attend the young lords when they go to
the wars, which my lord intends they shall by and
by."
"What you tell me," said Sir Philip, "increases
every minute my respect for your lord. He is an
excellent father and master; he seeks out merit in
obscurity; he distinguishes and rewards it,—I honour
him with all my heart."
In this manner they conversed together till they
came within view of the castle. In a field near the
house they saw a company of youths, with cross-bows
in their hands, shooting at a mark.
"There," said the servant, "are our young gentle-
men at their exercises."
Sir Philip stopped his horse to observe them; he
heard two or three of them cry out, "Edmund is the
victor! He wins the prize!"
"I must," said Sir Philip, "take a view of this
Edmund."
He jumped off his horse, gave the bridle to the
servant, and walked into the field. The young
gentlemen came up, and paid their respects to him;


30 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
he apologised for intruding upon their sports, and
asked which was the victor? Upon which, the youth
he spoke to beckoned to another, who immediately-
advanced and made his obeisance; as he drew near,
Sir Philip fixed his eyes upon him with so much
attention, that he seemed not to observe his courtesy
and address. At length he recollected himself and
said, "What is your name, young man?"
"Edmund Twyford," replied the youth; "and I
have the honour to attend upon the Lord Fitz-Owen's
sons."
"Pray, noble sir," said the youth who first addressed
Sir Philip, "are not you the stranger who is expected
by my father?"
"I am, sir," answered he, "and I go to pay my
respects to him."
"Will you excuse our attendance, sir? we have
not yet finished our exercises."
"My dear youth," said Sir Philip, "no apology is
necessary; but will you favour me with your proper
name, that I may know to whose courtesy I am
obliged?"
"My name is William Fitz-Owen; that gentleman
is my eldest brother, Master Robert; that other my
kinsman, Master Richard Wenlock."
"Very well; I thank you, gentle sir; I beg you
not to stir another step, your servant holds my
horse."
"Farewell, sir," said Master William, "I hope we
shall have the pleasure of meeting you at dinner."
The youths returned to their sports, and Sir
Philip mounted his horse, and proceeded to the
castle; he entered it with a deep sigh and melancholy


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 31

recollections. The Baron received him with the
utmost respect and courtesy. He gave a brief
account of the principal events that had happened
in the family of Lovel during his absence; he spoke
of the late Lord Lovel with respect, of the present
with the affection of a brother. Sir Philip, in return,
gave a brief recital of his own adventures abroad,
and of the disagreeable circumstances he had met
with since his return home; he pathetically lamented
the loss of all his friends, not forgetting that of his
faithful servant on the way; saying, he could be
contented to give up the world and retire to a
religious house, but that he was withheld by the
consideration, that some who depended entirely upon
him would want his presence and assistance; and,
beside that, he thought he might be of service to
many others. The Baron agreed with him in opinion,
that a man was of much more service to the world
who continued in it, than one who retired from it,
and gave his fortune to the Church, whose servants
did not always make the best use of it. Sir Philip
then turned the conversation, and congratulated the
Baron on his hopeful family; he praised their persons
and address, and warmly applauded the care he
bestowed on their education. The Baron listened
with pleasure to the honest approbation of a worthy
heart, and enjoyed the true happiness of a parent.
Sir Philip then made further inquiry concerning
Edmund, whose appearance had struck him with an
impression in his favour.
"That boy," said the Baron, "is the son of a
cottager in this neighbourhood; his uncommon merit,
and gentleness of manners, distinguish him from


32 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
those of his own class. From his childhood he
attracted the notice and affection of all that knew
him; he was beloved everywhere but at his father's
house, and there it should seem that his merits were
his crimes; for the peasant, his father, hated him,
treated him severely, and at length threatened to
turn him out of doors. He used to run here and
there on errands for my people, and at length they
obliged me to take notice of him; my sons earnestly
desired I would take him into my family; I did so
about two years ago, intending to make him their
servant; but his extraordinary genius and disposition
have obliged me to look upon him in a superior light.
Perhaps I may incur the censure of many people, by
giving him so many advantages, and treating him as
the companion of my children; his merit must justify
or condemn my partiality for him; however, I trust
that I have secured to my children a faithful servant
of the upper kind, and a useful friend to my family."
Sir Philip warmly applauded his generous host,
and wished to be a sharer in his bounty to that fine
youth, whose appearance indicated all the qualities
that had endeared him to his companions.
At the hour of dinner the young men presented
themselves before their lord and his guest. Sir
Philip addressed himself to Edmund; he asked him
many questions, and received modest and intelligent
answers, and he grew every minute more pleased
with him. After dinner the youths withdrew with
their tutor to pursue their studies. Sir Philip sat
for some time wrapt up in meditation. After some
minutes, the Baron asked him, "If he might not be
favoured with the fruits of his contemplations?"


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 33
"You shall, my lord," answered he, "for you have
a right to them. I was thinking, that when many
blessings are lost, we should cherish those that
remain, and even endeavour to replace the others.
My lord, I have taken a strong liking to that youth
whom you called Edmund Twyford; I have neither
children nor relations to claim my fortune nor share
my affections; your lordship has many demands
upon your generosity; I can provide for this pro-
mising youth without doing injustice to any one; will
you give him to me?"
"He is a fortunate boy," said the Baron, "to gain
your favour so soon."
"My lord," said the knight, "I will confess to you,
that the first thing that touched my heart in his
favour, is a strong resemblance he bears to a certain
dear friend I once had, and his manner resembles
him as much as his person; his qualities deserve
that he should be placed in a higher rank; I will
adopt him for my son, and introduce him into the
world as my relation, if you will resign him to me;
what say you?"
"Sir," said the Baron, "you have made a noble
offer, and I am too much the young man's friend
to be a hindrance^ to his preferment. It is true that
I intended to provide for him in my own family; but
I cannot do it so effectually as by giving him to you,
whose generous affection being unlimited by other
ties, may in time prefer him to a higher station, as
he shall deserve it. I have only one condition to
make, that the lad shall have his option; for I would
not oblige him to leave my service against his in-
clination."
C


34
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"You say well," replied Sir Philip, "nor would I
take him upon other terms."
"Agreed, then," said the Baron, " let us send for
Edmund hither."
A servant was sent to fetch him; he came im-
mediately, and his lord thus bespoke him—
"Edmund, you owe eternal obligations to this
gentleman, who, perceiving in you a certain resem-
blance to a friend of his, and liking your behaviour,
has taken a great affection for you, insomuch that
he desires to receive you into his family. I cannot
better provide for you than by disposing of you to
him; and if you have no objection, you shall return
home with him when he goes from hence."
The countenance of Edmund underwent many
alterations during this proposal of his lord; it ex-
pressed tenderness, gratitude, and sorrow, but the
last was predominant; he bowed respectfully to the
Baron and Sir Philip, and after some hesitation,
spoke as follows :—
"I feel very strongly the obligations I owe to
this gentleman, for his noble and generous offer; I
cannot express the sense I have of his goodness to
me, a peasant boy, only known to him by my lord's
kind and partial mention; this uncommon bounty
claims my eternal gratitude. To you, my honoured
lord, I owe everything, even this gentleman's good
opinion; you distinguished me when nobody else
did; and, next to you, your sons are my best and
dearest benefactors; they introduced me to your
notice. My heart is unalterably attached to this
house and family, and my utmost ambition is to
spend my life in your service; but if you have per-


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 35
ceived any great and grievous faults in me, that
make you wish to put me out of your family, and if
you have recommended me to this gentleman in
order to be rid of me, in that case I will submit to
your pleasure, as I would if you should sentence me
to death."
During this speech the tears made themselves
channels down Edmund's cheeks; and his two noble
auditors, catching the tender infection, wiped their
eyes at the conclusion.
"My dear child," said the Baron, "you overcome
me by your tenderness and gratitude. I know of
no faults you have committed, that I should wish
to be rid of you. I thought to do you the best ser-
vice by promoting you to that of Sir Philip Harclay,
who is both able and willing to provide for you; but
if you prefer my service to his, I will not part with
you."
Upon this Edmund kneeled to the Baron; he
embraced his knees. "My dear lord, I am and will
be your servant, in preference to any man living ; I
only ask your permission to live and die in your
service."
"You see, Sir Philip," said the Baron, "how this
boy engages the heart; how can I part with
him?"
"I cannot ask you any more," answered Sir Philip;
"I see it is impossible; but I esteem you both still
higher than ever; the youth for his gratitude, and
your lordship for your noble mind and true gene-
rosity; blessings attend you both!"
"Oh, sir," said Edmund, pressing the hand of Sir
Philip, " do not think me ungrateful to you; I will


36
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
ever remember your goodness, and pray to Heaven
to reward it: the name of Sir Philip Harclay shall
be engraven upon my heart, next to my lord and
his family, for ever."
Sir Philip raised the youth and embraced him,
saying, "If ever you want a friend, remember me;
and depend upon my protection so long as you con-
tinue to deserve it."
i Edmund bowed low, and withdrew, with his eyes
full of tears of sensibility and gratitude. When he
was gone, Sir Philip said, "I am thinking, that
though young Edmund wants not my assistance at
present, he may hereafter stand in need of my
friendship. I should not wonder if such rare quali-
ties as he possesses should one day create envy, and
raise him enemies; in which case he might come to
lose your favour without any fault of yours or his
own."
"I am obliged to you for the warning," said the
Baron, "I hope it will be unnecessary; but if ever
I part with Edmund, you shall have the refusal of
him."
"I thank your lordship for all your civilities to
me," said the knight; "I leave my best wishes with
you and your hopeful family, and I humbly take
my leave."
"Will you not stay one night in the castle?"
returned my lord; "you shall be as welcome a guest
as ever."
"I acknowledge your goodness and hospitality,
but this house fills me with melancholy recollec-
tions; I came hither with a heavy heart, and it will
not be lighter while I remain here. I shall always


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 37
remember your lordship with the highest respect
and esteem; and I pray God to preserve you and
increase your blessings."
After some further ceremonies, Sir Philip departed,
and returned to old Wyatt's, ruminating on the
vicissitude of human affairs, and thinking on the
changes he had seen.
At his return to Wyatt's cottage, he found the
family assembled together. He told them he would
take another night's lodging there, which they heard
with great pleasure;—for he had familiarised himself
to them in the last evening's conversation, insomuch
that they began to enjoy his company. He told
Wyatt of the misfortune he had sustained by losing
his servant on the way, and wished he could get one
to attend him home in his place. Young John looked
earnestly at his father, who returned a look of appro-
bation.
"I perceive one in this company," said he, "that
would be proud to serve your honour; but I fear he
is not brought up well enough."
John coloured with impatience; he could not for-
bear speaking—
"Sir, I can answer for an honest heart, a willing
mind, and a light pair of heels; and though I am
somewhat awkward, I shall be proud to learn to
please my noble master, if he will but try me."
"You say well," said Sir Philip; "I have observed
your qualifications, and if you are desirous to serve
me, I am equally pleased with you. If your father
has no objection, I will take you."
"Objection, sir!" said the old man; "it will be
my pride to prefer him to such a noble gentleman;


38 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
I will make no terms for him, but leave it to your
honour to do for him as he shall deserve."
"Very well," said Sir Philip, "you shall be no
loser by that; I will charge myself with the care of
the young man."
The bargain was struck, and Sir Philip purchased
-'a horse for John of the old man. The next morning
: they set out; the knight left marks of his bounty
with the good people, and departed, laden with their
; blessings and prayers. He stopped at the place
j where his faithful servant was buried, and caused
J masses to be said for the repose of his soul; then
j pursuing his way by easy journeys, arrived in safety
I at home. His family rejoiced at his return; he
settled his new servant in attendance upon his
person; he then looked round his neighbourhood for
objects of his charity; when he saw merit in distress,
it was his delight to raise and support it; he spent
his time in the service of his Creator, and glorified
Him in doing good to His creatures. He reflected
frequently upon everything that had befallen him
in his late journey to.the west; and at his leisure
took down all the particulars in writing.
[Here follows An interval of four years, as by the manu-
script; and this omission seems intended by the wtiter. What
follows is in a different hand, and the character is more
modern.]
ABOUT this time the prognostics of Sir Philip Harclay
began to be verified, that Edmund's good qualities
might one day excite envy, and create him enemies.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 39
The sons and kinsmen of his patron began to seek
occasion to find fault with him, and to depreciate
him with others. The Baron's eldest son and heir,
Master Robert, had several contests with Master ,,
William, the second son, upon his account; this
youth had a warm affection for Edmund, and when-
ever his brother and kinsmen treated him slightly, he
supported him against their malicious insinuations.
Mr. Richard Wenlock, and Mr. John Markham, were
the sister's sons of the Lord Fitz-Owen; and there
were several other more distant relations, who, with
them, secretly envied Edmund's fine qualities, and
strove to lessen him in the esteem of the Baron and
his family. By degrees they excited a dislike in
Master Robert, that in time was fixed into habit and
fell little short of aversion.
Young Wenlock's hatred was confirmed by an
additional circumstance: he had a growing passion
for the Lady Emma, the Baron's only daughter;
and as love is eagle-eyed, he saw, or fancied he saw,
her cast an eye of preference on Edmund. An
accidental service that she received from him had
excited her grateful regards and attentions towards
him. The incessant view of his fine person and
qualities had perhaps improved her esteem into a
still softer sensation, though she was yet ignorant of
it, and thought it only the tribute due to gratitude
and friendship.
One Christmas time, the Baron and all his family
went to visit a family in Wales; crossing a ford, the
horse that carried the Lady Emma, who rode behind
her cousin Wenlock, stumbled and fell down, and
threw her off into the water: Edmund dismounted


40 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
in a moment, and flew to her assistance; he took her
out so quick that the accident was not known to
some part of the company. From this time Wenlock
strove to undermine Edmund in her esteem, and she
conceived herself obliged, in justice and gratitude, to
defend him against the malicious insinuations of his
enemies. She one day asked Wenlock, why he in
particular should endeavour to recommend himself
to her favour, by speaking against Edmund, to
whom she was under great obligations? He made
but little reply; but the impression sunk deep into
his rancorous heart; every word in Edmund's behalf
was like a poisoned arrow that rankled in the wound,
and grew every day more inflamed. Sometimes he
would pretend to extenuate Edmund's supposed
faults, in order to load him with the sin of ingratitude
upon other occasions. Rancour works deepest in the
heart that strives to conceal it; and when covered by
art, frequently puts on the appearance of candour.
By these means did Wenlock and Markham impose
upon the credulity of Master Robert and their other
relations: Master William only stood proof against
all their insinuations.
The same autumn that Edmund completed his
eighteenth year, the Baron declared his intention of
sending the young men of his house to France the
following spring, to learn the art of war, and signalise
their courage and abilities.
Their ill-will towards Edmund was so well con-
cealed that his patron had not discovered it; but
it was whispered among the servants, who are gene-
rally close observers of the manners of their principals.
Edmund was a favourite with them all, which was a


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 41
strong presumption that he deserved to be so, for
they seldom show much regard to dependants, or
to superior domestics, who are generally objects of
envy and dislike. Edmund was courteous, but not
familiar! with them; and by this means gained
their affections without soliciting them. Among
them was an old serving-man, called Joseph Howel;
this man had formerly served the old Lord Lovel
and his son; and when the young lord died, and Sir
Walter sold the castle to his brother-in-law, the Lord
Fitz-Owen, he only of all the old servants was left in
the house, to take care of it, and to deliver it into
the possession of the new proprietor, who retained
him in his service: he was a man of few words,
but much reflection; and without troubling him-
self about other people's affairs, went silently and
properly about his own business, more solicitous to
discharge his duty than to recommend himself to
notice, and not seeming to aspire to any higher office
than that of a serving-man. This old man would
fix his eyes upon Edmund whenever he could do
it without observation; sometimes he would sigh
deeply, and a tear would start from his eye, which
he strove to conceal from observation. One day
Edmund surprised him in his tender emotion, as
he was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Why," said he, "my good friend, do you look at
me so earnestly and affectionately?"
"Because I love you, Master Edmund," said he;
"because I wish you well."
"I thank you kindly," answered Edmund; "I am
unable to repay your love, otherwise than by return-
ing it, which I do sincerely."


42
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I thank you, sir," said the old man; "that is all
I desire, and more than I deserve."
"Do not say so," said Edmund; "if I had any
better way to thank you, I would not say so much
about it; but words are all my inheritance."
Upon .this he shook hands with Joseph, who with-
drew hastily to conceal his emotion, saying, "God
bless you, master, and make your fortune equal to
your deserts! I cannot help thinking you were born
to a higher station than what you now hold."
"You know to the contrary," said Edmund; but
Joseph was gone out of sight and hearing.
The notice and observation of strangers, and the
affection of individuals, together with that inward
consciousness that always attends superior qualities,
would sometimes kindle the flames of ambition in
Edmund's heart; but he checked them presently, by
reflecting upon his low birth and dependent station.
He was modest, yet intrepid; gentle and courteous
to all, frank and unreserved to those that loved him;
discreet and complaisant to those who hated him;
generous and compassionate to the distresses of his
fellow-creatures in general; humble, but not servile,
to his patron and superiors. Once, when he with a
manly spirit justified himself against a malicious
imputation, his young lord, Robert, taxed him with
pride and arrogance to his kinsmen. Edmund
denied the charge against him with equal spirit and
modesty. Master Robert answered him sharply,
"How dare you contradict my cousins? do you
mean to give them the lie?"
"Not in words, sir," said Edmund; "but I will
behave so as that you shall not believe them."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 43
Master Robert haughtily bid him be silent, and
know himself, and not presume to contend with men
so much his superiors in every respect. These heart-
burnings in some degree subsided by their prepara-
tions for going to France. Master Robert was to be
presented at court before his departure, and it was
expected that he should be knighted. The Baron
designed Edmund to be his esquire; but this was
frustrated by his old enemies, who persuaded Robert
to make choice of one of his own domestics, called
Thomas Hewson; him did they set up as a rival to
Edmund, and he took every occasion to affront him.
All that Master Robert gained by this step was the
contempt of those who saw Edmund's merit, and
thought it want of discernment in him not to dis-
tinguish and reward it. Edmund requested of his
lord that he might be Master William's attendant;
"and when," said he, " my patron shall be knighted,
as I make no doubt he will one day be, he has
promised that I shall be his esquire." The Baron
granted Edmund's request; and being freed from
servitude to the rest, he was devoted to that of his
beloved master, William, who treated him in public
as his principal domestic, but in private as his chosen
friend and brother.
The whole cabal of his enemies consulted together
in what manner they should vent their resentment
against him; and it was agreed that they should
treat him with indifference and neglect, till they
should arrive in France; and when there, they should
contrive to render his courage suspected, and by
putting him upon some desperate enterprise, rid
themselves of him for ever. About this time died
r


44 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
the great Duke of Bedford, to the irreparable loss of
the English nation. He was succeeded by Richard
Plantagenet, Duke of York, as Regent of France,
of which great part had revolted to Charles the
Dauphin. Frequent actions ensued. Cities were
lost and won; and continual occasions offered to
exercise the courage and abilities of the youths of
both nations.
The young men of Baron Fitz-Owen's house were
recommended particularly to the Regent's notice.
Master Robert was knighted, with several other
young men of family, who distinguished themselves
by their spirit and activity upon every occasion.
The youth were daily employed in warlike exercises
and frequent actions; and made their first essay in
arms in such a manner as to bring into notice all
that deserved it.
Various arts were used by Edmund's enemies to
expose him to danger; -but all their contrivances
recoiled upon themselves, and brought increase of
honour upon Edmund's head; he distinguished him-
self upon so many occasions, that Sir Robert himself
began to pay him more than ordinary regard, to the
infinite mortification of his kinsmen and relations.
They laid many schemes against him, but none took
effect.
[From this place the characters in the manuscript are effaced
by time and damp. Here and there some sentences are legible,
but not sufficient to pursue the thread of the story. Mention
is made of several actions in which the young men were
engaged—that Edmund distinguished himself by intrepidity
in action; by gentleness, humanity, and modesty in the cessa-


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
45
tions—that he attracted the notice of every person of observa-
tion, and also, that he received personal commendation Jrom
the Regent.
The following incidents are clear enough to be transcribed;
but the beginning of the next succeeding pages is obliterated;
however, we may guess at the beginning by what remains.]
As soon as the cabal met in Sir Robert's tent, Mr.
Wenlock thus began :—" You see, my friends, that
every attempt we make to humble this upstart, turns
into applause, and serves only to raise his pride still
higher. Something must be done, or his praise will
go home before us, at our own expense, and we shall
seem only foils to set off his glories. Anything would
I give to the man who should execute our vengeance
upon him."
"Stop there, cousin Wenlock," said Sir Robert;
"though I think Edmund proud and vain-glorious,
and would join in any scheme to humble him and
make him know himself, I will not suffer any man
to use such base methods to effect it. Edmund is
brave; and it is beneath an Englishman to revenge
himself by unworthy means; if any such are used,
I will be the first man to bring the guilty to justice;
and if I hear another word to this purpose, I will
inform my brother William, who will acquaint
Edmund with your mean intentions." Upon this the
cabal drew back, and Mr. Wenlock protested that he
meant no more than to mortify his pride, and make
him know his proper station. Soon after Sir Robert
withdrew, and they resumed their deliberations.
Then spoke Thomas Hewson: "There is a party


46 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
to be sent out to-morrow night, to intercept a convoy
of provisions for the relief of Rouen. I will provoke
Mr. Edmund to make one of this party; and when
he is engaged in the action, I and my companions
will draw off and leave him to the enemy, who I
trust will so handle him, that you shall no more be
troubled with him."
"This will do," said Mr. Wenlock; "but let it be
kept from my two cousins, and only known to our-
selves; if they offer to be of the party, I will persuade
them off it. And you, Thomas, if you bring this
scheme to a conclusion, may depend upon my eternal
gratitude."
"And mine," said Markham; and so said all. The
next day the affair was publicly mentioned; and
Hewson, as he promised, provoked Edmund to the
trial. Several young men of family offered them-
selves; among the rest, Sir Robert and his brother
William. Mr. Wenlock persuaded them not to go,
and set the danger of the enterprise in the strongest
colours. At last Sir Robert complained of the tooth-
ache, and was confined to his tent. Edmund waited
on him; and judging by the ardour of his own
courage of that of his patron, thus bespoke him :—" I
am greatly concerned, dear sir, that we cannot have
your company at night: but as I know what you
will suffer at being absent, I would beg the favour of
you to let me use your arms and device, and I will
promise not to disgrace them."
"No, Edmund, I cannot consent to that: I thank
you for your noble offer, and will remember it to
your advantage; but I cannot wear honours of an-
other man's getting. You have awakened me to a


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
47
sense of my duty: I will go with you, and contend
with you for glory, and William shall do the same."
In a few hours they were ready to set out.
Wenlock and Markham, and their dependants, found
themselves engaged in honour to go upon an enter-
prise they never intended, and set out with heavy
hearts to join the party. They marched in silence,
in the horrors of a dark night and wet roads. They
met the convoy where they expected, and a sharp
engagement ensued. The victory was some time
doubtful; but the moon rising on the backs of the
English, gave them the advantage. They saw the
disposition of their enemies and availed themselves
of it. Edmund advanced the foremost of the party;
he drew out the leader on the French side; he slew
him. Mr. William pressed forward to assist his
friend; Sir Robert to defend his brother; Wenlock
and Markham, from shame to stay behind.
Thomas Hewson and his associates drew back on
their side; the French perceived it, and pursued the
advantage. Edmund pushed them in front; the
young nobles all followed him; they broke through
the detachment, and stopped the waggons. The
officer who commanded the party encouraged them
to go on; the defeat was soon complete, and the
provisions carried in triumph to the English camp.
Edmund was presented to the Regent as the man
to whom the victory was chiefly owing. Not a
tongue presumed to move itself against him; even
malice and envy were silenced.
"Approach, young man," said the Regent, "that I
may confer upon you the honour of knighthood,
which you have well deserved."


48 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Mr. Wenlock could no longer forbear speaking—
"Knighthood," said he, "is an order belonging to
gentlemen; it cannot be conferred on a peasant."
"What say you, sir?" returned the Regent; "is
this youth a peasant?"
"He is," said Wenlock; "let him deny it if he can."
Edmund, with a modest bow, replied, "It is true
indeed I am a peasant, and this honour is too great
for me; I have only done my duty."
The Duke of York, whose pride of birth equalled
that of any man living or dead, sheathed his sword
immediately—"Though," said he, "I cannot reward
you as I intended, I will take care that you shall
have a large share in the spoils of this night; and I
declare publicly that you stand first in the list of
gallant men in this engagement."
Thomas Hewson and his associates made a poor
figure on their return; they were publicly reproved
for their backwardness. Hewson was wounded in
body, and more in mind, for the bad success of his
ill-laid design. He could not hold up his head before
Edmund, who, unconscious of their malice, admini-
stered every kind of comfort to them. He spoke in
their behalf to the commanding officer, imputing
their conduct to unavoidable accidents. He visited
them privately; he gave them a part of the spoils
allotted to himself; by every act of valour and
courtesy, he strove to engage those hearts that hated,
envied, and maligned him. But where hatred arises
from envy of superior qualities, every display of
those qualities increases the cause from whence it
arises.
[Anotherpause ensues here.]


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 49
The young nobles and gentlemen who distin-
guished Edmund were prevented from raising him to
preferment, by the insinuations of Wenlock and his
associates, who never failed to set before them his
low descent, and his pride and arrogance in presum-
ing to rank with gentlemen.
[Here the manuscript is not legible for several pages.
There is mention, about this time, of the death of the Lady
Fiiz-Owen, but not the cause.]
Wenlock rejoiced to find that his schemes took
effect, and that they should be recalled at the
approach of winter. The Baron was glad of a pre-
tence to send for them home; for he could no longer
endure the absence of his children after the loss of
their mother.
[The manuscript is again defaced for many leaves; at
length the letters become more legible, and the remainder of it
is quite perfect.]
FROM the time the young men returned from France,
the enemies of Edmund employed their utmost
abilities to ruin him in the Baron's opinion, and get
him dismissed from the family. They insinuated a
thousand things against him that happened, as they
said, during his residence in France, and therefore
could not be known to his master; but when the
Baron privately inquired of his two elder sons, he
found there was no truth in their reports. Sir
Robert, though he did not love him, scorned to join
D


50 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
in untruths against him. Mr. William spoke of him
1 with the warmth of fraternal affection. The Baron
perceived that his kinsmen disliked Edmund; but
his own good heart hindered him from seeing the
baseness of theirs. It is said that continual drop-
ping will wear away a stone; so did their incessant
reports, by insensible degrees, produce a coolness in
his patron's behaviour toward him. If he behaved
I with manly spirit, it was misconstrued into pride
and arrogance; his generosity was imprudence; his
humility was hypocrisy, the better to cover his
ambition. Edmund bore patiently all the indig-
nities that were thrown upon him; and though he
felt them severely in his bosom, scorned to justify
his conduct at the expense even of his enemies.
Perhaps his gentle spirit might at length have sunk
under this treatment; but Providence interposed in
his behalf, and by seemingly accidental circum-
stances, conducted him imperceptibly towards the
crisis of his fate.
Father Oswald, who had been preceptor to the
young men, had a strong affection for Edmund, from
a thorough knowledge of his heart; he saw through
the mean artifices that were used to undermine him
in his patron's favour; he watched their machina-
tions, and strove to frustrate their designs.
This good man used frequently to walk out with
Edmund. They conversed upon various subjects;
and the youth would lament to him the unhappiness
of his situation, and the peculiar circumstances that
attended him. The father, by his wholesome advice,
comforted his drooping heart, and confirmed him in
his resolution of bearing unavoidable evils, with


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
patience and fortitude, from the consciousness of his
own innocence, and the assurance of a future and
eternal reward.
One day, as they were walking in a wood near the
castle, Edmund asked the father what meant those
preparations for building, the cutting down trees and
burning of bricks?
"What," said Oswald, "have you not heard that
my lord is going to build a new apartment on the
west side of the castle?"
"And why," said Edmund, "should my lord be at
that expense, when there is one on the east side that
is never occupied?"
"That apartment," said the friar, "you must have
observed is always shut up."
"I have observed it often," said Edmund, "but I
never presumed to ask any questions about it."
"You had then," said Oswald, " less curiosity, and
more discretion, than is common at your age."
"You have raised my curiosity," said Edmund;
"and, if it be not improper, I beg of you to
gratify it."
"We are alone," said Oswald, "and I am so well
assured of your prudence, that I will explain this
mystery in some degree to you..
"You must know, that apartment was occupied by
the last Lord Lovel when he was a bachelor. He
married in his father's lifetime, who gave up his
own apartment to him, and offered to retire to this
himself; but the son would not permit him; he
chose to sleep here rather than in any other. He
had been married about three months, when his
father, the old lord, died of a fever. About twelve


52
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
months after his marriage, he was called upon to
attend the king, Henry the Fourth, on an expedition
in Wales, whither he was attended by many of his
dependants. He left his lady big with child, and
full of care and anxiety for his safety and return.
"After the king had chastised the rebels, and
obtained the victory, the Lord Lovel was expected
home every day. Various reports were sent home
before him; one messenger brought an account of
his health and safety; soon after another came with
bad news, that he was slain in battle. His kinsman,
Sir Walter Lovel, came here on a visit to comfort
the lady, and he waited to receive his kinsman on
his return. It was he that brought the news of the
sad event of the battle to the Lady Lovel.
"She fainted away at the relation; but when she
revived, exerted the utmost resolution, saying, it was
her duty to bear this dreadful stroke with Christian
fortitude and patience, especially in regard to the
child she went with, the last remains of her beloved
husband, and the undoubted heir of a noble house.
For several days she seemed an example of patience
and resignation; but then, all at once she renounced
them, and broke out into passionate and frantic
exclamations. She said that her dear lord was
basely murdered; that his ghost had appeared to
her, and revealed his fate. She called upon heaven
and earth to revenge her wrongs, saying she would
never cease complaining to God and the king for
vengeance and justice.
"Upon this Sir Walter told the servants that
Lady Lovel was distracted from grief for the death
of her lord; that his regard for her was as strong as


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 53
ever; and that, if she recovered, he would himself be
her comforter, and marry her. In the meantime
she was confined in this very apartment, and in less
than a month the poor lady died. She lies buried
in the family vault in St. Austin's church in the
village. Sir Walter took possession of the castle
and all the other estates, and assumed the title of
Lord Lovel.
"Soon after it was reported that the castle was
haunted, and that the ghosts of Lord and Lady
Lovel had been seen by several of the servants.
Whoever went into this apartment were terrified
by uncommon noises and strange appearances; at
length this apartment was wholly shut up, and the
servants were forbid to enter it, or to talk of any-
thing relating to it. However, the story did not stop
here; it was whispered about that the new Lord
Lovel was so disturbed every night that he could
not sleep in quiet; and being at last tired of the
place, he sold the castle and estate of his ancestors
to his brother-in-law, the Lord Fitz-Owen, who now
enjoys it, and left this country."
"All this is news to me," said Edmund; "but,
father, tell me what grounds there were for the lady's
suspicions that her lord died unfairly?"
"Alas!" said Oswald, "that is only known to
God. There were strange thoughts in the minds of
many at that time; I had mine, but I will not dis-
close them, not even to you. I will not injure those
who may be innocent; and I leave it to Providence,
who will doubtless, in its own best time and manner,
punish the guilty. But let what I have told you be
as if you had never heard it."


54 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I thank you for these marks of your esteem and
confidence," said Edmund; "be assured that I will
not abuse them; nor do I desire to pry into secrets
not proper to be revealed. I entirely approve your
discretion, and acquiesce in your conclusion that
Providence will, in its own time, vindicate its ways to
man; if it were not for that trust, my situation would
be insupportable. I strive earnestly to deserve the
esteem and favour of good men; I endeavour to
regulate my conduct so as to avoid giving offence to
any man; but I see, with infinite pain, that it is
impossible for me to gain these points."
"I see it too, with great concern," said Oswald;
"and everything that I can say or do in your favour
is misconstrued, and by seeking to do you service, I
lose my own influence. But I will never give my
sanction to acts of injustice, nor join to oppress
innocence. My dear child, put your trust in God—
He who brought light out of darkness can bring
good out of evil."
"I hope and trust so," said Edmund; "but, father,
if my enemies should prevail—if my lord should
believe their stories against me, and I should be put
out of the house with disgrace, what will become of
me? I have nothing but my character to depend
upon, if I lose that, I lose everything; and I see they
seek no less than my ruin."
"Trust in my lord's honour and justice," replied
Oswald; "he knows your virtue, and he is not igno-
rant of their ill-will toward you."
"I know my lord's justice too well to doubt it," said
Edmund; "but would it not be better to rid him of
this trouble, and his family of an incumbrance? I


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 55
would gladly do something for myself, but cannot
without my lord's recommendation; and such is my
situation, that I fear the asking for a dismission
would be accounted base ingratitude; beside, when
I think of leaving this house, my heart saddens at
the thought, and tells me I cannot be happy out of
it; yet I think I could return to a peasant's life with
cheerfulness, rather than live in a palace under dis-
dain and contempt."
"Have patience a little longer, my son," said
Oswald; "I will think of some way to serve you,
and to represent your grievances to my lord, with-
out offence to either—perhaps the causes may be
removed. Continue to observe the same irreproach-
able conduct; and be assured that Heaven will
defend your innocence, and defeat the unjust designs
of your enemies. Let us now return home."
About a week after this conference, Edmund
walked out in the fields ruminating on the disagree-
able circumstances of his situation. Insensible of
the time, he had been out several hours without per-
ceiving how the day wore away, when he heard
himself called by name several times; looking back-
ward, he saw his friend Mr. William, and hallooed to
him. He came running towards him; and leaping
over the stile, stood still awhile to recover his breath.
"What is the matter, sir?" said Edmund; "your
looks bespeak some tidings of importance."
With a look of tender concern and affection, the
youth pressed his hand and spoke—
"My dear Edmund, you must come home with me
directly; your old enemies have united to ruin you
with my father. My brother Robert has declared,


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
that he thinks there will be no peace in our family
till you are dismissed from it, and told my father, he
hoped he would not break with his kinsmen rather
than give up Edmund."
"But what do they lay to my charge?" said
Edmund.
"I cannot rightly understand," answered William,
"for they make a great mystery of it; something of
great consequence, they say; but they will not tell
me what. However, my father has told them that
they must bring their accusation before your face,
and he will have you answer them publicly. I have
been seeking you this hour to inform you of this, that
you might be prepared to defend yourself against
your accusers."
"God reward you, sir," said Edmund, "for all your
goodness to me! I see they are determined to ruin
me, if possible; I shall be compelled to leave the
castle; but whatever becomes of me, be assured you
shall have no cause to blush for your kindness and
partiality to your Edmund."
"I know it, I am sure of it," said William; "and
here I swear to you, as Jonathan did to David, I
beseech Heaven to bless me, as my friendship to you
shall be steady and inviolable."
"Only so long as I shall deserve so great a bless-
ing," interrupted Edmund.
"I know your worth and honour," continued
William; "and such is my confidence in your merit,
that I firmly believe Heaven designs you for some-
thing extraordinary; and I expect that some great
and unforeseen event will raise you to the rank and
station to which you appear to belong. Promise me,


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 57
therefore, that whatever may be your fate, you will
preserve the same friendship for me that I bear to
you."
Edmund was so much affected that he could not
answer but in broken sentences.
"Oh, my friend, my master! I vow, I promise, my
heart promises!"
He kneeled down with clasped hands and uplifted
eyes. William kneeled by him, and they invoked
the Supreme to witness to their friendship, and
implored His blessing upon it. They then rose up,
and embraced each other, while tears of cordial
affection bedewed their cheeks.
As soon as they were able to speak, Edmund con-
jured his friend not to expose himself to the dis-
pleasure of his family out of kindness to him.
"I submit to the will of Heaven," said he; "I wait
with patience its disposal of me. If I leave the
castle, I will find means to inform you of my fate
and fortunes."
"I hope," said William, " that things may yet be
accommodated; but do not take any resolution; let
us act as occasions arise."
In this manner these amiable youths conferred, till
they arrived at the castle. The Baron was sitting in
the great hall, on a high chair, with a footstep before,
with the state and dignity of a judge; before him
stood Father Oswald, as pleading the cause for him-
self and Edmund. Round the Baron's chair stood his
eldest son and his kinsmen, with their principal domes-
tics. The old servant, Joseph, at some distance,
with his head leaning forward, as listening with
the utmost attention to what passed. Mr. William
r


5 8 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
approached the chair. "My lord, I have found
Edmund, and brought him to answer for himself."
"You have done well," said the Baron. "Edmund,
come hither; you are charged with some indiscre-
tions, for I cannot properly call them crimes. I am
resolved to do justice between you and your accusers;
I shall therefore hear you as well as them; for no
man ought to be condemned unheard."
"My lord," said Edmund, with equal modesty and
intrepidity, " I demand my trial; if I shall be found
guilty of any crimes against my benefactor, let me
be punished with the utmost rigour; but if, as I
trust, no such charge can be proved against me, I
know your goodness too well to doubt that you will
do justice to me, as well as to others; and if it should
so happen, that by the misrepresentations of my
enemies (who have long sought my ruin privately,
and now avow it publicly), if by their artifices your
lordship should be induced to think me guilty, I
would submit to your sentence in silence, and appeal
to another tribunal."
"See," said Mr. Wenlock, "the confidence of the
fellow! He already supposes that my lord must be
in the wrong, if he condemns him; and then this
meek creature will appeal to another tribunal. To
whose will he appeal? I desire he may be made to
explain himself."
"That I will immediately," said Edmund, "without
being compelled. I only meant to appeal to Heaven,
that best knows my innocence."
"Tis true," said the Baron, "and no offence to
any one; man can only judge by appearances, but
Heaven knows the heart. Let every one of you bear


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
59
this in mind, that you may not bring a false accusa-
tion, nor justify yourselves by concealing the truth.
Edmund, I am informed that Oswald and you have
made very free with me and my family in some of
your conversations. You were heard to censure me
for the absurdity of building a new apartment on the
west side of the castle, when there was one on the
east side uninhabited. Oswald said that apartment
was shut up, because it was haunted; that some
shocking murder had been committed there; adding
many particulars concerning Lord Lovel's family,
such as he could not know the truth of, and if he
had known, was imprudent to reveal. But further,
you complained of ill-treatment here, and mentioned
an intention to leave the castle, and seek your fortune
elsewhere. I shall examine into all these particulars
in turn. At present, I desire you, Edmund, to relate
all that you can remember of the conversation that
passed between you and Oswald in the wood last
Monday." -
"Good God!" said Edmund, "is it possible that
any person could put such a construction upon so
innocent a conversation?"
"Tell me, then," said the Baron, "the particulars
of it."
"I will, my lord, as nearly as my memory will
allow me."
Accordingly he related most of the conversation
that passed in the wood; but in the part that con-
cerned the family of Lovel, he abbreviated as much
as possible. Oswald's countenance cleared up, for
he had done the same before Edmund came. The
Baron called to his eldest son.


60 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"You hear, Sir Robert, what both parties say. I
have questioned them separately; neither of them
knew what the other would answer, yet their accounts
agree almost to a word."
"I confess they do so," answered Sir Robert; "but,
sir, it is very bold and presuming for them to speak
of our family affairs in such a manner; if my uncle,
Lord Lovel, should come to know it, he would punish
them severely; and if his honour is reflected upon,
it becomes us to resent and to punish it." Here Mr.
Wenlock broke out into passion, and offered to swear
to the truth of his accusation.
"Be silent, Dick," said the Baron; "I' shall judge
for myself. I protest," said he to Sir Robert, "I
never heard so much as Oswald has now told me
concerning the deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel; I
think it is best to let such stories alone, till they die
away of themselves. I had indeed heard of an idle
story of the east apartment being haunted, when first
I came hither, and my brother advised me to shut it
up till it should be forgotten; but what has now been
said, has suggested a thought that may make that
apartment useful in- future. I have thought of a
punishment for Edmund that will stop the mouth
of his accusers for the present; and, as I hope, will
establish his credit with everybody. Edmund, will
you undertake this adventure for me?"
"What adventure, my lord?" said Edmund.
"There is nothing I would not undertake to show
my gratitude and fidelity to you. As to my courage,
I would show that at the expense of my malicious
accusers, if respect to my lord's blood did not tie up
my hands; as I am situated, I beg it may be put to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 61
the proof in whatever way is most for my master's
service."
"That is well said," cried the Baron; "as to your
enemies, I am thinking how to separate you from
them effectually; of that I shall speak hereafter. I
am going to try Edmund's courage; he shall sleep
three nights in the east apartment, that he may
testify to all whether it be haunted or not; after-
wards I will have that apartment set in order, and
my eldest son shall take it for his own. It will spare
me some expense, and answer my purpose as well, or
better. Will you consent, Edmund?"
"With all my heart, my lord," said Edmund; "I
have not wilfully offended God or man, I have there-
fore nothing to fear."
"Brave boy!" said my lord; "I am not deceived
in you, nor shall you be deceived in your reliance on
me. You shall sleep in that apartment to-night, and
to-morrow I will have some private talk with you.
Do you, Oswald, go with me; I want to have some
conversation with you. The rest of you retire to your
studies and business; I will meet you at dinner."
Edmund retired to his own chamber, and Oswald
was shut up with the Baron. He defended Edmund's
cause and his own, and laid open as much as he
knew of the malice and designs of his enemies. The
Baron expressed much concern at the untimely
deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel, and desired Oswald
to be circumspect in regard to what he had to say of
the circumstances attending them; adding, that he
was both innocent and ignorant of any treachery
towards either of them. Oswald excused himself
for his communications to Edmund, saying, they fell
/-


62
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
undesignedly into the subject, and that he mentioned
it in confidence to him only.
The Baron sent orders to the young men to come
to dinner; but they refused to meet Edmund at
table; accordingly he ate in the steward's apartment.
After dinner, the Baron tried to reconcile his kinsmen
to Edmund; but found it impossible. They saw
their designs were laid open; and judging of him by
themselves, thought it impossible to forgive or be
forgiven. The Baron ordered them to keep in sepa-
rate apartments; he took his eldest son for his own
companion, as being the most reasonable of the mal-
contents; and ordered his kinsmen to keep their
own apartment, with a servant to watch their
motions. Mr. William had Oswald for his com-
panion. Old Joseph was bid to attend on Edmund;
to serve him at supper; and at the hour of nine to
conduct him to the haunted apartment. Edmund
desired that he might have a light and his sword,
lest his enemies should endeavour to surprise him.
The Baron thought his request reasonable, and com-
plied with it.
There was a great search to find the key of the
apartment; at last it was discovered by Edmund
himself, among a parcel of old rusty keys in a lumber
room. The Baron sent the young men their suppers
to their respective apartments. Edmund declined
eating, and desired to be conducted to his apartment.
He was accompanied by most of the servants to the
door of it; they wished him success, and prayed for
him as if he had been going to execution.
The door was with great difficulty unlocked, and
Joseph gave Edmund a lighted lamp, and wished


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 63
him a good night; he returned his good wishes to
them all with the utmost cheerfulness, took the key
on the inside of the door, and then dismissed them.
He then took a survey of his chamber; the!
furniture, by long neglect, was decayed and dropping /
to pieces; the bed was devoured by the moths,'andj
occupied by the rats, who had built their nests there'
with impunity for many generations. The bedding;
was very damp, for the rain had forced its way
through the ceiling; he determined therefore to lie
down in his clothes. There were two doors on the
further side of the room, with keys in them: being
not at all sleepy, he resolved to examine them. He
attempted one lock, and opened it with ease; he
went into a large dining-room, the furniture of which
was in the same tattered condition; out of this was a
large closet with some books in it, and hung round
with coats of arms, with genealogies and alliances of
the house of Lovel; he amused himself here some
minutes, and then returned into the bed-chamber.
He recollected the other door, and resolved to see
where it led to; the key was rusted into the lock,
and resisted his attempts. He set the lamp on the
ground, and exerting all his strength, opened the
door, and at the same instant the wind of it blew out
the lamp, and left him in utter darkness. At the
same moment he heard a hollow rustling noise, like \
that of a person coming through a narrow passage.
Till this moment not one idea of fear had approached'^
the mind of Edmund; but just then all the concur-
rent circumstances of his situation struck upon his
heart, and gave him a new and disagreeable sensa-
tion. He paused awhile; and recollecting himself,


64
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
cried out aloud, "What should I fear? I have not
wilfully offended God or man; why then should I
doubt protection? But I have not yet implored the
Divine assistance; how then can I expect it?" Upon
this he kneeled down and prayed earnestly, resigning
himself wholly to the will of Heaven; while he was
yet speaking his courage returned, and he resumed
his usual confidence. Again he approached the door
from whence the noise proceeded; he thought he
saw a glimmering light upon a staircase before him.
"If," said he, " this apartment is haunted, I will use
my endeavours to discover the cause of it; and if the
spirit appears visibly, I will speak to it."
He was preparing to descend the staircase, when
he heard several knocks at the door by which he
first entered the room; and stepping backward, the
door was clapped to with great violence. Again fear
attacked him; but he resisted it, and boldly cried
out, "Who is there?"
A voice at the outer door answered, "It's I; Joseph,
your friend."
"What do you want?"
"I have brought you some wood to make a fire,"
said Joseph.
"I thank you kindly," said Edmund; "but my lamp
is gone out; I will try to find the door, however."
After some trouble, he found and opened it; and
was not sorry to see his friend Joseph, with a light in
one hand, a flagon of beer in the other, and a fagot
upon his shoulder.
"I come," said the good old man, "to bring
you something to keep up your spirits; the even-
ing is cold; I know this room wants airing; and


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
beside that, my master, I think your present under-
taking requires a little assistance."
"My good friend," said Edmund, " I never shall be
able to deserve or requite your kindness to me."
"My dear sir, you always deserved more than I
could do for you; and I think I shall yet live to see
you defeat the designs of your enemies, and acknow-
ledge the service of your friends."
"Alas!" said Edmund, "I see little prospect of
that!"
"I see," said Joseph, "something that persuades
me you are designed for great things; and I perceive
that things are working about to some great end:
have courage, my master, my heart beats strangely
high upon your account!"
"You make me smile," said Edmund.
"I am glad to see it, sir; may you smile all the
rest of your life!"
"I thank your honest affection," returned Edmund,
"though it is too partial to me. You had better go
to bed, however; if it is known you visit me here, it
will be bad for us both."
"So I will presently; but, please God, I will come
here again to-morrow night, when all the family are
abed; and I will tell you some things that you never
yet heard."
"But pray tell me," said Edmund, "where does
that door lead to?"
"Upon a passage that ends in a staircase that
leads to the lower rooms; and there is likewise a
door out of that passage into the dining-room."
"And what rooms are there below stairs?" said
Edmund.
£


66
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"The same as above," replied he.
"Very well; then I wish you a good-night, we will
talk further to-morrow."
"Ay, to-morrow night; and in this place, my dear
master."
"Why do you call me your master? I never was,
nor ever can be, your master."
"God only knows that," said the good old man;
"good-night, and Heaven bless you!"
"Good-night, my worthy friend!"
Joseph withdrew, and Edmund returned to the
other door, and attempted several times to open it in
vain; his hands were benumbed and tired; at length
he gave over. He made a fire in the chimney, placed
the lamp on a table, and opened one of the window
shutters to admit the daylight; he then recommended
himself to the Divine protection, and threw himself
upon the bed ; he presently fell asleep, and continued
in that state, till the sun saluted him with his orient
beams through the window he had opened.
As soon as he was perfectly awake, he strove to
recollect his dreams. He thought that he heard
people coming up the staircase that he had a
glimpse of; that the door opened, and there entered
a warrior, leading a lady by the hand, who was
young and beautiful, but pale and wan: the man
was dressed in complete armour and his helmet
down. They approached the bed; they undrew the
curtains. He thought the man said, "Is this our
child?" The woman replied, " It is; and the hour
approaches that he shall be known for such." They
then separated, and one stood on each side of the
bed; their hands met over his head, and they gave



r


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'.!'.•:
cmptt'l -.- vera'. '.''<:-
:tc bfiot: ri.-ed and •
iii.iMe .t >>;c in the h ..



EDMUND'S DREAM IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.





THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
67
him a solemn benediction. He strove to rise and
pay them his respects, but they forbade him; and
the lady said, "Sleep in peace, oh, my Edmund!
for those who are the true possessors of this apart-
ment are employed in thy preservation: sleep on,
sweet hope of a house that is thought past hope!"
Upon'this, they withdrew, and went out at the
same door by which they entered, and he heard them
descend the stairs. After this he followed a funeral
as chief mourner; he saw the whole procession, and
heard the ceremonies performed. He was snatched
away from this mournful scene to one of the contrary
kind, a stately feast, at which he presided; and he
heard himself congratulated as a husband and a
father: his friend William sat by his side; and his
happiness was complete. Every succeeding idea
was happiness without alloy; and his mind was not
idle a moment till the morning sun awakened him.
He perfectly remembered his dreams, and meditated
on what all these things should portend. "Am I
then," said he, "not Edmund Twyford, but some-
body of consequence, in whose fate so many people
are interested? Vain thought, that must have arisen
from the partial suggestions of my two friends, Mr.
William and old Joseph."
He lay thus reflecting, when a servant knocked at
the door, and told him it was past six o'clock, and
that the Baron expected him to breakfast in an
hour. He rose immediately; paid his tribute of
thanks to Heaven for its protection, and went from
his chamber in high health and spirits. He walked
in the garden till the hour of breakfast, and then
attended the Baron.


68 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"Good morrow, Edmund!" said he; "how have
you rested in your new apartment?"
"Extremely well, my lord," answered he.
"I am glad to hear it," said the Baron; "but I
did not know your accommodations were so bad
as Joseph tells me they are."
"Tis of no consequence," said Edmund; "if they
were much worse, I could dispense with them for
three nights."
"Very well," said the Baron; "you are a brave
lad: I am satisfied with you, and will excuse the
other two nights."
"But, my lord, I will not be excused; no one
shall have reason to suspect my courage; I am
determined to go through the remaining nights
upon many accounts."
"That shall be as you please," said my lord. "I
think of you as you deserve; so well, that I shall
ask your advice by and by in some affairs of conse-
quence."
"My life and services are yours, my lord; com-
mand them freely."
"Let Oswald be called in," said my lord; "he
shall be one of our consultation." He came; the
servants were dismissed; and the Baron spoke as
follows:
• "Edmund, when first I took you into my family,
it was at the request of my sons and kinsmen; I
bear witness to your good behaviour: you have not
deserved to lose their esteem; but, nevertheless, I
have observed, for some years past, that all but my
son William have set their faces against you; I see
their meanness, and I perceive their motives: but


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
69
they are, and must be, my relations; and I would
rather govern them by love than fear. I love and
esteem your virtues: I cannot give you up to gratify
their humours. My son William has lost the affec-
tions of the rest, for that he bears to you; but he
has increased my regard to him. I think myself
bound in honour to him and you to provide for you:
I cannot do it as I wished, under my own roof. If
you stay here, I see nothing but confusion in my
family; yet I cannot put you out of it disgracefully.
I want to think of some way to prefer you, that you
may leave this house with honour; and I desire both
of you to give me your advice in this matter. If
Edmund will tell me in what way I can employ him
to his own honour and my advantage, I am ready to
do it; let him propose it, and Oswald shall moderate
between us."
Here he stopped; and Edmund, whose sighs almost
choked him, threw himself at the Baron's feet, and
wet his hands with his tears: "Oh, my noble, gene-
rous benefactor! do you condescend to consult such
a one as me upon the state of your family? Does
your most amiable and beloved son incur the ill-will
of his brothers and kinsmen for my sake? What
am I, that I should disturb the peace of this noble
family? Oh, my lord, send me away directly! I
should be unworthy to live, if I did not earnestly
endeavour to restore your happiness. You have
given me a noble education, and I trust I shall not
disgrace it. If you will recommend me, and give
me a character, I fear not to make my own fortune."
The Baron wiped his eyes; "I wish to do this, my
child, but in what way?"


70 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"My lord," said Edmund, " I will open my heart
to you. I have served with credit in the army, and
I should prefer a soldier's life."
"You please me well," said the Baron: "I will
send you to France, and give you a recommendation
to the Regent; he knows you personally, and will
prefer you for my sake, and for your own merit."
"My lord, you overwhelm me with your goodness!
I am but your creature, and my life shall be devoted
to your service."
"But," said the Baron, " how to dispose of you till
the spring?"
"That," said Oswald, "may be thought of at
leisure; I am glad that you have resolved, and I
congratulate you both." The Baron put an end to
the conversation by desiring Edmund to go with him
into the menage to see his horses. He ordered
Oswald to acquaint his son William with all that had
passed, and to try to persuade the young men to
meet Edmund and William at dinner.
The Baron took Edmund with him into his menage
to see some horses he had lately purchased. While
they were examining the beauties and defects of
those noble and useful animals, Edmund declared
that he preferred Caradoc, a horse he had broke him-
self, to any other in my lord's stables. "Then," said
the Baron, "I will give him to you; and you shall
go upon him to seek your fortune." He made new
acknowledgments for this gift, and declared he would
prize it highly for the giver's sake. "But I shall not
part with you yet," said my lord; "I will first carry
all my points with those saucy boys, and oblige them
to do you justice."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 71
"You have already done that," said Edmund, "and
I will not suffer any of your lordship's blood to
undergo any farther humiliation upon my account.
I think, with humble submission to your better
judgment, the sooner I go hence the better."
While they were speaking, Oswald came to them,
and said, that the young men had absolutely refused
to dine at the table if Edmund was present.
""Tis well," said the Baron; "I shall find a way
to punish their contumacy hereafter; I will make
them know that I am the master here. Edmund and
you, Oswald, shall spend the day in my apartment
above stairs. William shall dine with me alone; and
I will acquaint him with our determination: my son
Robert, and his cabal, shall be prisoners in the great
parlour. Edmund shall, according to his own desire,
spend this and the following night in the haunted
apartment; and this for his sake, and my own ; for if
I should now contradict my former order, it would
subject us both to their impertinent reflections."
He then took Oswald aside, and charged him not
to let Edmund go out of his sight; for if he should
come in the way of those implacable enemies, he
trembled for the consequences. He then walked
back to the stables, and the two friends returned
into the house.
They had a long conversation on various subjects;
in the course of it, Edmund acquainted Oswald with
all that had passed between him and Joseph the
preceding night, the curiosity he had raised in him,
and his promise to gratify it the night following.
"I wish," said Oswald, " you would permit me to
be one of your party."


72 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"How can that be?" said Edmund: "we shall be
watched perhaps; and, if discovered, what excuse
can you make for coming there? beside, if it were
known, I shall be branded with the imputation of
cowardice; and though I have borne much, I will
not promise to bear that patiently."
"Never fear," replied Oswald, "I will speak to
Joseph about it; and after prayers are over, and the
family gone to bed, I will steal away from my own
chamber and come to you. I am strongly interested
in your affairs; and I cannot be easy unless you will
receive me into your company: I will bind myself to
secrecy in any manner you shall enjoin."
"Your word is sufficient," said Edmund; "I have
as much reason to trust you, father, as any man
living; I should be ungrateful to refuse you any-
thing in my power to grant. But suppose the apart-
ment should really be haunted, would you have
resolution enough to pursue the adventure to a
discovery?"
"I hope so," said Oswald; "but have you any
reason to believe it is?"
"I have," said Edmund; "but I have not opened
my lips upon this subject to any creature but yourself.
This night I purpose, if Heaven permit, to go all over
the rooms; and though I had formed this design, I
will confess that your company will strengthen my
resolution. I will have no reserves to you in any
respect; but I must put a seal upon your lips."
Oswald swore secrecy till he should be permitted
to disclose the mysteries of that apartment; and both
of them waited, in solemn expectation, the event of
the approaching night.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 73
In the afternoon, Mr. William was allowed to visit
his friend. An affecting interview passed between
them. He lamented the necessity of Edmund's de-
parture; and they took a solemn leave of each other,
as if they foreboded it would be long ere they should
meet again.
About the same hour as the preceding evening,
Joseph came to conduct Edmund to his apartment.
"You will find better accommodations than you
had last night," said he, " and all by my lord's own
order."
"I every hour receive some new proof of his good-
ness," said Edmund.
When they arrived, he found a good fire in the
chamber, and a table covered with cold meats, and
a flagon of strong beer.
"Sit down, and get your supper, my dear master,"
said Joseph: "I must attend my lord; but as soon
as the family are gone to bed, I will visit you again."
"Do so," said Edmund; "but first see Father
Oswald; he has something to say to you. You may
trust him, for I have no reserves to him."
"Well, sir, I will see him if you desire it; and I
will come to you as soon as possible." So saying he
went his way, and Edmund sat down to supper.
After a moderate refreshment, he kneeled down,
and prayed with the greatest fervency. He resigned
himself to the disposal of Heaven: "I am nothing,"
said he; "I desire to be nothing but what Thou, O
Lord, pleasest to make me. If it is Thy will that I
should return to my former obscurity, be it obeyed
with cheerfulness; and if Thou art pleased to exalt
me, I will look up to Thee as the only fountain of


74 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
honour and dignity." Whilst he prayed he felt an
enlargement of heart beyond what he had ever
experienced before. All idle fears were dispersed,
and his heart glowed with divine love and affiance;—
he seemed raised above the world and all its pursuits.
He continued wrapt up in mental devotion, till a
knocking at the door obliged him to rise and let in
his two friends, who came without shoes, and on tip-
toe, to visit him.
"Save you, my son I" said the friar; "you look
cheerful and happy."
"I am so, father," said Edmund; "I have resigned
myself to the disposal of Heaven, and I find my heart
strengthened above what I can express."
"Heaven be praised!" said Oswald: "I believe
you are designed for great things, my son."
"What, do you too encourage my ambition?" says
Edmund; "strange concurrence of circumstances !—
Sit down, my friends; and do you, my good Joseph,
tell me the particulars you promised last night."
They drew their chairs round the fire, and Joseph
began as follows :—
"You have heard of the untimely death of the late
Lord Lovel, my noble and worthy master; perhaps
you may have also heard that, from that time, this
apartment was haunted. What passed the other day,
when my lord questioned you both on this head,
brought all the circumstances fresh into my mind.
You then said, there were suspicions that he came
not fairly to his end. I trust you both, and will
speak what I know of it. There was a person sus-
pected of this murder; and who do you think it
was?"


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
75
"You must speak out," said Oswald.
"Why, then," said Joseph, " it was the present Lord
Lovel."
"You speak my thoughts," said Oswald; "but
proceed to the proofs."
"I will," said Joseph.
"From the time that my lord's death was reported,
there were strange whisperings and consultations
between the new lord and some of the servants;
there was a deal of private business carried on in this
apartment. Soon after, they gave out that my poor
lady was distracted; but she threw out strong expres-
sions that savoured nothing of madness. She said,
that the ghost of her departed lord had appeared to
her, and revealed the circumstances of this murder.
None of the servants but one were permitted to see
her. At this very time Sir Walter, the new lord, had
the cruelty to offer love to her. He urged her to
marry him; and one of her women overheard her
say, she would sooner die than give her hand to the
man who caused the death of her lord. Soon after
this we-.were-told my lady was dead. The Lord
Lovel made a public and sumptuous funeral for her."
"That is true," said Oswald; "for I was a novice,
and assisted at it."
"Well," says Joseph, "now comes my part of the
story. As I was coming home from the burial, I
overtook Roger, our ploughman. Said he, ' What
think you of this burying ?'—' What should I think,'
said I, 'but we have lost the best master and lady
that we shall ever know?' 'God, He knows,' quoth
Roger, 'whether they be living or dead; but if ever
I saw my lady in my life, I saw her alive the night


76
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
they say she died.' I tried to convince him that he
was mistaken; but he offered to take his oath, that
the very night they said she died, he saw her come
out of the garden gate into the fields; that she often
stopped, like a person in pain, and then went forward
again until he had lost sight of her. Now, it is
certain that her time was out, and she expected to
lie down every day; and they did not pretend that
she died in child-bed. I thought upon what I heard,
but nothing I said. Roger told the same story to
another servant; so he was called to an account; the
story was hushed up, and the foolish fellow said, he
was verily persuaded it was her ghost that he saw.
Now you must take notice that, from this time,
they began to talk about, that this apartment was
troubled; and not only this, but at last the new lord
could not sleep in quiet in his own room; and this
induced him to sell the castle to his brother-in-law,
and get out of this country as fast as possible. He
took most of the servants away with him, and Roger
among the rest. As for me, they thought I knew
nothing, and so they left me behind; but I was
neither blind nor deaf, though I could hear, and see,
and say nothing."
"This is a dark story," said Oswald.
| "It is so," said Edmund; "but why should Joseph
S seem to think it concerns me in particular?"
"Ah, dear sir," said Joseph, "I must tell you,
j though I never uttered it to mortal man before; the
j striking resemblance this young man bears to my
i dear lord, the strange dislike his reputed father took
'to him, his gentle manners, his generous heart, his
noble qualities, so uncommon in those of his birth


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
77
and breeding, the sound of his voice—you may
smile at the strength of my fancy, but I cannot put
it out of my mind but that he is my own master's
son."
At these words Edmund changed colour, and
trembled; he clapped his hand upon his breast, and
looked up to Heaven in silence; his dream recurred
to his memory, and struck upon his heart. He
related it to his attentive auditors.
"The ways of Providence are wonderful," said
Oswald. "If this be so, Heaven, in its own time,
will make it appear."
Here a silence of several minutes ensued; when
suddenly they were awakened from their reverie by
a violent noise in the rooms underneath them. It
seemed like a clashing of arms, and something
seemed to fall down with violence.
They started, and Edmund rose up with a look full
of resolution and intrepidity.
"I am called," said he; "I obey the call!"
He took up a lamp, and went to the door that he
had opened the night before. Oswald followed with
his rosary in his hand, and Joseph last, with trem-
bling steps. The door opened with ease, and they
descended the stairs in profound silence.
The lower rooms answered exactly to those above;
there were two parlours and a large closet. They
saw nothing remarkable in these rooms, except
two pictures, that were turned with their faces to
the wall. Joseph took the courage to turn them.
"These," said he, "are the portraits of my lord and
lady. Father, look at this face; do you know who
is like it?"


78
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I should think," said Oswald, "it was done for
Edmund!"
"I am," said Edmund, "struck with the resem-
blance myself; but let us go on; I feel myself in-
spired with unusual courage. Let us open the closet
door."
Oswald stopped him short.
"Take heed," said he, "lest the wind of the door
put out the lamp. I will open this door."
He attempted it without success; Joseph did the
same, but to no purpose; Edmund gave the lamp to
Joseph; he approached the door, tried the key, and
it gave way to his hand in a- moment.
"This adventure belongs," said he, "to me only;
that is plain—bring the lamp forward."
Oswald repeated his paternoster, in which they all
joined, and then entered the closet.
The first thing that presented itself to their view
was a complete suit of armour, that seemed to have
fallen down on an heap.
"Behold!" said Edmund; "this made the noise
we heard above."
They took it up, and examined it piece by piece;
j the inside of the breast-plate was stained with blood.
"See here!" said Edmund; "what think you of
this?"
"'Tis my lord's armour," said Joseph; "I know it
well—here has been bloody work in this closet!"
Going forward, he stumbled over something; it was
a ring, with the arms of Lovel engraved upon it.
"This is my lord's ring," said Joseph; "I have seen
him wear it. I give it to you, sir, as the right owner,
and most religiously do I believe you his son."
-


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
79
"Heaven only knows that," said Edmund; "and
if it permits, I will know who was my father before I
am a day older."
While he was speaking he shifted his ground, and
perceived that the boards rose up on the other side
of the closet; upon further examination, they found
that the whole floor was loose, and a table that stood
over them concealed the circumstance from a casual
observer.
"I perceive," said Oswald, "that some great dis-
covery is at hand."
"God defend us!" said Edmund; "but I verily
believe that the person that owned this armour lies
buried under us."
Upon this, a dismal hollow groan was heard, as
if from underneath. A solemn silence ensued, and
marks of fear were visible upon all three; the groan
was thrice heard. Oswald made signs for them to
kneel, and he prayed audibly that Heaven would
direct them how to act; he also prayed for the soul
of the departed, that it might rest in peace. After
this he arose; but Edmund continued kneeling—he
vowed solemnly to devote himself to the discovery
of this secret, and the avenging the death of the
person there buried. He then rose up. "It would be
to no purpose," said he, "for us to examine farther
now; when I am properly authorised I will have
this place opened; I trust that time is not far off."
"I believe it," said Oswald; "you are designed by
Heaven to be its instrument in bringing this deed of
darkness to light. We are your creatures; only tell
us what you would have us do, and we are ready
to obey your commands."


80 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I only demand your silence," said Edmund, "till
I call for your evidence; and then you must speak
all you know, and all you suspect."
"Oh," said Joseph, "that I may but live to see
that day, and I shall have lived long enough!"
"Come," said Edmund, "let us return up stairs,
and we will consult further how I shall proceed."
So saying, he went out of the closet, and they
followed him. He locked the door, and took the
key out—" I will keep this," said he, "till I have
power to use it to purpose, lest any one should pre-
sume to pry into the secrets of this closet. I will
always carry it about me, to remind me of what I
have undertaken."
Upon this they returned up stairs into the bed-
chamber; all was still, and they heard nothing more
to disturb them. "How," said Edmund, "is it pos-
sible that I should be the son of Lord Lovel? for,
however circumstances have seemed to encourage
such a notion, what reason have I to believe it?"
"I am strangely puzzled about it," said Oswald.
"It seems unlikely that so good a man as Lord Lovel
should corrupt the wife of a peasant his vassal; and
especially, being so lately married to a lady with
whom he was passionately in love."
"Hold there!" said Joseph; "my lord was incap-
able of such an action; if Master Edmund is the son
of my lord, he is also the son of my lady."
"How can that be ?" said Edmund.
"I don't know how," said Joseph; "but there is
a person who can tell if she will; I mean Margery
Twyford, who calls herself your mother."
"You meet my thoughts," said Edmund; "I had


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 81
resolved before you spoke to visit her, and to inter-
rogate her on the subject; I will ask my lord's
permission to go this very day."
"That is right," said Oswald; "but be cautious
and prudent in your inquiries."
"If you," said Edmund, "would bear me com-
pany, I should do better; she might think herself
obliged to answer your questions; and being less
interested in the event, you would be more discreet
in your interrogations."
"That I will most readily," said he; "and I will
ask my lord's permission for us both."
"This point is well determined," said Joseph; "I
am impatient for the result, and I believe my feet
will carry me to meet you whether I consent or
not."
"I am as impatient as you," said Oswald ; "but let
us be silent as the grave, and let not a word or look
indicate anything unknown or mysterious."
The daylight began to dawn upon their confer-
ence; and Edmund observing it, begged his friends
to withdraw in silence. They did so, and left
Edmund to his own recollections. His thoughts
were too much employed for sleep to approach him;
he threw himself upon the bed, and lay meditating
how he should proceed; a thousand schemes offered
themselves, and were rejected; but he resolved at
all events to leave Baron Fitz-Owen's family the
first opportunity that presented itself.
He was summoned, as before, to attend my lord
at breakfast, during which he was silent, absent, and
reserved. My. lord observed it, and rallied him,
inquiring how he had spent the night?'
F


82 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"In reflecting upon my situation, my lord, and in
laying plans for my future conduct." Oswald took
the hint, and asked permission to visit Edmund's
mother in his company, and acquaint her with his in-
tentions of leaving the country soon. He consented
freely; but seemed unresolved about Edmund's
departure.
They set out directly, and Edmund went hastily
to old Twyford's cottage, declaring that every field
seemed a mile to him. "Restrain your warmth,
my son," said Oswald; "compose your mind, and
recover your breath, before you enter upon a busi-
ness of such consequence." Margery met them at
the door, and asked Edmund what wind blew him
thither?
"Is it so very surprising," said he, " that I should
visit my parents?"
"Yes, it is," said she, "considering the treatment
you have met with from us; but since Andrew is
not in the house, I may say I am glad to see you.
Lord bless you, what a fine youth you be grown!
"Tis a long time since I saw you; but that is not my
fault; many a cross word, and many a blow, have I had
on your account; but I now venture to embrace my
dear child."
Edmund came forward, and embraced her fer-
vently; the starting tears, on both sides, evinced their
affection. "And why," said he, "should my father
forbid you to embrace your child? what have I done
to deserve his hatred?"
"Nothing, my dear boy; you were always good and
tender-hearted, and deserve the love of everybody."
"It is not common," said Edmund, "for a parent


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 83
to hate his first-born son without his having de-
served it."
"This is true," said Oswald; "it is uncommon, it
is unnatural; nay, I am of opinion it is almost
impossible. I am so convinced of this truth, that I
believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund
cannot be his father." In saying this, he observed
her countenance attentively; she changed colour ap-l
parently. "Come," said he, "let us sit down; and do |
you, Margery, answer to what I have said."
"Blessed Virgin!" said Margery, "what does your
reverence mean? what do you suspect 1"
"I suspect," said he, " that Edmund is not the son
of Andrew your husband."
"Lord bless me!" said she, "what is it you do
suspect?"
"Do not evade my question, woman! I am come
here by authority to examine you upon this point."
The woman trembled in every joint. "Would to
Heaven," said she, "that Andrew was at home!"
"It is much better as it is," said Oswald; "you
are the person we are to examine."
"O father!" said she, "do you think that I—that
.1—that I am to blame in this matter? what have I
done?"
"Do you, sir," said he, " ask your own questions."
Upon this Edmund threw himself at her feet, and
embraced her knees. "O my mother," said he, "for
as such my heart owns you, tell me, for the love of
Heaven! tell me who was my father?"
"Gracious Heaven!" said she, " what will become
of me!"
"Woman," said Oswald, " confess the truth, or you


84 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
shall be compelled to do it; by whom had you this
youth?"
"Who, I?" said she; "I had him! No, father, I
am not guilty of the black crime of adultery; God,
He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the
mother of such a sweet youth as this."
"You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his
father?"
"Oh, what shall I do?" said Margery; "Andrew
will be the death of me!"
"No, he shall not," said Edmund; "you shall be
protected and rewarded for the discovery."
"Goody," said Oswald, "confess the whole truth,
and I will protect you from harm and from blame;
you may be the means of making Edmund's fortune,
in which case he will certainly provide for you; on
the other hand, by an obstinate silence, you will
deprive yourself of all advantages you might receive
from the discovery; and, besides, you will soon be
examined in a different manner, and be obliged to
confess all you know, and nobody will thank you
for it."
"Ah," said she, "but Andrew beat me the last
time I spoke to Edmund, and told me he would break
every bone in my skin if ever I spoke to him again."
"He knows it then ?" said Oswald.
"He know it I Lord help you, it was all his own
doing."
"Tell us then," said Oswald; "for Andrew shall
never know it till it is out of his power to punish
you."
"Tis a long story," said she, "and cannot be told
in a few words."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
85
"It will never be told at this rate," said he; "sit
down and begin it instantly."
"My fate depends on your words," said Edmund;
"my soul is impatient of the suspense. If ever you
loved me and cherished me, show it now, and tell
while I have breath to ask it."
He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words
and actions were equally expressive of his inward
emotions.
"I will," said she; "but I must try to recollect
all the circumstances. You must know, young man,
that you are just one-and-twenty years of age."
"On what day was he born ?" said Oswald.
"The day before yesterday," said she, " the 21st of
September."
"A remarkable era," said he.
"Tis so indeed," said Edmund. "Oh that night!
that apartment!"
"Be silent," said Oswald; "and you, Margery,
begin your story."
"I will," said she. "Just one-and-twenty years
ago, on that very day, I lost my first-born son, I got
a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was near my
time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I
was sitting all alone, and very melancholy, Andrew
came home from work; 'See, Margery,' said he, I
have brought you a child instead of that you have
lost.' So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but
sure enough it was a child; a poor helpless babe, just
born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief, and
over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace.
'And where did you find this?' says I. 'Upon
the foot-bridge,' said he, 'just below the clayfield.


86 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
This child,' said he, 'belongs to some great folk, and
perhaps it may be inquired after one day, and may
make our fortunes; take care of it,' said he,' and
bring it up as if it was your own.' The poor infant
was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so
pitifully, that I loved it; beside, my milk was
troublesome to me, and I was glad to be eased of
it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I
loved the child as if it were my own, and so I do
still if I dared to own it."
"And this is all you know of Edmund's birth?"
said Oswald.
"No, not all," said Margery; "but pray look out
and see whether Andrew is coming, for I am all over
in a twitter."
"He is not," said Oswald; "go on, I beseech you."
"This happened," said she, "as I told you, on the
2ist. On the morrow my Andrew went out early to
work, along with one Robin Rouse, our neighbour;
they had not been gone above an hour when they
both came back seemingly very much frightened.
Says Andrew, 'Go you, Robin, and borrow a pickaxe
at neighbour Styles's.' 'What is the matter now?'
said I. 'Matter enough,' quoth Andrew; 'we may
come to be hanged perhaps, as many an innocent man
has before us.' 'Tell me what is the matter,' said I.
'I will,' said he; 'but if ever you open your mouth
about it, woe be to you.' 'I never will,' said I; but
he made me swear by all the blessed saints in the
Calendar, and he then told me that as Robin and he
were going over the foot-bridge, where he found the
child the evening before, they saw something floating
upon the water; so they followed it, till it stuck


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
87
against a stake, and found it to be the dead body of
a woman; 'as sure as you are alive, Madge,' said he,
'this was the mother of the child I brought home.'"
"Merciful God!" said Edmund; "ami the child
of that hapless mother?"
"Be composed," said Oswald; "proceed, good
woman, the time is precious."
"And so," continued she, "Andrew told me they
dragged the body out of the river, and it was richly
dressed, and must be somebody of consequence. 'I
suppose,' said he, 'when the poor lady had taken
care of her child, she went to find some help; and
the night being dark, her foot slipped, and she fell
into the river and was drowned.'
"' Lord have mercy!' said Robin,' what shall we
do with the dead body? we may be taken up for
the murder; what had we to do to meddle with it?'
'Ay, but,' says Andrew, 'we must have something
to do with it now; and our wisest way is to bury it.'
Robin was sadly frightened, but at last they agreed
to carry it into the wood, and bury it there; so they
came home for a pickaxe and shovel. 'Well,' said I,
'Andrew, but will you bury all the rich clothes you
speak of?' 'Why,' said he, ' it would be both a sin
and a shame to strip the dead.' 'So it would,' said I;
'but I will give you a sheet to wrap the body in, and
you may take off her upper garments, and anything
of value; but not strip her to the skin for anything.'
'Well said, wench,' said he; 'I will do as you say.'
So I fetched a sheet, and by that time Robin was
come back, and away they went together.
"They did not come back again till noon, and
then they sat down and ate a morsel together. Says


88 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Andrew, ' Now we may sit down and eat in peace.'
'Ay,' says Robin, 'and sleep in peace too, for we
have done no harm.' 'No, to be sure,' said I; 'but
yet I am much concerned that the poor lady had not
Christian burial.' 'Never trouble thyself about that,'
said Andrew; 'we have done the best we could for
her; but let us see what we have got in our bags;
we must divide them.' So they opened their bags,
and took out a fine gown and a pair of rich shoes;
but, besides these, there was a fine necklace with a
golden locket and a pair of earrings. Says Andrew,
and winked at me, ' I will have these, and you may
take the rest.' Robin said he was satisfied, and so
he went his way. When he was gone, ' Here, you
fool,' says Andrew, 'take these, and keep them as safe
as the bud of your eye. If ever young master is found,
these will make our fortune.'"
"And have you them now ?" said Oswald.
"Yes, that I have," answered she; "Andrew would
have sold them long ago, but I always put him off it."
"Heaven be praised !" said Edmund.
"Hush," said Oswald, " let us not lose time; pro-
ceed, Goody."
"Nay," said Margery, " I have not much more to
say. We looked every day to hear some inquiries
after the child, but nothing passed, nobody was
missing."
"Did nobody of note die about that time?" said
Oswald.
"Why, yes," said Margery, "the widow Lady
Lovel died that same week; by the same token,
Andrew went to the funeral, and brought home a
scutcheon, which I keep unto this day."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 89
"Very well; go on."
"My husband behaved well enough to the boy, till
such time as he had two or three children of his own,
and then he began to grumble, and say it was hard
to maintain other folk's children, when he found it
hard enough to keep his own. I loved the boy quite
as well as my own; often and often have I pacified
Andrew, and made him to hope that he should
one day or other be paid for his trouble; but at last
he grew out of patience, and gave over all hopes of
that kind.
"As Edmund grew up, he grew sickly-and tender,
and could not bear hard labour; and that was
another reason why my husband could not bear with
him. 'If,' quoth he, ' the boy could earn his living,
I would not care; but I must bear all the expense.
There came an old pilgrim into our parts; he was
a scholar, and had been a soldier, and he taught
Edmund to read; then he told him histories of wars,
and knights, and lords, and great men; and Edmund
took such delight in hearing him, that he would not
take to anything else.
"To be sure Edwin was a pleasant companion; he
would tell old stories, and sing old songs, that one
could have sat all night to hear him; but as I was
saying, Edmund grew more and more fond of reading,
and less of work; however, he would run of errands,
and do many handy turns for the neighbours; and
he was so courteous a lad, that people took notice of
him. Andrew once catched him alone reading, and
then told him that if he did not find some way to
earn his bread, he would turn him out of doors in a
very short time; and so he would have done, sure
^


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
enough, if my Lord Fitz-Owen had not taken him
into his service just in the nick."
"Very well, Goody," said Oswald; "you have told
your story very well; I am glad, for Edmund's sake,
that you can do it so properly. But now, can you
keep a secret?"
"Why, an't please your reverence, I think I have
showed you that I can."
"But can you keep it from your husband?"
"Ay," said she, "surely I can; for I dare not tell
it him."
"That is a good security," said he; "but I must
have a better. You must swear upon this book not
to disclose anything that has passed between us
three, till we desire you to do it. Be assured you
will soon be called upon for this purpose; Edmund's
birth is near to the discovery; he is the son of
parents of high degree; and it will be in his power
to make your fortune, when he takes possession of
his own."
"Holy Virgin! what is it you tell me? How you
rejoice me to hear, that what I have so long prayed
for will come to pass."
She took the oath required, saying it after Oswald.
"Now," said he, " go and fetch the tokens you have
mentioned."
When she was gone, Edmund's passions, long
suppressed, broke out in tears and exclamations; he
kneeled down, and with his hands clasped together,
returned thanks to Heaven for the discovery.
Oswald begged him to be composed, lest Margery
should perceive his agitation, and misconstrue the
cause. She soon returned with the necklace and


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
9i
earrings. They were pearls of great value; and the
necklace had a locket, on which the cypher of Lovel
was engraved.
"This," said Oswald, "is indeed a proof of con-
sequence. Keep it, sir, for it belongs to you."
"Must he take it away ?" said she.
"Certainly," returned Oswald; "we can do nothing
without it; but if Andrew should ask for it, you
must put him off for the present, and hereafter he
will find his account in it."
Margery consented reluctantly to part with the
jewels; and after some further conversation, they
took leave of her.
Edmund embraced her affectionately. "I thank
you with my whole heart," said he, "for all your
goodness to me! Though I confess, I never felt
much regard for your husband, yet for you I had
always the tender affection of a son. You will, I
trust, give your evidence in my behalf when called
upon; and I hope it will one day be in my power to
reward your kindness. In that case, I will own you
as my foster-mother, and you shall always be treated
as such."
Margery wept. "The Lord grant it!" said she;
"and I pray Him to have you in His holy keeping.
Farewell, my dear child!"
Oswald desired them to separate for fear of
intrusion; and they returned to the castle. Margery
stood at the door of her cottage, looking every way
to see if the coast was clear.
"Now, sir," said Oswald, "I congratulate you as
the son of Lord and Lady Lovel; the proofs are
strong and indisputable."


92 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"To us they are so," said Edmund; "but how
shall we make them so to others? And what are we
to think of the funeral of Lady Lovel?"
"As of a fiction," said Oswald; "the work of the
present lord, to secure his title and fortune."
"And what means can we use to dispossess him?"
said Edmund; "he is not a man for a poor youth
like me to contend with."
"Doubt not," said Oswald, "but Heaven, who has
evidently conducted you by the hand thus far, will
complete its own work; for my part, I can only
wonder and adore!"
"Give me your advice then," said Edmund; "for
Heaven assists us by natural means."
"It seems to me," said Oswald, "that your first
step must be to make a friend of some great man, of
consequence enough to espouse your cause, and to
get this affair examined into by authority/'
Edmund started and crossed himself; he suddenly
exclaimed, "A friend! Yes; I have a friend! a
powerful one too; one sent by Heaven to be my
protector, but whom I have too long neglected."
"Who can that be ?" said Oswald.
"Who should it be," said Edmund, "but that good
Sir Philip Harclay, the chosen friend of him whom I
shall from henceforward call my father."
"'Tis true, indeed," said Oswald; "and this is a
fresh proof of what I before observed, that Heaven
assists you, and will complete its own work."
"I think so myself," said Edmund, " and rely upon
its direction. I have already determined on my
future conduct, which I will communicate to you.
My first step shall be to leave the castle. My lord


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
93
has this day given me a horse, upon which I propose
to set out this very night, without the knowledge of
any of the family. I will go to Sir Philip Harclay;
I will throw myself at his feet, relate my strange
story, and implore his protection. With him I will
consult on the most proper way of bringing this
murderer to public justice; and I will be guided by
his advice and direction in everything."
"Nothing can be better," said Oswald, "than what
you propose; but give me leave to offer an addition
to your scheme. You shall set off in the dead of
the night, as you intend; Joseph and I will favour
your departure in such a manner as to throw a
mystery over the circumstances of it. Your dis-
appearing at such a time from the haunted apart-
ment will terrify and confound all the family; they
will puzzle themselves in vain to account for it, and
they will be afraid to pry into the secrets of that
place."
"You say well; and I approve your addition,")
replied Edmund. "Suppose, likewise, there was a
letter written in a mysterious manner, and dropped
in my lord's way, or sent to him afterwards; it would
forward our design, and frighten them away from
that apartment."
"That shall be my care," said Oswald; "and I
will warrant you, that they will not find themselves
disposed to inhabit it presently."
"But how shall I leave my dear friend Mr. William,
without a word of notice of this separation?"
"I have thought of that too," said Oswald; "and
I will so manage as to acquaint him with it in such
a manner, as he shall think out of the common course


94
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
of things, and which shall make him wonder and be
silent."
"How will you do that?" said Edmund.1
"I will tell you hereafter," said Oswald; "for here
comes old Joseph to meet us."
He came indeed as fast as his age would permit
him. As soon as he was within hearing, he asked
them what news? They related all that had passed
at Twyford's cottage; he heard them with the
greatest eagerness of attention, and as soon as they
came to the great event, "I knew it! I knew it!"
exclaimed Joseph, "I was sure it would prove so!
Thank God for it! But I will be the first to acknow-
ledge my young lord, and I will live and die his
faithful servant!" Here Joseph attempted to kneel
to him, but Edmund prevented him with a warm
embrace.
"My friend! my dear friend!" said he, " I cannot
suffer a man of your age to kneel to me; are you
not one of my best and truest friends? I will ever
remember your disinterested affection for me; and
if Heaven restores me to my rights, it shall be one
of my first cares to render your old age easy and
happy." Joseph wept over him, and it was some
time before he could utter a word.
Oswald gave them both time to recover their
emotion, by acquainting Joseph with Edmund's
scheme for his departure. Joseph wiped his eyes
and spoke.
"I have thought," said he, "of something that
will be both agreeable and useful to my dear master.
John Wyatt, Sir Philip Harclay's servant, is now
upon a visit at his father's; I have heard that he


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 95
goes home soon; now he would be both a guide and
companion on the way."
"That is indeed a happy—eiretwmtamie," said
Edmund; "but how shall we know certainly the
time of his departure?"
"Why, sir, I will go to him and inquire; and
bring you word directly."
"Do so," said Edmund, "and you will oblige me
greatly."
"But, sir," said Oswald, "I think it will be best
not to let John Wyatt know who is to be his com-
panion; only let Joseph tell him that a gentleman
is going to visit his master, and if possible prevail
upon him to set out this night."
"Do so, my good friend," said Edmund; "and tell
him, further, that this person has business of great
consequence to communicate to his master, and can-
not delay his journey on any account."
"I will do this, you may depend," said Joseph, " and
acquaint you with my success as soon as possible;
but, sir, you must not go without a guide, at anyrate."
"I trust I shall not," said Edmund, "though I go
alone; he that' has received such a call as I have
can want no other, nor fear any danger."
They conversed on these points till they drew
near the castle, when Joseph left them to go on his
errand, and Edmund attended his lord at dinner.
The Baron observed that he was silent and reserved;
the conversation languished on both sides. As soon
as dinner was ended, Edmund asked permission to
go up into his own apartment, where he packed up
some necessaries, and made a hasty preparation for
his departure.


96
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Afterwards he walked into the garden, revolving
in his mind the peculiarity of his situation, and the
uncertainty of his future prospects; lost in thought,
he walked to and fro in a covered walk, with his
arms crossed and his eyes cast down, without per-
ceiving that he was observed by two females, who
stood at a distance watching his motions. It was
the Lady Emma, and her attendant, who were thus
engaged. At length, he lifted up his eyes and saw
them; he stood still, and was irresolute whether to
advance or retire. They approached him; and as
they drew near, fair Emma spoke.
"You have been so wrapt in meditation, Edmund,
that I am apprehensive of some new vexation that
I am yet a stranger to. Would it were in my power
to lessen those you have already! but tell me if I
guess truly?"
He stood still irresolute, he answered with hesi-
tation. "O lady—I am—I am grieved, I am con-
cerned, to be the cause of so much confusion in this
noble family, to which I am so much indebted. I
see no way to lessen these evils but to remove the
cause of them."
"Meaning yourself? " said she.
"Certainly, madam; and I was meditating on my
departure."
"But," said she, "by your departure you will not
remove the cause."
"How so, madam?"
"Because you are not the cause, but those you
ileave behind you."
j "Lady Emma!"
'"How can you affect this ignorance, Edmund?


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
You know well enough it is that odious Wenlock,
your enemy and my aversion, that has caused all
this mischief among us, and will much more, if he
is not removed."
"This, madam, is a subject that it becomes me to
be silent upon. Mr. Wenlock is your kinsman; he
is not my friend; and for that reason I ought not
to speak against him, nor you to hear it from me.
If he has used me ill, I am recompensed by the
generous treatment of my lord your father, who is
all that is great and good; he has allowed me to
justify myself to him, and he has restored me to his
good opinion, which I prize among the best gifts of
Heaven. Your amiable brother William thinks well
of me, and his esteem is infinitely dear to me; and you,
excellent lady, permit me to hope that you honour
me with your good opinion. Are not these ample
amends for the ill-will Mr. Wenlock bears me?"
"My opinion of you, Edmund," said she, "is fixed
and settled; it is not founded upon events of yester-
day, but upon long knowledge and experience; upon
your whole conduct and character."
"You honour me, lady! Continue to think well
of me, it will excite me to deserve it. When I am
far distant from this place, the remembrance of your
goodness will be a cordial to my heart."
"But why will you leave us, Edmund? Stay and
defeat the designs of your enemy; you shall have
my wishes and assistance."
"Pardon me, madam, that is among the things I
cannot do, even if it were in my power, which it is
not. Mr. Wenlock loves you, lady, and if he is so
unhappy as to be your aversion, that is a punishment
G


98 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
severe enough. For the rest, I may be unfortunate
by the wickedness of others, but if I am unworthy,
it must be by my own fault."
"So, then, you think it is an unworthy action to
oppose Mr. Wenlock? Very well, sir. Then I sup-
pose you wish him success; you wish that I may be
married to him?"
"I, madam !" said Edmund, confused; "what am I,
Ithat I should give my opinion on an affair of so much
| consequence? You distress me by the question. May
\ you be happy; may you enjoy your own wishes."
He sighed, he turned away. She called him back;
he trembled, and kept silence.
She seemed to enjoy his confusion; she was cruel
enough to repeat the question.
"Tell me, Edmund, and truly, do you wish to see
me give my hand to Wenlock? I insist upon your
answer."
All on a sudden he recovered both his voice and
courage; he stepped forward, his person erect, his
countenance assured, his voice resolute and intrepid.
"Since Lady Emma insists upon my answer, since
she avows a dislike to Wenlock, since she condescends
to ask my opinion, I will tell her my thoughts, my
wishes."
The fair Emma now trembled in her turn; she
blushed, looked down, and was ashamed to have
spoken so freely.
Edmund went on. "My most ardent wishes are,
that the fair Emma may reserve her heart and hand
till a certain person, a friend of mine, is at liberty
to solicit them; whose utmost ambition is, first to
deserve, and then obtain them."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
99
"Your friend, sir!" said Lady Emma, her brow
clouded, her eye disdainful.
Edmund proceeded. "My friend is so particularly
circumstanced that he cannot at present, with pro-
priety, ask for Lady Emma's favour; but as soon as
he has gained a cause that is yet in suspense, he will
openly declare his pretensions, and if he is unsuccess-
ful, he will then condemn himself to eternal silence."
Lady Emma knew not what to think of this
declaration; she hoped, she feared, she meditated;
but her attention was too strongly excited to be
satisfied without some gratification; after a pause,
she pursued the subject.
"And this friend of yours, sir, of what degree and
fortune is he?"
Edmund smiled; but commanding his emotion, he
replied, "His birth is noble, his degree and fortune
uncertain."
Her countenance fell, she sighed. He proceeded.
"It is utterly impossible," said he, "for any man of
inferior degree to aspire to Lady Emma's favour;
her noble birth, the dignity of her beauty and virtues,
must awe and keep at their proper distance all men
of inferior degree and merit; they may admire, they
may revere; but they must not presume to approach
too near, lest their presumption should meet with its
punishment."
"Well, sir," said she suddenly; "and so this friend
of yours has commissioned you to speak in his
behalf?"
"He has, madam."
"Then I must tell you, that I think his assurance
is very great, and yours not much less."


ioo THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I am sorry for that, madam."
"Tell him that I shall reserve my heart and hand
for the man to whom my father shall bid me give
them."
"Very well, lady; I am certain my lord loves you
too well to dispose of them against your inclination."
"How do you know that, sir? But tell him that
the man that hopes for my favour must apply to
my lord for his."
"That is my friend's intention—his resolution, I
should say—as soon as he can do it with propriety;
and I accept your permission for him to do so."
"My permission, did you say? I am astonished at
your assurance I Tell me no more of your friend.
But perhaps you are pleading for' Wenlock all this
time. It is all one to me; only, say no more."
"Are you offended with me, madam?"
"No matter, sir."
"Yes, it is."
"I am surprised at you, Edmund."
"I am surprised at my own temerity; but forgive
me!"
"It does not signify; good bye t'ye, sir."
"Don't leave me in anger, madam; I cannot bear
that. Perhaps I may not see you again for a long
time."
He looked afflicted. She turned back. "I do for-
give you, Edmund. I was concerned for you; but,
it seems, you are more concerned for everybody
than for yourself." She sighed; "Farewell!" said
she.
Edmund gazed on her with tenderness; he ap-
proached her, he just touched her hand; his heart was


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 101
rising to his lips, but he recollected his situation; he
checked himself immediately; he retired back, he
sighed deeply, bowed low, and hastily quitted her.
The lady turning into another walk, he reached
the house first, and went up again to his chamber;
he threw himself upon his knees; prayed for a
thousand blessings upon every one of the family of
his benefactor, and involuntarily wept at mentioning
the name of the charming Emma, whom he was
about to leave abruptly, and perhaps for ever. He
then endeavoured to compose himself, and once
more attended the Baron; wished him a good night;
and withdrew to his chamber, till he was called upon
to go again to the haunted apartment.
He came down equipped for his journey, and
went hastily for fear of observation; he paid his cus-
tomary devotions, and soon after Oswald tapped
at the door. They conferred together upon the
interesting subject that engrossed their attention,
until Joseph came to them, who brought the rest of
Edmund's baggage, and some refreshment for him
before he set out. Edmund promised to give them
the earliest information of his situation and success.
At the hour of twelve they heard the same groans
as the night before in the lower apartment; but,
being somewhat familiarised to it, they were not
so strongly affected. Oswald crossed himself, and
prayed for the departed soul; he also prayed for
Edmund, and recommended him to the Divine pro-
tection. He then arose, and embraced that young
man, who also took a tender leave of his friend
Joseph. They then went, with silence and caution,
through a long gallery; they descended the stairs in


ioz THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
the same manner; they crossed the hall in profound
silence, and hardly dared to breathe, lest they should
be overheard; they found some difficulty in opening
one of the folding doors, which at last they accom-
plished; they were again in jeopardy at the outward
gate. At length they conveyed him safely into the
stables; there they again embraced him, and prayed
for his prosperity.
He then mounted his horse, and set forward to
Wyatt's cottage; he hallooed at the door, and was
answered from within. In a few minutes John came
out to him.
"What, is it you, Master Edmund?"
"Hush!" said he; "not a word of whom I am;
I go upon private business, and would not wish to
be known."
"If you will go forward, sir, I will soon overtake
you." He did so; and they pursued their journey
to the north.
In the meantime, Oswald and Joseph returned in
silence into the house; they retired to their respec-
tive apartments without hearing or being heard by
any one.
About the dawn of day Oswald intended to lay
his packets in the way of those to whom they were
addressed. After much contrivance, he determined
to take a bold step, and, if he were discovered, to
frame some excuse. Encouraged by his late success,
he went on tip-toe into Master William's chamber,
placed a letter upon his pillow, and withdrew unheard.
Exulting in his heart, he attempted the Baron's
apartment, but found it fastened within. Finding
this scheme frustrated, he waited till the hour the


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Baron was expected down to breakfast, and laid the
letter and the key of the haunted apartment upon
the table. Soon after, he saw the Baron enter the
breakfast-room. He got out of sight, but stayed
within call, preparing himself for a summons. The
Baron sat down to breakfast—he saw a letter directed
to himself—he opened it, and, to his great surprise,
read as follows:—
"The guardian of the haunted apartment to Baron
Fitz-Owen. To thee I remit the key of my charge,
until the right owner shall come, who will both dis-
cover and avenge my wrongs; then woe be to the
guilty!—But let the innocent rest in peace. In the
meantime, let none presume to explore the secrets of
my apartment, lest they suffer for their temerity."
The Baron was struck with amazement at the
letter. He took up the key, examined it, then laid
it down, and took up the letter—he was in such con-
fusion of thought, he knew not what to do or say for
several minutes. At length he called his servants
about him. The first question he asked was—
"Where is Edmund?"
They could not tell.
"Has he been called?"
"Yes, my lord, but nobody answered, and the key
was not in the door."
"Where is Joseph?"
"Gone into the stables."
"Where is Father Oswald?"
"In his study."
"Seek him, and desire him to come hither."
By the time the Baron had read the letter over
again, he came.


104
THE OLD ENGLISH BAROX.
He had been framing a steady countenance to
answer to all interrogatories. As he came in he
attentively observed the Baron, whose features were
in strong agitation. As soon as he saw Oswald, he
spoke as one out of breath, "Take that key, and read
this letter!"
He did so, shrugged up his shoulders, and remained
silent.
"Father," said my lord, "what think you of this
letter?"
"It is a very surprising one."
"The contents are alarming. Where is Ed-
mund?"
"I do not know."
"Has nobody seen him?"
"Not that I know of."
"Call my sons, my kinsmen, my servants."
The servants came in.
"Have any of you seen or heard of Edmund?"
"No," was the answer.
"Father, step upstairs to my sons and kinsmen,
and desire them to come down immediately."
Oswald withdrew, and went first to Master William's
chamber.
"My dear sir, you must come to my lord now
directly—he has something extraordinary to com-
municate to you."
"And so have I, father—see what I have found
upon my pillow!"
"Pray, sir, read it to me before you show it to
anybody; my lord is alarmed too much already, and
wants nothing to increase his consternation."
William read this letter, while Oswald looked as if


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 105
he was an utter stranger to the contents, which were
these:—
"Whatever may be heard or seen, let the seal of
friendship be upon thy lips. The peasant Edmund
is no more; but there still lives a man who hopes to
acknowledge and repay the Lord Fitz-Owen's gene-
rous care and protection; to return his beloved
William's vowed affection, and to claim his friend-
ship on terms of equality."
"What," said William, " can this mean?"
"It is not easy to say," replied Oswald.
"Can you tell what is the cause of this alarm?"
"I can tell you nothing, but that my lord desires
to see you directly—pray make haste down; I must
go up to your brothers and kinsmen, nobody knows
what to think or believe."
Master William went downstairs, and Father
Oswald went to the malcontents. As soon as he
entered the outward door of their apartment, Mr.
Wenlock called out, "Here comes the friend—now
for some new proposal."
"Gentlemen," said Oswald, "my lord desires
your company immediately in the breakfast par-
lour."
"What! to meet your favourite Edmund, I sup-
pose?" said Mr. Wenlock.
"No, sir."
"What, then, is the matter?" said Sir Robert.
"Something very extraordinary has happened,
gentlemen. Edmund is not to be found—he dis-
appeared from the haunted apartment, the key of
which was conveyed to my lord in a strange manner,
with a letter from an unknown hand; my lord is


106 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
both surprised and concerned, and wishes to have
your opinion and advice on the occasion."
"Tell him," said Sir Robert, "we will wait upon
him immediately."
As Oswald went away he heard Wenlock say, " So
Edmund is gone, it is no matter how or whither."
Another said, "I hope the ghost has taken him
out of the way."
The rest laughed at the conceit, as they followed
Oswald downstairs. They found the Baron and his
son William commenting upon the key and the
letter. My lord gave them to Sir Robert, who looked
on them with marks of surprise and confusion.
The Baron addressed him—
"Is not this a very strange affair? Son Robert,
lay aside your ill humours, and behave to your father
with the respect and affection his tenderness deserves
from you, and give me your advice and opinion of
this alarming subject."
"My lord," said Sir Robert, "I am as much
confounded as yourself—I can give no advice:
let my cousins see the letter—let us have their
opinion."
They read it in turn—they were equally surprised;
but when it came into Wenlock's hand, he paused
and meditated some minutes.
At length—" I am indeed surprised, and still more
concerned, to see my lord and uncle the dupe of an
artful contrivance; and, if he will permit me, I shall
endeavour to unriddle it, to the confusion of all that
are concerned in it."
"Do so, Dick," said my lord, "and you shall have
my thanks for it."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
107
"This letter," said he, "I imagine to be the con-
trivance of Edmund, or some ingenious friend of his,
to conceal some designs they have against the peace
of this family, which has been too often disturbed
upon that rascal's account."
"But what end could be proposed by it?" said
the Baron.
"Why, one part of the scheme is to cover Edmund's
departure, that is clear enough; for the rest, we can
only guess at it—perhaps he may be concealed some-
where in that apartment, from whence he may rush
out in the night, and either rob or murder us, or, at
least, alarm and terrify the family."
The Baron smiled.
"You shoot beyond the mark, sir, and overshoot
yourself, as you have done before now. You show
only your inveteracy against that poor lad, whom
you cannot mention with temper. To what purpose
should he shut himself up there to be starved?"
"Starved! no, no! he has friends in this house
(looking at Oswald) who will not suffer him to want
anything; those who have always magnified his
virtues and extenuated his faults will lend a hand
to help him in time of need, and perhaps to assist his
ingenious contrivances."
Oswald shrugged up his shoulders, and remained
silent.
"This is a strange fancy of yours, Dick," said my
lord; "but I am willing to pursue it,—first, to dis-
cover what you drive at, and, secondly, to satisfy all
that are here present of the truth or falsehood of it,
that they may know what value to set upon your
sagacity hereafter. Let us all go over that apart-


108 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
ment together, and let Joseph be called to attend us
thither."
Oswald offered to call him, but Wenlock stopped
him.
"No, father," said he, "you must stay with us;
we want your ghostly counsel and advice; Joseph
shall have no private conference with you."
"What mean you," said Oswald, "to insinuate to
my lord against me or Joseph? But your ill-will
spares nobody. It will one day be known who is the
disturber of the peace of this family; I wait for that
time, and am silent."
Joseph came. When he was told whither they
were going, he looked hard at Oswald. Wenlock
observed them.
"Lead the way, father," said he, "and Joseph shall
follow us."
Oswald smiled.
"We will go where Heaven permits us," said he;
"alas! the wisdom of man can neither hasten nor
retard its decrees."
They followed the father upstairs, and went
directly to the haunted apartment. The Baron
unlocked the door; he bid Joseph open the shutters,
and admit the daylight, which had been excluded
for many years. They went over the rooms above
stairs, and then descended the staircase, and through
the lower rooms in the same manner. However,
they overlooked the closet in which the fatal secret
was concealed; the door was covered with tapestry
the same as the room, and united so well, that it
seemed but one piece. Wenlock tauntingly desired
Father Oswald to introduce them to the ghost. The


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 109
father, in reply, asked them where they should find
Edmund ?" Do you think," said he, "that he lies
hid in my pocket, or in Joseph's?"
"Tis no matter," answered he; "thoughts are
free."
"My opinion of you, sir," said Oswald, "is not
founded upon thoughts—I judge of men by their
actions,—a rule, I believe, it will not suit you to be
tried by."
"None of your insolent admonitions, father,"
returned Wenlock; "this is neither the time nor
the place for them."
"That is truer than you are aware of, sir; I mean
not to enter into the subject just now."
"Be silent," said my lord; "I shall enter into this
subject with you hereafter—then look you be pre-
pared for it. In the meantime, do you, Dick
Wenlock, answer to my questions:—Do you think
Edmund is concealed in this apartment?"
"No, sir."
"Do you think there is any mystery in it?"
"No, my lord."
"Is it haunted, think you?"
"No, I think not."
"Should you be afraid to try?"
"In what manner, my lord?"
"Why, you have shown your wit upon the subject,
and I mean to show your courage;—you and Jack
Markham, your confidant, shall sleep here three
nights, as Edmund has done before."
"Sir," said Sir Robert, "for what purpose? I
should be glad to understand why?"
"I have my reasons, sir, as well as your kinsmen


i 10
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
there. No reply, sirs'. I insist upon being obeyed in
this point. Joseph, let the beds be weli aired, and
everything made agreeable to the gentlemen. If
there is any contrivance to impose upon me, they, I
am sure, will have pleasure in detecting it, and if
not, I shall obtain my end in making these rooms
habitable. Oswald, come with me; and the rest
may go where they list till dinner-time."
The Baron went with Oswald into the parlour.
"Now tell me, father," said he, "do you dis-
approve what I have done?"
"Quite the contrary, my lord," said Oswald; "I
entirely approve it."
"But you do not know all my reasons for it
.
Yesterday Edmund's behaviour was different from
what I have ever seen it—he is naturally frank and
open in all his ways, but he was then silent, thought-
ful, absent; he sighed deeply, and once I saw tears
stand in his eyes. Now I do suspect there is some-
thing uncommon in that apartment—that Edmund
has discovered the secret, and, fearing to disclose
it, he is fled away from the house. As to this
letter, perhaps he may have written it to hint that
there is more than he dares reveal; I tremble at the
hints contained in it, though I shall appear to make
light of it. But I and mine are innocent; and if
Heaven discloses the guilt of others, I ought to
adore and submit to its decrees."
"That is prudently and piously resolved, my
lord; let us do our duty, and leave events to
Heaven."
"But, father, I have a further view in obliging my
kinsmen to sleep there:—if anything should appear


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. m
to them, it is better that it should only be known to
my own family; if there is nothing in it, I shall put
to the proof the courage and veracity of my two
kinsmen, of whom I think very indifferently. I
mean shortly to inquire into many things I have
heard lately to their disadvantage; and if I find
them guilty, they shall not escape with impunity."
"My lord," said Oswald, "you judge like yourself.
I wish you to make inquiry concerning them, and
believe the result will be to their confusion, and your
lordship will be enabled to re-establish the peace
of your family."
During this conversation, Oswald was upon his
guard, lest anything should escape that might
create suspicion. He withdrew as soon as he could
with decency, and left the Baron meditating what
all these things should mean; he feared there was
some misfortune impending over his house, though
he knew not from what cause.
He dined with his children and kinsmen, and
strove to appear cheerful; but a gloom was per-
ceivable through his deportment. Sir Robert was
reserved and respectful; Mr. William was silent and
attentive; the rest of the family dutifully assiduous
to my lord; only Wenlock and Markham were
sullen and chagrined. The Baron detained the
young men the whole afternoon; he strove to
amuse and to be amused; he shewed the greatest
affection and parental regard to his children,
and endeavoured to conciliate their affections, and
engage their gratitude by kindness. Wenlock and
Markham felt their courage abate as the night
approached. At the hour of nine, old Joseph came


lis THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
to conduct them to the haunted apartment; they
took leave of their kinsmen, and went upstairs with
heavy hearts.
They found the chamber set in order for them,
and a table spread with provisions and good liquor
to keep up their spirits.
"It seems," said Wenlock, "that your friend
Edmund was obliged to you for his accommodations
here."
"Sir," said Joseph, "his accommodations were
bad enough the first night, but afterwards they were
bettered by my lord's orders."
"Owing to your officious cares," said Wenlock.
"I own it," said Joseph, "and I am not ashamed
of it."
"Are you not anxious to know what is become of
him ?" said Markham.
"Not at all, sir; I trust he is in the best protec-
tion; so good a young man as he is, is safe
everywhere."
"You see, cousin Jack," said Wenlock, "how this
villain has stole the hearts of my uncle's servants.
I suppose this canting old fellow knows where he is,
if the truth were known."
"Have you any further commands for me, gentle-
men ?" said the old man.
"No, not we."
"Then I am ordered to attend my lord, when you
have done with me."
"Go, then, about your business."
Joseph went away, glad to be dismissed.
"What shall we do, cousin Jack," said Wenlock, " to
pass away the time ?—it is plaguy dull sitting here."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"3
"Dull enough," said Markham. "I think the best
thing we can do is to go to bed, and sleep it away."
"Faith!" says Wenlock, " I am in no disposition
to sleep. Who would have thought the old man
would have obliged us to spend the night here?"
"Don't say us, I beg of you; it was all your own
doing," replied Markham.
"I did not intend he should have taken me at my
word."
"Then you should have spoken more cautiously.
I am; you play the braggart, and I suffer for it.
But they begin to see through your fine-spun arts
and contrivances, and I believe you will meet with
your deserts one day or other."
"What now, do you mean to affront me, Jack?
Know, that some are born to plan, others to execute;
I am one of the former, thou of the latter. Know
your friend, or"
"Or what?" replied Markham; "do you mean to
threaten me? If you do!"
"What then?" said Wenlock.
"Why, then, I will try which of us two is the best
man, sir!"
Upon this, Markham arose, and put himself into
a posture of defence. Wenlock, perceiving he was
serious in his anger, began to soothe him; he per-
suaded, he flattered, he promised great things, if he
would be composed. Markham was sullen, uneasy,
resentful; whenever he spoke, it was to upbraid
Wenlock with his treachery and falsehood. Wenlock
tried all his eloquence to get him into a good
humour, but in vain; he threatened to acquaint his
I have always been governed

H


ii4 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
uncle with all that he knew, and to exculpate him-
self at the other's expense. Wenlock began to find
his choler rise; they were both almost choked with
rage, and, at length, they both rose with a resolution
to fight.
As they stood with their fists clenched, on a
sudden they were alarmed with a dismal cn-nan from
the room underneath. They stood like statues,
petrified by fear, yet listening with trembling expec-
• tation. A second groan increased their consterna-
Ition, and, soon after, a third completed it. They
staggered to a seat, and sunk down upon it, ready
to faint. Presently all the doors flew open, a pale
glimmering light appeared at the door, from the
, staircase, and a man in complete armour entered
the room. He stood with one hand extended, point-
ing to the outward door; they took the hint, and
crawled away as fast as fear would let them. They
staggered along the gallery, and from thence to the
Baron's apartment, where Wenlock sunk down in a
swoon, and Markham had just strength enough to
knock at the door.
The servant who slept in the outward room
alarmed his lord.
Markham cried out, "For Heaven's sake, let us in!"
- Upon hearing his voice, the door was opened, and
Markham approached his uncle in such an attitude
of fear, as excited a degree of it in the Baron. He
pointed to Wenlock, who was with some difficulty
recovered from the fit he was fallen into; the servant
was terrified, he rung the alarm-bell; the servants
came running from all parts to their lord's apartment.
The young gentlemen came likewise; and presently


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 115
all was confusion, and the terror was universal.
Oswald, who guessed the business, was the only one
that could question them. He asked several times,
"What is the matter?"
Markham at last answered him, "We have seen
the ghost!"
All regard to secrecy was now at an end. The
echo ran through the whole family—" They have
seen the ghost!"
The Baron desired Oswald to talk to the young
men, and endeavour to quiet the disturbance. He
came forward; he comforted some, he rebuked
others; he bade the servants retire into the outward
room. The Baron, with his sons and kinsmen,
remained in the bed-chamber.
"It is very unfortunate," said Oswald, "that this
affair should be made so public; surely these young
men might have related what they had seen without
alarming the whole family. I am very much con-
cerned upon my lord's account."
"I thank you, father," said the Baron; "but pru-
dence was quite overthrown here. Wenlock was half
dead, and Markham half distracted; the family were
alarmed without my being able to prevent it. But
let us hear what these poor terrified creatures say."
Oswald demanded, "What have you seen, gentle-
men?"
"The ghost!" said Markham. ,
"In what form did it appear?"
"A man in armour." \
"Did it speak to you?"
"No."
"What did it do to terrify you so much?"


n6 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"It stood at the farthest door, and pointed to the
outward door, as if to have us leave the room; we
did not wait for a second notice, but came away as
fast as we could."
"Did it follow you?"
"No."
"Then you need not have raised such a disturb-
ance."
Wenlock lifted up his head, and spoke—
"I believe, father, if you had been with us, you
would not have stood upon ceremonies any more
than we did. I wish my lord would send you to
parley with the ghost; for, without doubt, you are
better qualified than we."
"My lord," said Oswald, "I will go thither, with
your permission; I will see that everything is safe,
and bring the key back to you. Perhaps this may
help to dispel the fears that have been raised—at
least, I will try to do it."
"I thank you, father, for your good offices—do as
you please."
Oswald went into the outward room. "I am
going," said he, "to shut up the apartment. The
young gentlemen have been more frightened than
they had occasion for; I will try to account for it.
Which of you will go with me?"
They all drew back except Joseph, who offered to
bear him company. They went into the bedroom in
the haunted apartment, and found everything quiet
there. They put out the fire, extinguished the lights,
locked the door, and brought away the key. As they
returned, " I thought how it would be," said Joseph.
"Hush! not a word," said Oswald; "you find we


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
117
are suspected of something, though they know not
what. Wait till you are called upon; and then we
will both speak to purpose." They carried the key
to the Baron.
"All is quiet in the apartment," said Oswald, " as
we can testify."
"Did you ask Joseph to go with you," said the
Baron, "or did he offer himself?"
"My lord, I asked if anybody would go with me,
and they all declined it but he; I thought proper to
have a witness, beside myself, for whatever might be
seen or heard."
"Joseph, you were servant to the late Lord Lovel;
what kind of man was he?"
"A very comely man, please your lordship."
"Should you know him if you were to see him?"
"I cannot say, my lord."
"Would you have any objection to sleep a night
in that apartment ? *
"I beg,—I hope,—I beseech your lordship not to
command me to do it!"
"You are then afraid; why did you offer yourself
to go thither?"
"Because I was not so much frightened as the
rest."
"I wish you would lie a night there; but I do not
insist upon it."
"My lord, I am a poor ignorant old man, not fit
for such an undertaking; beside, if I should see the
ghost, and if it should be the person of my master,
and if it should tell me anything, and bid me keep
it secret, I should not dare to disclose it; and then
what service should I do your lordship?"


THE OLD ENGLISH BAROX.
"That is true, indeed," said the Baron.
"This speech," said Sir Robert, " is both a simple
and a artful one; you see, however, that Joseph is
not a man for us to depend upon; he regards the
Lord Lovel, though dead, more than Lord Fitz-
Owen living; he calls him his master, and promises
to keep his secrets. What say you, father? Is the
ghost your master, or your friend? Are you under
any obligations to keep his secrets?"
"Sir," said Oswald, "I answer as Joseph does;
I would sooner die than discover a secret revealed
in that manner."
"I thought as much," said Sir Robert; "there is
a mystery in Father Oswald's behaviour, which I
cannot comprehend."
"Do not reflect upon the father," said the Baron;
"I have no cause to complain of him; perhaps the
mystery may be too soon explained; but let us not
anticipate evils. Oswald and Joseph have spoken
like good men; I am satisfied with their answers:
let us, who are innocent, rest in peace; and let us
endeavour to restore peace in the family; and do
you, father, assist us."
"With my best services," said Oswald. He
called the servants in. "Let nothing be mentioned
out of doors," said he, "of what has lately passed
within, especially in the east apartment; the young
gentlemen had not so much reason to be frightened
as they apprehended; a piece of furniture fell down
in the rooms underneath, which made the noise
that alarmed them so much; but I can certify that
all things in the rooms are in quiet, and there is
nothing to fear. All of you attend me in the chapel


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 119
in an hour; do your duties, put your trust in God,
and obey your lord, and you will find everything go
right as it used to do."
They dispersed; the sun rose, the day came on,
and everything went on in the usual course; but the
servants were not so easily satisfied; they whispered
that something was wrong, and expected the time
that should set all right. The mind of the Baron
was employed in meditating upon these circum-
stances, that seemed to him the forerunners of some
great events: he sometimes thought of Edmund; he
sighed for his expulsion, and lamented the uncer-
tainty of his fate; but to his family he appeared
easy and satisfied.
From the time of Edmund's departure, the fair
Emma had many uneasy hours; she wished to
inquire after him, but feared to show any solicitude
concerning him. The next day, when her brother
William came into her apartment, she took courage
to ask a question.
"Pray, brother, can you give any guess what is
become of Edmund?"
"No," said he, with a sigh; "why do you ask
me?"
"Because, my dear William, I should think if any-
body knew, it must be you; and I thought he loved
you too well to leave you in ignorance. But don't
you think he left the castle in a very strange
manner?"
"I do, my dear; there is a mystery in every cir-
cumstance of his departure; nevertheless (I will trust
you with a secret), he did not leave the castle without
making a distinction in my favour."


120 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I thought so," said she; "but you might tell me
what you know about him."
"Alas! my dear Emma, I know nothing. When
I saw him last he seemed a good deal affected, as if
he were taking leave of me; and I had a foreboding
that we parted for a longer time than usual."
"Ah! so had I," said she, " when he parted from
me in the garden."
"What leave did he take of you, Emma?"
She blushed, and hesitated to tell him all that
passed between them; but he begged, persuaded,
insisted; and at length, under the strongest injunc-
tions of secrecy, she told him all.
He said, "That Edmund's behaviour on that occa-
sion was as mysterious as the rest of his conduct;
but now you have revealed your secret, you have a
right to know mine."
He then gave her the letter he found upon his
pillow; she read it with great emotion.
"Saint Winifred assist me!" said she; "what can
I think ?' The peasant Edmund is no more, but
there lives one,' that is, to my thinking, Edmund
lives, but is no peasant."
"Go on, my dear," said William; "I like your
explanation."
"Nay, brother, I only guess; but what think you?"
"I believe we think alike in more than one respect,
that he meant to recommend no other person than
jhimself to your favour; and if he were indeed of
Snoble birth, I would prefer him to a prince for a
lusband to my Emma!"
"Bless me," said she, "do you think it possible
[that he should be of either birth or fortune?"


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
121
"It is hard to say what is possible; we have proof
that the east apartment is haunted. It was there
that Edmund was made acquainted with many
secrets, I doubt not: and, perhaps, his own fate may
be involved in that of others. I am confident that
what he saw and heard there was the cause of his
departure. We must wait with patience the unravel-
ling this intricate affair: I believe I need not enjoin
your secrecy as to what I have said; your heart will
be my security."
"What mean you, brother?"
"Don't affect ignorance, my dear; you love Edmund,
so do I; it is nothing to be ashamed of. It would
have been strange if a girl of your good sense had
not distinguished a swan among a flock of geese."
"Dear William, don't let a word of this escape you;
but you have taken a weight off my heart. You may
depend that I will not dispose of my hand or heart
till I know the end of this affair."
William smiled: "Keep them for Edmund's friend.
I shall rejoice to see him in a situation to ask them."
"Hush, my brother! not a word more; I hear
footsteps."
They were her eldest brother's, who came to ask
Mr. William to ride out with him, which finished
the conference.
The fair Emma from this time assumed an air of
satisfaction; and William frequently stole away from
his companions to talk with his sister upon their
favourite subject.
While these things passed at the castle of Lovel,
Edmund and his companion, John Wyatt, proceeded
on their journey to Sir Philip Harclay's seat; they


I 22
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
conversed together on the way, and Edmund tound
him a man of understanding, though not improved
by education; he also discovered that John loved
his master, and respected him even to veneration;
from him he learned many particulars concerning
that worthy knight. Wyatt told him, "That Sir
Philip maintained twelve old soldiers, who had been
maimed and disabled in the wars, and had no
provision made for them; also six old officers, who
had been unfortunate, and were grown grey without
preferment; he likewise mentioned the Greek gentle-
man, his master's captive and friend, as a man
eminent for valour and piety; but, beside these,"
said Wyatt, "there are many others who eat of my
master's bread, and drink of his cup, and who join
in blessings and prayers to Heaven for their noble
benefactor; his ears are ever open to distress, his
hand to relieve it, and he shares in every good man's
joys and blessings."
"Oh, what a glorious character!" said Edmund;
"how my heart throbs with wishes to imitate such
a man! Oh, that I might resemble him, though at
ever so great a distance!"
Edmund was never weary of hearing the actions
of this truly great man, nor Wyatt with relating
them; and, during three days' journey, there were
but few pauses in their conversation.
The fourth day, when they came within view of
the house, Edmund's heart begun to raise doubts of
his reception. "If," said he, " Sir Philip should not
receive me kindly, if he should resent my long
neglect, and disown my acquaintance, it would be
no more than justice."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 123
He sent Wyatt before, to notify his arrival to Sir
Philip, while he waited at the gate, full of doubts
and anxieties concerning his reception. Wyatt was
met and congratulated on his return by most of his
fellow-servants. He asked—
"Where is my master?"
"In the parlour."
"Are any strangers with him?"
"No, only his own family."
"Then I will show myself to him."
He presented himself before Sir Philip.
"So, John," said he, " you are welcome home. I
hope you left your parents and relations well."
"All well, thank God! and send their humble
duty to your honour, and they pray for you every
day of their lives. I hope your honour is in good
health."
"Very well."
"Thank God for that! but, sir, I have something
further to tell you; I have had a companion all the
way home, a person who comes to wait on your
honour on business of great consequence, as he says."
"Who is that, John?"
"It is Master Edmund Twyford, from the castle
of Lovel."
"Young Edmund!" said Sir Philip, surprised;
"where is he?"
"At the gate, sir."
"Why did you leave him there?"
"Because he bade me come before, and acquaint
your honour that he waits your pleasure."
"Bring him hither," said Sir Philip; "tell him I
shall be glad to see him."


124 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
John made haste to deliver his message, and
Edmund followed him in silence into Sir Philip's
presence.
He bowed low, and kept at a distance. Sir Philip
held out his hand, and bade him approach. As he
drew near, he was seized with a universal trembj
he kneeled down, took his^hand, kissed n, and
pressed it to his heart in silence.
"You are welcome, young man," said Sir Philip;
"take courage, and speak for yourself."
Edmund sighed deeply; he at length broke silence
with difficulty. "I am come thus far, noble sir, to
throw myself at your feet, and implore your protec-
tion. You are, under God, my only reliance."
"I receive you," said Sir Philip, "with all my
heart; your person is greatly improved since I saw
you last, and I hope your mind is equally so; I have
heard a great character of you from some that knew
you in France. I remember the promise I made
you long ago, and am ready now to fulfil it, upon
condition that you have done nothing to disgrace the
good opinion I formerly entertained of you; and am
ready to serve you in anything consistent with my
own honour."
Edmund kissed the hand that was extended to
raise him. "I accept your favour, sir, upon this con-
dition only; and if ever you find me to impose upon
your credulity, or encroach on your goodness, may
you renounce me from that moment!"
"Enough," said Sir Philip; "rise, then, and let me
embrace you; you are truly welcome."
"Oh! noble sir," said Edmund, " I have a strange
story to tell you; but it must be by ourselves, with


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 125
only Heaven to bear witness to what passes be-
tween us."
"Very well," said Sir Philip; "I am ready to hear
you; but first go and get some refreshment after
your journey, and then come to me again. John
Wyatt will attend you."
"I want no refreshment," said Edmund; "and I
cannot eat or drink till I have told my business to
your honour."
"Well then," said Sir Philip, "come along with
me." He took the youth by the hand, and led him
into another parlour, leaving his friends in great
surprise, what this young man's errand could be.
John Wyatt told them all that he knew relating to
Edmund's birth, character, and situation.
When Sir Philip had seated his young friend, he
listened in silence to the surprising tale he had to
tell him. Edmund told him briefly the most remark-
able circumstances of his life, from the time when he
first saw and liked him, till his return from France;
but from that era, he related at large everything
that had happened, recounting every interesting
particular, which was imprinted on his memory in
strong and lasting characters. Sir Philip grew every
moment more affected by the recital; sometimes he
clasped his hands together, he lifted them up to
heaven, he smote his breast, he sighed, he exclaimed
aloud. When Edmund related his dream, he breathed
short, and seemed to devour him with attention;
when he described the fatal closet, he trembled,
sighed, sobbed, and was almost suffocated with his
agitation. But when he related all that had passed
between his supposed mother and himself, and


126 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
finally produced the jewels, the proofs of his birth,
and the death of his unfortunate mother, he flew to
him, he pressed him to his bosom, he strove to speak,
but speech was for some minutes denied. He wept
aloud; and at length his words found their way in
broken exclamations.
"Son of my dearest friend! dear and precious relic
of a noble house! child of Providence! the beloved
of Heaven! welcome! thrice welcome to my arms!
to my heart! I will be thy parent from henceforward,
and thou shalt be indeed my child, my heir! My
mind told me, from the first moment I beheld thee,
that thou wert the image of my friend! My heart
then opened itself to receive thee as his offspring.
I had a strange foreboding that I was to be thy
protector. I would then have made thee my own;
but Heaven orders things for the best; it made thee
the instrument of this discovery, and in its own time
and manner conducted thee to my arms. Praise be
to God for His wonderful doings towards the children
of men I everything that has befallen thee is by His
direction, and He will not leave His work unfinished:
I trust that I shall be His instrument to do justice
on the guilty, and to restore the orphan of my friend
to his rights and title. I devote myself to this
service, and will make it the business of my life to
effect it."
Edmund gave vent to his emotions, in raptures of
joy and gratitude. They spent several hours in this
way, without thinking of the time that passed, the
one inquiring, the other explaining and repeating,
every particular of the interesting story.
At length they were interrupted by the careful


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
127
John Wyatt, who was anxious to know if anything
was likely to give trouble to his master.
"Sir," said John, "it grows dark—do you want a
light?"
"We want no light but what Heaven gives us,"
said Sir Philip; "I knew not whether it was dark or
light."
"I hope," said John, "nothing has happened; I
hope your honour has heard no bad tidings; I—I-—
I hope no offence."
"None at all," said the good knight; "I am
obliged to your solicitude for me; I have heard
some things that grieve me, and others that give me
great pleasure; but the sorrows are past, and the
joys remain."
"Thank God!" said John; "I was afraid some-
thing was the matter to give your honour trouble."
"I thank you, my good servant. You see this
young gentleman; I would have you, John, devote
yourself to his service; I give you to him for an
attendant on his person, and would have you show
your affection to me by your attachment to him."
"Oh, sir!" said John, in a melancholy voice,
"what have I done to be turned out of your ser-
vice?"
"No such matter, John," said Sir Philip; "you
will not leave my service."
"Sir," said John, " I would rather die than leave
you."
"And, my lad, I like you too well to part with
you; but in serving my friend you will serve me.
Know that this young man is my son."
"Your son, sir!" said John.


128 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"Not my natural son, but my relation; my son
by adoption, my heir!"
"And will he live with you, sir?"
"Yes, John; and I hope to die with him."
"Oh, then, I will serve him with all my heart and
soul; and I will do my best to please you both."
"I thank you, John, and I will not forget your
honest love and duty. I have so good an opinion of
you that I will tell you of some things concerning
this gentleman, that will entitle him to your respect."
"Tis enough for me," said John, "to know that
your honour respects him, to make me pay him as
much duty as yourself."
"But, John, when you know him better you will
respect him still more; at present I shall only tell
you what he is not, for you think him only the son
of Andrew Twyford."
"And is he not ?" said John.
"No, but his wife nursed him, and he passed for
her son."
"And does old Twyford know it, sir?"
"He does, and will bear witness to it; but he is
the son of a near friend of mine, of quality superior
to my own, and as such you must serve and respect
him."
"I shall, to be sure, sir; but what name shall I
call him?"
"You shall know that hereafter; in the mean-
time, bring a light, and wait on us to the other
parlour."
When John was withdrawn, Sir Philip said, " That
is a point to be considered and determined immedi-
ately. It is proper that you should assume a name


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
129
till you can take that of your father; for I choose you
should drop that of your foster-father; and I would
have you be called by one that is respectable."
"In that, and every other point, I will be wholly
governed by you, sir," said Edmund.
"Well, then, I will give you the name of Seagrave.
I shall say that you are a relation of my own; and
my mother was really of that family."
John soon returned, and attended them into the
other parlour; Sir Philip entered with Edmund in
his hand.
"My friends," said he, "this gentleman is Mr.
Edmund Seagrave, the son of a dear friend and
relation of mine. He was lost in his infancy, brought
up by a good woman out of pure humanity, and
is but lately restored to his own family. The cir-
cumstances shall be made known hereafter; in the
meantime, I have taken him under my care and
protection, and will use all my power and interest to
see him restored to his fortune, which is enjoyed by
the usurper who was the cause of his expulsion, and
the death of his parent. Receive him as my relation
and friend: Zadisky, do you embrace him first.
Edmund, you and this gentleman must love each
other for my sake; hereafter you will do it for your
own. They all rose; each embraced and congratu-
lated the young man.
Zadisky said," Sir, whatever griefs and misfortunes
you may have endured, you may reckon them at an
end, from the hour you are beloved and protected by
Sir Philip Harclay."
"I firmly believe it, sir," replied Edmund; "and
my heart enjoys already more happiness than I ever
I


130 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
yet felt, and promises me all that I can wish in
future; his friendship is the earnest Heaven gives
me of its blessings hereafter."
They sat down to supper with mutual cheerful-
ness; and Edmund enjoyed the repast with more
satisfaction than he had felt for a long time. Sir
Philip saw his countenance brighten up, and looked
on him with heart-felt pleasure.
"Every time I look on you," said he, "reminds me
of your father; you are the same person I loved
twenty-three years ago—I rejoice to see you under
my roof. Go to your repose early, and to-morrow
we will consult farther."
Edmund withdrew, and enjoyed a night of sweet,
undisturbed repose.
The next morning Edmund arose in perfect health
and spirits: he waited on his benefactor. They
were soon after joined by Zadisky, who showed great
attention and respect to the youth, and offered him
his best services without reserve. Edmund accepted
them with equal respect and modesty; and finding
himself at ease, began to display his amiable qua-
lities. They breakfasted together; afterwards, Sir
Philip desired Edmund to walk out with him.
As soon as they were out of hearing, Sir Philip
said, "I could not sleep last night for thinking of
your affairs; I laid schemes for you, and rejected
them again. We must lay our plan before we begin
to act. What shall be done with this treacherous
kinsman! this inhuman monster! this assassin of his
nearest relation? I will risk my life and fortune to
bring him to justice. Shall I go to court, and
demand justice of the king? or shall I accuse him of


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 131
the murder, and make him stand a public trial? If
I treat him as a baron of the realm, he must be tried
by his peers; if as a commoner, he must be tried at
the county assizes; but we must show reason why he
should be degraded from his title. Have you any-
thing to propose?"
"Nothing, sir; I have only to wish that it might
be as private as possible, for the sake of my noble
benefactor, the Lord Fitz-Owen, upon whom some
part of the family disgrace would naturally fall; and
that would be an ill return for all his kindness and
generosity to me."
"That is a generous and grateful consideration on
your part; but you owe still more to the memory of
your injured parents. However, there is yet another
way that suits me better than any hitherto proposed
—I will challenge the traitor to meet me in the
field; and if he has spirit enough to answer my call,
I will there bring him to justice; if not, I will bring
him to a public trial."
"No, sir," said Edmund, "that is my province.
Should I stand by, and see my noble, gallant friend
expose his life for me, I should be unworthy to bear
the name of that friend whom you so much lament.
It will become his son to vindicate his name, and
revenge his death. I will be the challenger, and no
other."
"And do you think he will answer the challenge
of an unknown youth, with nothing but his pre-
tensions to his name and title? Certainly not.
Leave this matter to me. I'll think of a way that
will oblige him to meet me at the house of a third
person, who is known to all the parties concerned


132 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
and where we will have authentic witnesses of all
that passes between him and me. I will devise the
time, place, and manner, and satisfy all your
scruples."
Edmund offered to reply, but Sir Philip bade him
be silent, and let him proceed in his own way.
He then led him over his estate, and showed him
everything deserving his notice: he told him all the
particulars of his domestic economy; and they
returned home in time to meet their friends at
dinner.
They spent several days in consulting how to
bring Sir Walter to account, and in improving their
friendship and confidence in each other. Edmund
endeared himself so much to his friend and patron,
that he declared him his adopted son and heir before
all his friends and servants, and ordered them to
respect him as such. He every day improved their
love and regard for him, and became the darling of
the whole family.
After much consideration, Sir Philip fixed his
resolutions, and began to execute his purposes. He
set out for the seat of the Lord Clifford, attended
by Edmund, M. Zadisky, and two servants. Lord
Clifford received them with kindness and hospitality.
Sir Philip presented Edmund to Lord Clifford and
his family, as his near relation and presumptive heir:
they spent their evening in the pleasures of convivial
mirth and hospitable entertainment. The next day
Sir Philip began to open his mind to Lord Clifford,
informing him that both his young friend and him-
self had received great injuries from the present Lord
Lovel, for which they were resolved to call him to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
>33
account; but that, for many reasons, they were
desirous to have proper witnesses of all that should
pass between them, begging the favour of his lord-
ship to be the principal one. Lord Clifford acknow-
ledged the confidence placed in him, and besought
Sir Philip to let him be the arbitrator between them.
Sir Philip assured him that their wrongs would not
admit of arbitration, as he should hereafter judge;
but that he was unwilling to explain them farther,
till he knew certainly whether or not the Lord Lovel
would meet him; for, if he refused, he must take
another method with him.
Lord Clifford was desirous to know the grounds of
the quarrel, but Sir Philip declined entering into
particulars at present, assuring him of a full informa-
tion hereafter. He then sent M. Zadisky, attended
by John Wyatt, and a servant of Lord Clifford, with
a letter to Lord Lovel; the contents were as
follow:—
"My LORD LOVEL,—Sir Philip Harclay earnestly
desires to see you at the house of Lord Clifford,
where he waits to call you to account for the injuries
done by you to the late Arthur Lord Lovel, your
kinsman. If you accept his demand, he will make
the Lord Clifford a witness and a judge of the cause.
If not, he will expose you publicly as a traitor and a
coward. Please to answer this letter, and he will
acquaint you with the time, place, and manner of the
meeting. PHILIP HARCLAY."
Zadisky presented the letter to Lord Lovel, in-
forming him that he was the friend of Sir Philip


134 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Harclay. He seemed surprised and confounded at
the contents; but, putting on a haughty air, " I know
nothing," said he, "of the business this letter hints
at; but wait a few hours, and I will give you an
answer." He gave orders to treat Zadisky as a
gentleman in every respect, except in avoiding his
company, for the Greek had a shrewd and penetrat-
ing aspect, and he observed every turn of his coun-
tenance. The next day he came and apologised for
his absence, and gave him the answer, sending his
respects to the Lord Clifford. The messengers
returned with all speed, and Sir Philip read the
answer before all present.
"Lord Lovel knows not of any injuries done by
him to the late Arthur Lord Lovel, whom he
succeeded by just right of inheritance; nor of any
right Sir Philip Harclay has to call to account a man
to whom he is barely known, having seen him only
once, many years ago, at the house of his uncle, the
old Lord Lovel: Nevertheless, Lord Lovel will not
suffer any man to call his name and honour into
question with impunity; for which reason he will
meet Sir Philip Harclay at any time, place, and in
what manner he shall appoint, bringing the same
number of friends and dependants, that justice may
be done to all parties. Lovel."
"Tis well," said Sir Philip; "I am glad to find
he has the spirit to meet me; he is an enemy worthy
of my sword."
Lord Clifford then proposed that all parties
should pass the borders, and obtain leave of the


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
US
warden of the Scottish marches to decide the quarrel
in his jurisdiction, with a select number of friends on
both sides. Sir Philip agreed to the proposal; and
Lord Clifford wrote, in his own name, to ask permis-
sion of the Lord Graham, that his friends might
come there; and obtained it, on condition that
neither party should exceed a limited number of
friends and followers.
Lord Clifford sent chosen messengers to Lord
Lovel, acquainting him with the conditions, and
appointing the time, place, and manner of their
meeting, and that he had been desired to accept the
office of judge of the field. Lord Lovel accepted the
conditions, and promised to be there without fail.
Lord Clifford notified the same to Lord Graham,
warden of the marches, who caused a piece of ground
to be enclosed for the lists, and made preparations
against the day appointed.
In the interim, Sir Philip Harclay thought proper
to settle his worldly affairs. He made Zadisky
acquainted with every circumstance of Edmund's
history, and the obligation that lay upon him to
revenge the death of his friend, and see justice done
to his heir. Zadisky entered into the cause with an
ardour that spoke the affection he bore to his friend.
"Why," said he, "would you not suffer me to
engage this traitor? Your life is of too much conse-
quence to be staked against his; but though I trust
that the justice of your cause must succeed, yet, if
it should happen otherwise, I vow to revenge you;
he shall never go back from us both. However, my
hope and trust is, to see your arm the minister of
justice."


136
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Sir Philip then sent for a lawyer and made his
will; by which he appointed Edmund his chief heir,
by the name of Lovel, alias Seagrave, alias Twyford.
He ordered that all his old friends, soldiers, and
servants should be maintained in the same manner
during their lives; he left to Zadisky an annuity of
an hundred a year, and a legacy of two hundred
pounds; one hundred pounds to a certain monastery;
the same sum to be distributed among disbanded
soldiers, and the same to the poor and needy in his
neighbourhood.
He appointed Lord Clifford joint executor with
Edmund, and gave his will into that nobleman's care,
recommending Edmund to his favour and protection.
"If I live," said he, "I will make him appear to be
worthy of it; if I die, he will want a friend. I am
desirous your lordship, as a judge of the field, should
be unprejudiced on either side, that you may judge
impartially. If I die, Edmund's pretensions die with
me; but my friend Zadisky will acquaint you with
the foundation of them. I take these precautions,
because I ought to be prepared for everything; but
my heart is warm with better hopes, and I trust I
shall live to justify my own cause, as well as that of
my friend, who is a person of more consequence than
he appears to be."
Lord Clifford accepted the trust, and expressed
the greatest reliance upon Sir Philip's honour and
veracity.
While these preparations were making for the
great event that was to decide the pretensions of
Edmund, his enemies at the Castle of Lovel were
brought to shame for their behaviour to him.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 137
The disagreement between Wenlock and Mark-
ham had by degrees brought on an explanation of
some parts of their conduct. Father Oswald had
often hinted to the Baron, Wenlock's envy of
Edmund's superior qualities, and the artifices by
which he had obtained such an influence with Sir
Robert, as to make him take his part upon all occa-
sions. Oswald now took advantage of the breach
between these two incendiaries, to persuade Markham
to justify himself at Wenlock's expense, and to tell
all he knew of his wickedness. At length he pro-
mised to declare all he knew of Wenlock's conduct, as
well in France as since their return, when he should
be called upon; and by him Oswald was enabled to
unravel the whole of his contrivances against the
honour, interest, and even life of Edmund.
He prevailed on Hewson, and Kemp, his associate,
to add their testimony to the others. Hewson con-
fessed that he was touched in his conscience, when
he reflected on the cruelty and injustice of his be-
haviour to Edmund, whose behaviour towards him,
after he had laid a snare for his life, was so noble
and generous that he was cut to the heart by it, and
had suffered so much pain and remorse, that he longed
for nothing so much as an opportunity to unburden
his mind; but the dread of Mr. Wenlock's anger, and
the effects of his resentment, had hitherto kept him
silent, always hoping there would come a time when
he might have leave to declare the whole truth.
Oswald conveyed this information to the Baron's
ear, who waited for an opportunity to make the
proper use of it. Not long after, the two principal
incendiaries came to an open rupture, and Markham


138 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
threatened Wenlock that he would show his uncle
what a serpent he had harboured in his bosom. The
Baron arrested his words, and insisted upon his
telling all he knew; adding,—
"If you speak the truth, I will support you, but if
you prove false, I will punish you severely. As to
Mr. Wenlock, he shall have a fair trial; and if all the
accusations I have heard are made good, it is high
time that I should put him out of my family."
The Baron, with a stern aspect, bade them follow
him into the great hall, and sent for all the rest of
the family together.
He then, with great solemnity, told them he was
ready to hear all sides of the question. He declared
the whole substance of his informations, and called
upon his accusers to support the charge. Hewson
and Kemp gave the same account they had given to
Oswald, offering to swear to the truth of their testi-
mony; several of the other servants related such cir-
cumstances as had come to their knowledge. Mark-
ham then spoke of everything, and gave a particular
account of all that had passed on the night they
spent in the east apartment; he accused himself of
being privy to Wenlock's villainy, called himself fool
and blockhead for being the instrument of his malig-
nant disposition, and asked pardon of his uncle for
concealing it so long.
The Baron called upon Wenlock to reply to the
charge; who, instead of answering, flew into a pas-
sion, raged, swore, threatened, and finally denied
everything. The witnesses persisted in their asser-
tions. Markham desired leave to make known the
reason why they were all afraid of him.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 139
"He gives it out," said he, "that he is to be my
lord's son-in-law; and they, supposing him to stand
first in his favour, are afraid of his displeasure."
"I hope," said the Baron, " I shall not be at such
a loss for a son-in-law, as to make choice of such a
one as him; he never but once hinted at such a
thing, and then I gave him no encouragement. I
have long seen there was something very wrong in
him, but I did not believe he was of so wicked a dis-
position. It is no wonder that princes should be so
frequently deceived, when I, a private man, could
be so much imposed upon within the circle of my
own family. What think you, son Robert?"
"I, sir, have been much more imposed upon, and
I take shame to myself on the occasion."
"Enough, my son," said the Baron; "a generous
confession is only a proof of growing wisdom. You
are now sensible that the best of us all are liable to
imposition. The artifices of this unworthy kinsman
have set us at variance with each other, and driven
away an excellent youth from this house, to go I
know not whither; but he shall no longer triumph in
his wickedness; he shall feel what it is to be ban-
ished from the house of his protector. He shall set
out for his mother's this very day; I will write to her
in such a manner as shall inform her that he has
offended me, without particularising the nature of his
faults. I will give him an opportunity of recovering
his credit with his own family, and this shall be my
security against his doing further mischief. May he
repent, and be forgiven.
"Markham deserves punishment, but not in the
same degree."


140
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I confess it," said he, "and will submit to what-
ever your lordship shall enjoin."
"You shall only be banished for a time, but he for
ever. I will send you abroad, on a business that shall
put you in a way to do credit to yourself, and service
to me. Son Robert, have you any objection to my
sentence?"
"My lord," said he, " I have great reason to dis-
trust myself; I am sensible of my own weakness, and
vour superior wisdom, as well as goodness; and I
will henceforward submit to you in all things."
The Baron ordered two of his servants to pack up
Wenlock's clothes and necessaries, and to set out with
him that very day; he bade some others keep an eye
upon him lest he should escape. As soon as they
were ready, my lord wished him a good journey, and
gave him a letter for his mother. He departed with-
out saying a word, in a sullen kind of resentment;
but his countenance showed the inward agitations of
his mind.
As soon as he was gone, every mouth was opened
against him; a thousand stories came out that they
never heard before. The Baron and his sons were
astonished that he should go on so long without
detection. My lord sighed deeply at the thoughts of
Edmund's expulsion, and ardently wished to know
what was become of him.
Sir Robert took the opportunity of coming to
an explanation with his brother William; he took
shame to himself for some part of his past behaviour.
Mr. William owned his affection to Edmund, and
justified it by his merit and attachment to him,
which were such that he was certain no time or dis-


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 141
tance could alter them. He accepted his brother's
acknowledgment, as a full amends for all that had
passed, and begged that henceforward an entire love
and confidence might ever subsist between them.
These new regulations restored peace, confidence,
and harmony in the Castle of Lovel.
At length the day arrived for the combatants to
meet. The Lord Graham, with twelve followers,
gentlemen, and twelve servants, was ready at the
dawn of day to receive them.
The first that entered the field was Sir Philip
Harclay, knight, armed completely, excepting his
head-piece; Hugh Rugby, his esquire, bearing his
lance; John Barnard, his page, carrying his helmet
and spurs; and two servants in his proper livery.
The next came Edmund, the heir of Lovel, followed
by his servant John Wyatt; Zadisky, followed by
his servant.
At a short distance came the Lord Clifford, as
judge of the field, with his esquire, two pages, and
two livery servants; followed by his eldest son, his
nephew, and a gentleman his friend, each attended
by one servant. He also brought a surgeon of note
to take care of the wounded.
The Lord Graham saluted them; and by his order
they took their places without the lists, and the
trumpet sounded for the challenger. It was answered
by the defendant, who soon after appeared, attended
by three gentlemen his friends, with each one servant,
beside his own proper attendants.
A place was erected for the Lord Clifford, as
judge of the field; he desired Lord Graham would
share the office, who accepted it, on condition that


142
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
the combatants should make no objection; and they
agreed to it with the greatest courtesy and respect.
They consulted together on many points of honour
and ceremony between the two combatants.
They appointed a marshal of the field, arid other
inferior officers, usually employed on these occasions.
The Lord Graham sent the marshal for the chal-
lenger, desiring him to declare the cause of his
quarrel before his enemy. Sir Philip Harclay then
advanced, and thus spoke:
"I, Philip Harclay, knight, challenge Walter,
commonly called Lord Lovel, as a base, treacherous,
and bloody man, who by his wicked arts and devices,
did kill, or caused to be killed, his kinsman, Arthur
Lord Lovel, my dear and noble friend. I am called
upon, in an extraordinary manner, to revenge his
death; and I will prove the truth of what I have
affirmed at the peril of my life."
Lord Graham then bade the defendant answer to
the charge. Lord Lovel stood forth before his
followers, and thus replied:
"I, Walter, Baron of Lovel, do deny the charge
against me, and affirm it to be a base, false, and
malicious accusation of this Sir Philip Harclay, which
I believe to be invented by himself, or else framed
by some enemy, and told to him for wicked ends;
but, be that as it may, I will maintain my own
honour, and prove him to be a false traitor, at the
hazard of my own life, and to the punishment of his
presumption."
, "Then," said the Lord Graham, "will not this
quarrel admit of arbitration?"
"No," replied Sir Philip; "when I have justified this


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 143
charge, I have more to bring against him. I trust in
God and the justice of my cause, and defy that traitor
to the death!"
Lord Clifford then spoke a few words to Lord
Graham, who immediately called to the marshal, and
bade him open the lists, and deliver their weapons
to the combatants.
While the marshal was arranging the combatants
and their followers, Edmund approached his friend
and patron; he put one knee to the ground, he
embraced his knees with the strongest emotions of
grief and anxiety. He was dressed in complete
armour, with his vizor down; his device was a haw-
thorn, with a graft of the rose upon it, the motto—
This is not my true parent; but Sir Philip bade him
take these words—E fructu arbor cognosciticr.
Sir Philip embraced the youth with strong marks
of affection. "Be composed, my child!" said he; "I
have neither guilt, fear, nor doubt in me; I am so
certain of success, that I bid you be prepared for the
consequence."
Zadisky embraced his friend, he comforted Edmund,
he suggested everything that could confirm his hopes
of success.
The marshal waited to deliver the spear to Sir
Philip; he now presented it with the usual form.
"Sir, receive your lance, and God defend the right!"
Sir Philip answered, "Amen!" in a voice that was
heard by all present.
He next presented his weapon to Lord Lovel with
the same sentence, who likewise answered "Amen!"
with a good courage. Immediately the lists were
cleared, and the combatants began to fight.


144 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
They contended a long time with equal skill and
courage; at length Sir Philip unhorsed his antagonist.
The judges ordered that either he should alight or
suffer his enemy to remount; he chose the former,
and a short combat on foot ensued. The sweat ran
off their bodies with the violence of the exercise.
Sir Philip watched every motion of his enemy, and
strove to weary him out, intending to wound, but not
to kill him, unless obliged for his own safety.
He thrust his sword through his left arm, and
demanded whether he would confess the fact? Lord
Lovel, enraged, answered he would die sooner. Sir
Philip then passed the sword through his body
twice, and Lord Lovel fell, crying out that he was
slain.
"I hope not," said Sir Philip, "for I have a great
deal of business for you to do before you die: con-
fess your sins, and endeavour to atone for them, as
the only ground to hope for pardon."
Lord Lovel replied, "You are the victor, use your
good fortune generously."
Sir Philip took away his sword, and then waved
it over his head, and beckoned for assistance. The
judges sent to beg Sir Philip to spare the life of his
enemy. ,
"I will," said he, "upon condition that he will
make an honest confession."
Lord Lovel desired a surgeon and a confessor.
"You shall have both," said Sir Philip; "but you
must first answer me a question or two. Did you
kill your kinsman or not?"
"It was not my hand that killed him," answered
the wounded man.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 145
"It was done by your own order, however? You
shall have no assistance till you answer this point."
"It was," said he, "and Heaven is just."
"Bear witness all present," said Sir Philip, "he
confesses the fact!"
He then beckoned Edmund, who approached.
"Take off your helmet," said he; "look on that
youth, he is the son of your injured kinsman."
"It is himself," said the Lord Lovel, and fainted
away.
Sir Philip then called for a surgeon and a priest,
both of which Lord Graham had provided; the
former began to bind up his wounds, and his assis-
tants poured a cordial into his mouth. "Preserve
his life, if it be possible," said Sir Philip; "for much
depends upon it."
He then took Edmund by the hand, and presented
him to all the company. "In this young man," said
he, "you see the true heir of the house of Lovel!
Heaven has in its own way made him the instrument
to discover the death of his parents. His father was
assassinated by order of that wicked man, who now
receives his punishment; his mother was, by his cruel
treatment, compelled to leave her own house; she
was delivered in the fields, and perished herself in
seeking a shelter for her infant. I have sufficient
proofs of everything I say, which I am ready to
communicate to every person who desires to know
the particulars. Heaven, by my hand, has chastised
him; he has confessed the fact I accuse him of, and
it remains that he make restitution of the fortune
and honours he hath usurped so long."
Edmund kneeled, and, with uplifted hands, re-
K


146 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
turned thanks to Heaven, that his noble friend and
champion was crowned with victory. The lords and
gentlemen gathered round them; they congratulated
them both; while Lord Lovel's friends and followers
were employed in taking care of him. Lord Clifford
took Sir Philip's hand.
"You have acted with so much honour and pru-
dence, that it is presumptuous to offer you advice; but
what mean you to do with the wounded man?"
"I have not determined," said he; "I thank you
for the hint, and beg your advice how to proceed."
"Let us consult Lord Graham," replied he.
Lord Graham insisted upon their going all to his
castle: "There," said he, "you will have impartial
witnesses of all that passes." Sir Philip was unwilling
to give so much trouble. The Lord Graham protested
he would be proud to do any service to so noble a
gentleman. Lord Clifford enforced his request,
saying it was better upon all accounts to keep their
prisoner on this side the borders, till they saw what
turn his health would take, and to keep him safely,
till he had settled his worldly affairs.
This resolution being taken, Lord Graham invited
the wounded man and his friends to his castle, as
being the nearest place where he could be lodged
and taken proper care of, it being dangerous to carry
him farther. They accepted the proposal with many
acknowledgments; and, having made a kind of litter
of boughs, they all proceeded to Lord Graham's
castle, where they put Lord Lovel to bed, and the
surgeon dressed his wounds, and desired he might
be kept quiet, not knowing at present whether they
were dangerous or not.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 147
About an hour after, the wounded man complained
of thirst; he asked for the surgeon, and inquired if
his life was in danger? The surgeon answered him
doubtfully. He asked—
"Where is Sir Philip Harclay?"
"In the castle."
"Where is that young man whom he calls the heir
ofLovel?"
"He is here, too."
"Then I am surrounded with my enemies. I want
to speak to one of my own servants, without wit-
nesses; let one be sent to me."
The surgeon withdrew, and acquainted the gentle-
men below.
"He shall not speak to any man," said Sir Philip,
"but in my presence." He went with him into the
sick man's room. Upon the sight of Sir Philip, he
seemed in great agitation.
"Am I not allowed to speak with my own ser
vant ?" said he.
"Yes, sir, you may; but not without witnesses."
"Then I am a prisoner, it seems?"
"No, not so, sir, but some caution is necessary at
present. But compose yourself, I do not wish for your
death."
"Then why did you seek it? I never injured you."
"Yes, you have, in the person of my friend, and I
am only the instrument of justice in the hand of
Heaven; endeavour to make atonement while life
is spared to you. Shall I send the priest to you?
perhaps he may convince you of the necessity of
restitution, in order to obtain forgiveness of your
sins."


148 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Sir Philip sent for the priest and the surgeon, and
obliged the servant to retire with him. "I leave you,
sir, to the care of these gentlemen; and whenever a
third person is admitted, I will be his attendant: I
will visit you again within an hour."
He then retired, and consulted his friends below;
they were of opinion that no time should be lost.
"You will then," said he, " accompany me into the
sick man's apartment in an hour's time."
Within the hour, Sir Philip, attended by Lord
Clifford and Lord Graham, entered the chamber.
Lord Lovel was in great emotion; the priest stood
on one side of the bed, the surgeon on the other; the
former exhorted him to confess his sins, the other
desired he might be left to his repose. Lord Lovel
seemed in great anguish of mind; he trembled, and
was in the utmost confusion. Sir Philip entreated
him, with the piety of a confessor, to consider his
soul's health before that of his body. He then asked
Sir Philip by what means he knew that he was con-
cerned in the death of his kinsman.
"Sir," replied he, "it was not merely by human
means this fact was discovered. There is a certain
apartment in the Castle of Lovel, that has been shut
up these one-and-twenty years, but has lately been
opened and examined into."
"O Heaven!" exclaimed he, "then Geoffry must
have betrayed me!"
"No, sir, he has not; it was revealed in a very
extraordinary manner to that youth whom it most
concerns."
"How can he be the heir of Lovel?"
"By being the son of that unfortunate woman


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
149
whom you cruelly obliged to leave her own house, to
avoid being compelled to wed the murderer of her
husband: we are not ignorant, moreover, of the fic-
titious funeral you made for her. All is discovered,
and you will not tell us any more than we know
already; but we desire to have it confirmed by your
confession."
"The judgments of Heaven are falling upon me!"
said Lord Lovel. "I am childless, and one is arisen
from the grave to claim my inheritance."
"Nothing then hinders you to do justice and make
restitution; it is for the ease of your conscience; and
you have no other way of making atonement for all
the mischief you have done."
"You know too much," said the criminal, "and I
will relate what you do not know.
"You may remember," proceeded he, "that I saw
you once at my uncle's house; I well remember it.
At that time my mind was disturbed by the baleful
passion of envy; it was from that root all my bad
actions sprung."
"Praise be to God !" said the good priest; "He
hath touched your heart with true contrition, and
you show the effect of His mercies; you will do jus-
tice, and you will be rewarded by the gift of repent-
ance unto salvation."
Sir Philip desired the penitent to proceed.
"My kinsman excelled me in every kind of merit,
in the graces of person and mind, in all his exercises,,
and in every accomplishment. I was totally eclipsed
by him, and I hated to be in his company; but what |
finished my aversion, was his addressing the lady
upon whom I had fixed my affections. I strove to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
rival him there, but she gave him the preference;
that, indeed, was only his due; but I could not bear
to see, or acknowledge it.
"The most bitter hatred took possession of my
breast, and I vowed to revenge the supposed injury
as soon as opportunity should offer. I buried
my resentment deep in my heart, and outwardly
appeared to rejoice at his success. I made a merit
of resigning my pretensions to him, but I could not
bear to be present at his nuptials; I retired to my
father's seat, and brooded over my revenge in secret.
My father died this year, and soon after my uncle
followed him; within another year my kinsman
was summoned to attend the king on his Welsh
expedition.
"As soon as I heard he was gone from home, I
resolved to prevent his return, exulting in the pro-
spect of possessing his title, fortune, and his lady.
I hired messengers, who were constantly going and
coming, to give me intelligence of all that passed at
the castle; I went there soon after, under pretence
of visiting my kinsman. My spies brought me an
account of all that happened; one informed me of
the event of the battle, but could not tell whether
my rival was living or dead; I hoped the latter,
that I might avoid the crime I meditated. I
reported his death to his lady, who took it very
heavily.
"Soon after, a messenger arrived with tidings that
he was alive and well, and had obtained leave to
return home immediately.
"I instantly despatched my two emissaries to
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HE OUTRODE HIS SERVANTS, AND WAS ALONE.





THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 151
to return, that he was met within a mile of his own
castle; he had out-rode his servants, and was alone.
They killed him, and drew him aside out of the
highway. They then came to me with all speed,
and desired my orders; it was then about sunset. I
sent them back to fetch the dead body, which they
brought privately into the castle: they tied it neck
and heels, and put it into a trunk, which they buried
under the floor in the closet you mentioned. The
sight of the body stung me to the heart; I then felt
the pangs of remorse, but it was too late. I took
every precaution that prudence suggested to prevent
the discovery; but nothing can be concealed from
the eye of Heaven.
"From that fatal hour I have never known peace,
always in fear of something impending to discover
my guilt, and to bring me to shame; at length I am
overtaken by justice. I am brought to a severe
reckoning here, and I dread to meet one more
severe hereafter."
"Enough," said the priest; "you have done a
good work, my son! trust in the Lord; and now
this burden is off your mind, the rest will be made
easy to you."
Lord Lovel took a minute's repose, and then
went on:—
"I hope, by the hint you gave, Sir Philip, the
poor lady is yet alive?"
"No, sir, she is not; but she died not till after she
brought forth a son, whom Heaven made its instru-
ment to discover and avenge the death of both his
parents."
"They are well avenged!" said he. "I have no


I 53 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
children to lament for me; all mine have been taken
from me in the bloom of youth. Only one daughter
lived to be twelve years old; I intended her for a
wife for one of my nephews, but within three months
I have buried her." He sighed, wept, and was
silent.
The gentlemen present lifted up their hands and
eyes to heaven in silence.
"The will of Heaven be obeyed!" said the priest.
"My penitent has confessed all; what more would
you require?"
"That he make atonement," said Sir Philip;
"that he surrender the title and estate to the right
heir, and dispose of his own proper fortune to his
nearest relations, and resign himself to penitence
and preparation for a future state. For this time I
leave him with you, father, and will join my prayers
with yours for his repentance."
So saying, he left the room, and was followed by
the Barons and the surgeon; the priest alone
remaining with him. As soon as they were out of
hearing, Sir Philip questioned the surgeon concern-
ing his patient's situation; who answered, that at
present he saw no signs of immediate danger, but he
could not yet pronounce that there was none.
"If he were mortally wounded," said he, "he could
not be so well, nor speak so long without faintness;
and it is my opinion that he will soon recover, if
nothing happens to retard the cure."
"Then," said Sir Philip, "keep this opinion from
him; for I would suffer the fear of death to operate
on him until he hath performed some necessary acts
of justice. Let it only be known to these noblemen,


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 153
upon whose honour I can rely, and I trust they will
approve my request to you, sir."
"I join in it," said Lord Clifford, "from the same
motives."
"I insist upon it," said Lord Graham; "and I can
answer for my surgeon's discretion."
"My lords," said the surgeon, "you may depend
upon my fidelity; and, after what I have just heard,
my conscience is engaged in this noble gentleman's
behalf, and I will do everything in my power to
second your intentions."
"I thank you, sir," said Sir Philip, " and you may
depend on my gratitude in return. I presume you
will sit up with him to-night; if any danger should
arise, I desire to be called immediately; but other-
wise, I would suffer him to rest quietly, that he
may be prepared for the business of the following
day."
"I shall obey your directions, sir; my necessary
attendance will give me a pretence not to leave him,
and thus I shall hear all that passes between him
and all that visit him."
"You will oblige me highly," said Sir Philip, " and
I shall go to rest with confidence in your care."
The surgeon returned to the sick man's chamber,
Sir Philip and the Barons to the company below:
they supped in the great hall, with all the gentlemen
that were present at the combat. Sir Philip and
his Edmund retired to their repose, being heartily
fatigued; and the company stayed to a late hour,
commenting upon the action of the day, praising the
courage and generosity of the noble knight, and
wishing a good event to his undertaking.


154
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
Most of Lord Lovel's friends went away as soon as
they saw him safely lodged, being ashamed of him,
and of their appearance in his behalf; and the few
that stayed were induced by their desire of a further
information of the base action he had committed,
and to justify their own characters and conduct.
The next morning Sir Philip entered into consul-
tation with the two Barons, on the methods he
should take to get Edmund received and acknow-
ledged as heir of the house of Lovel. They were all
of opinion, that the criminal should be kept in fear
till he had settled his worldly affairs, and they had
resolved how to dispose of him. With this deter-
mination they entered his room, and inquired of the
surgeon how he had passed the night. He shook
his head, and said but little.
Lord Lovel desired that he might be removed to
his own house. Lord Graham said he could not
consent to that, as there was evident danger in
removing him, and appealed to the surgeon, who
confirmed his opinion. Lord Graham desired he
would make himself easy, and that he should have
every kind of assistance there.
Sir Philip then proposed to send for the Lord
Fitz-Owen, who should see that all possible care was
taken of his brother-in-law, and would assist him in
settling his affairs. Lord Lovel was against it; he
was peevish and uneasy, and desired to be left with
only his own servants to attend him. Sir Philip
quitted the room with a significant look; and the
two lords endeavoured to reconcile him to his situa-
tion. He interrupted them. "It is easy for men in
your situation to advise, but it is difficult for one in


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
mine to practise; wounded in body and mind, it is
natural that I should strive to avoid the extremes of
shame and punishment. I thank you for your kind
offices, and beg I may be left with my own servants."
"With them, and the surgeon, you shall," said Lord
Graham; and they both retired.
Sir Philip met them below. "My lords," said he,
"I am desirous that my Lord Fitz-Owen should be
sent for, and that he may hear his brother's confes-
sion; for I suspect that he may hereafter deny what
only the fear of death has extorted from him; with
your permission I am determined to send messengers
to-day."
They both expressed approbation, and Lord Clif-
ford proposed to write to him, saying, "A letter from
an impartial person will have the more weight; I will
send one of my principal domestics with your own."
This measure being resolved upon, Lord Clifford
retired to write, and Sir Philip to prepare his ser-
vants for instant departure. Edmund desired leave
to write to Father Oswald, and John Wyatt was
ordered to be the bearer of his letter. When the
Lord Clifford had finished his letter, he read it to Sir
Philip and his chosen friends, as follows:—
"Right Hon. my good Lord,—I have taken
upon me to acquaint your lordship that there has
been a solemn combat-at-arms between your brother-
in-law, the Lord Lovel, and Sir Philip Harclay, Knt.
of Yorkshire. It was fought in the jurisdiction of
the Lord Graham, who, with myself, was appointed
judge of the field; it was fairly won, and Sir Philip
is the conqueror. After he had gained the victory,


156 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
he declared at large the cause of the quarrel, and
that he had revenged the death of Arthur Lord
Lovel, his friend, whom the present Lord Lovel had
assassinated, that he might enjoy his title and estate.
The wounded man confessed the fact; and Sir Philip
gave him his life, and only carried off his sword as
a trophy of his victory. Both the victor and the
vanquished were conveyed to Lord Graham's castle,
where the Lord Lovel now lies in great danger. He
is desirous to settle his worldly affairs, and to make
his peace with God and man. Sir Philip Harclay
says there is a male heir of the house of Lovel, for
whom he claims the title and estate; but he is very
desirous that your lordship should be present at the
disposal of your brother's property, that of right
belongs to him, of which your children are the un-
doubted heirs'. He also wants to consult you in
many other points of honour and equity. Let me
entreat you, on the receipt of this letter, to set out
immediately for Lord Graham's castle, where you
will be received with the utmost respect and hospi-
tality. You will hear things that will surprise you
as much as they do me ; you will judge of them with
that justice and honour which speaks your character;
and you will unite with us in wondering at the ways of
Providence, and submitting to its decrees, in punish-
ing the guilty, and doing justice to the innocent and
oppressed. My best wishes and prayers attend you
and your hopeful family. My lord, I remain your
humble servant, CLIFFORD."
Every one present expressed the highest ap-
probation of this letter. Sir Philip gave orders to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 157
John Wyatt to be very circumspect in his behaviour,
to give Edmund's letter privately to Father Oswald,
aud to make no mention of him, or his pretensions
to Lovel Castle.
Lord Clifford gave his servant the requisite pre-
cautions. Lord Graham added a note of invitation,
and sent it by a servant of his own. As soon as all
things were ready, the messengers set out with all
speed for the Castle of Lovel.
They stayed no longer by the way than to take
some refreshment, but rode night and day till they
arrived there.
Lord Fitz-Owen was in the parlour with his chil-
dren; Father Oswald was walking in the avenue
before the house, when he saw three messengers,
whose horses seemed jaded and the riders fatigued,
like men come a long journey. He came up, just as
the first had delivered his message to the porter.
John Wyatt knew him; he dismounted, and made
signs that he had something to say to him ; he retired
back a few steps, and John, with great dexterity,
slipped a letter into his hand. The father gave
him his blessing, and a welcome.
"Who do you come from ?" said he aloud.
"From the Lords Graham and Clifford, to the
Lord Fitz-Owen; and we bring letters of consequence
to the Baron."
Oswald followed the messengers into the hall; a
servant announced their arrival. Lord Fitz-Owen
received them in the parlour; Lord Clifford's servant
delivered his master's letter, Lord Graham's his, and
they said they would retire and wait his lordship's
answer. The Baron ordered them some refresh-


158 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON
ment. They retired, and he opened his letters. He
read them with great agitation, he struck his hand
upon his heart, he exclaimed, "My fears are all veri-
fied ! the blow is struck,, and it has fallen upon the
guilty."
Oswald came in a minute after.
"You are come in good time," said the Baron.
"Read that letter, that my children may know the
contents."
He read it with a faltering voice, and trembling
limbs. They were all in great surprise. William
looked down, and kept a studied silence. Sir Robert
exclaimed—
"Is it possible? can my uncle be guilty of such an
action?"
"You hear," said the Baron, "he has confessed it!"
"But to whom ?" said Sir Robert.
His father replied, "Lord Clifford's honour is
unquestionable, and I cannot doubt what he
affirms."
Sir Robert leaned his head upon his hand, as one
lost in thought; at length he seemed to awake.
"My lord, I have no doubt that Edmund is at the
bottom of this business. Do you not remember that
Sir Philip Harclay long ago promised him his friend-
ship? Edmund disappears; and, soon after, this man
challenges my uncle. You know what passed here
before his departure; he has suggested this affair to
Sir Philip, and instigated him to this action. This is
the return he has made for the favours he has
received from our family, to which he owes every-
thing!"
"Softly, my son," said the Baron, "let us be


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
159
cautious of reflecting upon Edmund; there is a
greater hand in this business. My conjecture was
too true; it was in that fatal apartment that he was
made acquainted with the circumstances of Lord
Lovel's death; he was, perhaps, enjoined to reveal
them to Sir Philip Harclay, the bosom friend of the
deceased. The mystery of that apartment is dis-
closed, the woe to the guilty is accomplished. There
is no reflection upon any one; Heaven effects its/
purposes in its own time and manner. I and ming
are innocent; let us worship and be silent!"
"But what do you propose to do?" said Sir
Robert.
"To return with the messengers," answered the
Baron. "I think it highly proper that I should see
your uncle, and hear what he has to say; my children
are his heirs; in justice to them, I ought to be ac-
quainted with everything that concerns the disposal
of his fortune."
"Your lordship is--in the right," answered Sir
Robert, "it concerns us all. I have only to ask your
permission to bear you company."
"With all my heart," said the Baron; "I have
only to ask of you in return that you will command
yourself, and not speak your mind hastily; wait for
the proofs before you give judgment, and take advice
of your reason before you decide upon anything; if
you reflect upon the past, you will find reason to dis-
trust yourself. Leave all to me, and be assured I
will protect your honour and my own."
"I will obey you in all things, my lord; and will
make immediate preparation for our departure." So
saying, he left the room.


160 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
As soon as he was gone, Mr. William broke silence.
"My lord," said he, " if you have no great objec-
tion, I beg leave also to accompany you both?"
"You shall, my son, if you desire it; I think I can
see your motives, and your brother's also; your cool-
ness will be a good balance to his warmth; you shall
go with us. My son Walter shall be his sister's pro-
tector in our absence, and he shall be master here till
we return."
"I hope, my dear father, that will not be long; I
shall not be happy till you come home," said the fair
Emma.
"It shall be no longer, my dearest, than till this
untoward affair is settled."
The Baron desired to know when the messengers
were expected to return. Oswald took this oppor-
tunity to retire; he went to his own apartment, and
read the letter, as follows :—
"The Heir of Lovel, to his dear and reverend
friend, Father Oswald.
"Let my friends at the Castle of Lovel know that
I live in hopes one day to see them there. If you
could, by any means, return with the messengers,
your testimony would add weight to mine; perhaps
you might obtain permission to attend the Baron; I
leave it to you to manage this. John Wyatt will
inform you of all that has passed here, and that
hitherto my success has outrun my expectation, and
almost my wishes. I am in the high road to my in-
heritance, and trust, that the Power who hath con-
ducted me thus far, will not leave his work unfinished.
Tell my beloved William that I live, and hope to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 161
embrace him before long. I recommend myself to
your holy prayers and blessing, and remain your son
and.servant, Edmund."
Oswald then went to the messengers; he drew
John Wyatt to a distance from the rest, and got the
information he wanted. He stayed with him till he
was sent for by the Baron, to whom he went directly,
and prevented his question by saying, " I have been
talking with the messengers; I find they have
travelled night and day to bring the letters with all
speed; they only require one night's rest, and will
be ready to set out with you to-morrow."
"'Tis well," said the Baron; "we will set out as
soon as they are ready."
"My lord," said Oswald, " I have a favour to beg
of you; it is, that I may attend you. I have seen
the progress of this wonderful discovery, and I have
a great desire to see the conclusion of it. Perhaps
my presence may be of service in the course of your
business."
"Perhaps it may," said the Baron; "I have no
objection, if you desire to go."
They then separated, and went to prepare for their
journey.
Oswald had a private interview with Joseph, whom
he informed of all that he knew, and his resolution
to attend the Baron in his journey to the north.
"I go," said he, "to bear witness in behalf of
injured innocence. If it be needful, I shall call upon
you; therefore hold yourself in readiness, in case
you should be sent for."
"That I will," said Joseph, "and spend my last
L
/-


162 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
remains of life and strength to help my young lord to
'his right and title. But do they not begin to suspect
who is the heir of Lovel?"
"Not in the least," said Oswald; "they think him
concerned in the discovery, but have no idea of his
being interested in the event."
"O father!" said Joseph, " I shall think every day
a week till your return; but I will no longer keep you
from your repose."
"Good night," said Oswald; "but I have another
visit to pay before I go to rest."
He left Joseph, and went on tip-toe to Mr
William's room, and tapped at his door. He came
and opened it. "What news, father?"
"Not much; I have only orders to tell you that
Edmund is well, and as much your friend as ever."
"I guessed," said William, "that we should hear
something of him. I have still another guess."
"What is that, my child?"
"That we shall see or hear of him where we are
going."
"It is very likely," said Oswald; "and I would
have you be prepared for it;—I am confident we
shall hear nothing to his discredit."
"I am certain of that," said William, " and I shall
rejoice to see him. I conclude that he is under the
protection of Sir Philip Harclay."
"He is so," said Oswald; "I had my information
from Sir Philip's servant, who is one of the messengers,
and was guide to the others in their way hither."
After some farther conversation they separated,
and each went to his repose.
The next morning the whole party set out on their


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
journey; they travelled by easy stages on account of
the Baron's health, which began to be impaired, and
arrived in health and spirits at the castle of Lord
Graham, where they were received with the utmost
respect and kindness by the noble master.
The Lord Lovel had recovered his health and
strength as much as possible in the time, and was
impatient to be gone from thence to his own house.
He was surprised to hear of the arrival of his brother
and nephews, and expressed no pleasure at the
thoughts of seeing them. When Sir Philip Harclay
came to pay his respects to Baron Fitz-Owen, the
latter received him with civility, but with a coldness
that was apparent. Sir Robert left the room, doubt-
ing his resolution. Sir Philip advanced, and took
the Baron by the hand.
"My lord," said he, "I rejoice to see you here.
I cannot be satisfied with the bare civilities of such
a man as you. I aspire to your esteem, to your
friendship, and I shall not be happy till I obtain
them. I will make you the judge of every part of
my conduct, and where you shall condemn me, I
will condemn myself."
The Baron was softened, his noble heart felt its
alliance with its counterpart; but he thought the
situation of his brother demanded some reserve
towards the man who sought his life. But, in spite
of himself, it wore off every moment.
Lord Clifford related all that had passed, with the
due regard to Sir Philip's honour; he remarked how
nobly he concealed the cause of his resentment
against the Lord Lovel till the day of combat, that
he might not prepossess the judges against him.


164 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
He enlarged on his humanity to the vanquished, on
the desire he expressed to have justice done to his
heirs; finally, he mentioned his great respect for the
Lord Fitz-Owen, and the solicitude he showed to
have him come to settle the estate of the sick man
in favour of his children. Lord Clifford also em-
ployed his son to soften Sir Robert, and to explain
to him every doubtful part of Sir Philip's behaviour.
After the travellers had taken some rest, the Lord
Graham proposed that they should make a visit to
the sick man's chamber. The lords sent to acquaint
him they were coming to visit him, and they followed
the messenger. The Lord Fitz-Owen went up to
the bedside; he embraced his brother with strong
emotions of concern; Sir Robert followed him; then
Mr. William.
Lord Lovel embraced them, but said nothing; his
countenance showed his inward agitations. Lord
Fitz-Owen first broke silence.
"I hope," said he, " I see my brother better than
I expected."
Lord Lovel bit his fingers, he pulled the bed-
clothes, he seemed almost distracted. At length he
broke out—
"I owe no thanks to those who sent for my
relations I Sir Philip Harclay, you have used un-
generously the advantage you have gained over me!
you spared my life only to take away my reputation.
You have exposed me to strangers, and, what is
worse, to my dearest friends. When I lay in a state
of danger, you obliged me to say anything, and now
you take advantage of it, to ruin me in my friends'
affection. But, if I recover, you may repent it."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 165
Sir Philip then came forward.
"My lords, I shall take no notice of what this un-
happy man has just now said; I shall appeal to you,
as to the honourable witnesses of all that has passed;
you see it was no more than necessary. I appeal to
you for the motives of my treatment of him, before,
at, and after our meeting. I did not take his life, as
I might have done; I wished him to repent of his
sins, and to make restitution of what he unjustly
possesses. I was called out to do an act of justice.
I had taken the heir of Lovel under my protection;
my chief view was to see justice done to him;—what
regarded this man was but a secondary motive. This
was my end, and I will never, never lose sight of it."
Lord Lovel seemed almost choked with passion,
to see every one giving some marks of approbation
and respect to Sir Philip. He called out—
"I demand to know who is this pretended heir,
whom he brings out to claim my title and fortune?"
"My noble auditors," said Sir Philip, "I shall
appeal to your judgment, in regard to the proofs of
my ward's birth and family; every circumstance
shall be laid before you, and you shall decide upon
them.
"Here is a young man supposed the son of a
peasant, who, by a train of circumstances that could
not have happened by human contrivances, discovers
not only who were his real parents, but that they
came to untimely deaths. He even discovers the
different places where their bones are buried, both
out of consecrated ground, and appeals to their ashes
for the truth of his pretensions. He has also living
proofs to offer that will convince the most incredulous-


166
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
I have deferred entering into particulars till the
arrival of Baron Fitz-Owen. I know his noble heart
and honourable character from one that has long
been an eye-witness of his goodness. Such is the
opinion I have of his justice, that I will accept him
as one of the judges in his brother's cause. I and
my ward will bring our proofs before him, and the
company here present; in the course of them it will
appear that he is the best qualified of any to judge
of them, because he can ascertain many of the facts
we shall have occasion to mention. I will rest our
cause upon their decision."
Lord Graham applauded Sir Philip's appeal,
affirming his own impartiality, and calling upon
Lord Clifford and his son, and also his own
nephews,' who were present. Lord Clifford said—
"Sir Philip offers fairly, and like himself; there
can be no place nor persons more impartial than the
present, and I presume the Lord Lovel can have no
objection."
"No objection!" answered he; "what! to be
tried like a criminal, to have judges appointed over
me to decide upon my right to my own estate and
title? I will not submit to such a jurisdiction!"
"Then," said Sir Philip, "you had rather be tried
by the laws of the land, and have them pronounce
sentence upon you? Take your choice, sir; if you
refuse the one you shall be certain of the other."
Lord Clifford then said—"You will allow Lord
Lovel to consider of the proposal; he will consult his
friends, and be determined by their advice."
Lord Fitz-Owen said—" I am very much surprised
at what I have heard. I shall be glad to know all


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 167
that Sir Philip Harclay has to say for his ward, that
I may judge what my brother has to hope or fear;
I will then give my best advice, or offer my media-
tion, as he may stand in need of them."
"You say well," replied Lord Graham, "and pray
let us come directly to the point. Sir Philip, you
will introduce your ward to this company, and enter
upon your proofs."
Sir Philip bowed to the company; he went out,
and brought in Edmund, encouraging him by the
way; he presented him to Baron Fitz-Owen, who
looked very serious.
"Edmund Twyford," said he, " are you the heir of
the house of Lovel?"
"I am, my lord," said Edmund, bowing to the
ground; "the proofs will appear; but I am at the
same time the most humble and grateful of all your
servants, and the servant of your virtues."
Sir Robert rose up, and was going to leave the
room.
"Son Robert, stay," said the Baron; "if there is
any fraud, you will be pleased to detect it; and if
all that is affirmed be true, you will not shut your
eyes against the light;—you are concerned in this
business; hear it in silence, and let reason be arbiter
in your cause."
He bowed to his father, bit his lip, and retired to
the window. William nodded to Edmund, and was
silent. All the company had their eyes fixed on the
young man who stood in the midst, casting down his
eyes with modest respect to the audience; while Sir
Philip related all the material circumstances of his
life, the wonderful gradation by which he came to


168 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
the knowledge of his birth, the adventures of the
haunted apartment, the discovery of the fatal closet,
and the presumptive proofs that Lord Lovel was
buried there. At this part of his narration Lord
Fitz-Owen interrupted him.
"Where is this closet you talk of? for I and my
sons went over the apartment since Edmund's depar-
ture, and found no such place as you describe."
"My lord," said Edmund, "I can account for it:
the door is covered with tapestry, the same as the
room, and you might easily overlook it; but I have
a witness here," said he, and putting his hand into
his bosom, he drew out the key. "If this is not the
key of that closet, let me be deemed an impostor,
and all I say a falsehood. I will risk my pretensions
upon this proof."
"And for what purpose did you take it away?"
said the Baron.
"To prevent any person from going into it,"
replied Edmund; "I have vowed to keep it till I
shall open that closet before witnesses appointed for
that purpose."
"Proceed, sir," said the Baron Fitz-Owen.
Sir Philip then related the conversation between
Edmund and Margery Twyford, his supposed mother.
Lord Fitz-Owen seemed in the utmost surprise.
He exclaimed, "Can this be true? strange dis-
covery! unfortunate child!"
Edmund's tears bore witness to his veracity. He
was obliged to hide his face; he lifted up his clasped
hands to heaven, and was in great emotion during all
this part of the relation; while Lord Lovel groaned,
and seemed in great agitation.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
169
Sir Philip then addressed himself to Lord Fitz-
Owen.
," My lord, there was another person present at the
conversation between Edmund and his foster-mother,
who can witness to all that passed; perhaps your
lordship can tell who that was?"
"It was Father Oswald," replied the Baron; "I
well remember that he went with him at his request;
let him be called in."
He was sent for, and came immediately. The
Baron desired him to relate all that passed between
Edmund and his mother.
Oswald then began—
"Since I am now properly called upon to testify
what I know concerning this young man, I will speak
the truth, without fear or favour of any one; and I
will swear by the rules of my holy order to the truth
of what I shall relate."
He then gave a particular account of all that
passed on that occasion, and mentioned the tokens
found on both the infant and his mother.
"Where are those tokens to be seen?" said the
Lord Clifford.
"I have them here, my lord," said Edmund, "and
I keep them as my greatest treasures."
He then produced them before all the company.
"There is no appearance of any fraud or collusion,"
said Lord Graham; "if any man thinks he sees any,
let him speak."
"Pray, my lord, suffer me to speak a word," said
Sir Robert. "Do you remember that I hinted my
suspicions concerning Father Oswald, the night our
kinsmen lay in the east apartment?"


170
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"I do," said the Baron.
"Well, sir, it now appears that he did know more
than he would tell us; you find he is very deep in
all Edmund's secrets, and you will judge what were
his motives for undertaking this journey."
"I observe what you say," answered his father,
"but let us hear all that Oswald has to say; I will
be as impartial as possible."
"My lord," returned Oswald, " I beg you also to
recollect what I said, on the night your son speaks
of, concerning secrecy in certain matters."
"I remember that also," said the Baron; "but
proceed."
"My lord," continued Oswald, " I knew more than
I thought myself at liberty to disclose at that time;
but I will now tell you everything. I saw there was
something more than common in the accidents that
befell this young man, and in his being called out to
sleep in the east apartment; I earnestly desired him
to let me be with him on the second night, to which
he consented reluctantly. We heard a great noise in
the rooms underneath; we went downstairs together.
I saw him open the fatal closet; I heard groans that
pierced me to the heart; I kneeled down and prayed
for the repose of the spirit departed. I found a seal,
with the arms of Lovel engraven upon it, which I
gave to Edmund, and he now has it in his possession.
He enjoined me to keep secret what I had seen and
heard, till the time should come to declare it. I
conceived that I was called to be a witness of these
things; besides, my curiosity was excited to know
the event; I therefore desired to be present at the
interview between him and his mother, which was


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 171
affecting beyond expression. I heard what I have
now declared as nearly as my memory permits me.
I hope no impartial person will blame me for any
part of my conduct; but if they should, I do not
repent it. If I should forfeit the favour of the rich
and great, I shall have acquitted myself to God and
my conscience. I have no worldly ends to answer;
I plead the cause of the injured orphan; and I think,
also, that I second the designs of Providence."
"You have well spoken, father," said the Lord
Clifford; "your testimony is indeed of conse-
quence."
"It is amazing and convincing," said Lord
Graham; "and the whole story is so well con-
nected, that I can see nothing to make us doubt
the truth of it; but let us examine the proofs."
Edmund gave into their hands the necklace and
earrings; he showed them the locket, with the
cypher of Lovel, and the seal with the arms; he
told them the cloak in which he was wrapped was
in the custody of his foster-mother, who would pro-
duce it on demand. He begged that some proper
persons might be commissioned to go with him to
examine whether or no the bodies of his parents were
buried where he affirmed; adding, that he put his
pretensions into their hands with pleasure, relying
entirely upon their honour and justice.
During this interesting scene, the criminal covered
his face, and was silent, but he sent forth bitter sighs
and groans, that denoted the anguish of his heart.
At length Lord Graham, in compassion to him, pro-
posed that they should retire and consider of the
proofs, adding, " Lord Lovel must needs be fatigued;


172
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
we will resume the subject in his presence, when he
is disposed to receive us."
Sir Philip Harclay approached the bed: "Sir,"
said he, " I now leave you in the hands of your own
relations; they are men of strict honour, and I con-
fide in them to take care of you, and of your con-
cerns."
They then went out of the room, leaving only
the Lord Fitz-Owen and his sons with the criminal.
They discoursed of the wonderful story of Edmund's
birth, and the principal events of his life.
After dinner, Sir Philip requested another con-
ference with the lords and their principal friends.
There were present also Father Oswald, and Lord
Graham's confessor, who had taken the Lord Lovel's
confession, Edmund, and Zadisky. "Now, gentle-
men," said Sir Philip, " I desire to know your opinion
of your proofs, and your advice upon them."
Lord Graham replied, " I am desired to speak for
the rest. We think there are strong presumptive
proofs that this young man is the true heir of Lovel;
but they ought to be confirmed and authenticated.
Of the murder of the late lord there is no doubt;
the criminal has confessed it, and the circumstances
confirm it; the proofs of his crime are so connected
with those of the young man's birth, that one cannot
be public without the other. We are desirous to do
justice, and yet are unwilling, for the Lord Fitz-
O wen's sake, to bring the criminal to public shame
and punishment. We wish to find out a medium; we
therefore desire Sir Philip to make proposals for his
ward, and let Lord Fitz-Owen answer for himself and
his brother, and we will be moderators between them."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 173
Here every one expressed approbation, and called
upon Sir Philip to make his demands.
"If," said he, " I were to demand strict justice, I
should not be satisfied with anything less than the
life of the criminal; but I am a Christian soldier, the
disciple of Him who came into the world to save
sinners;—for His sake," continued he, crossing him-
self, "I forego my revenge, I spare the guilty. If
Heaven gives him time for repentance, man should
not deny it. It is my ward's particular request, that
I will not bring shame upon the house of his bene-
factor, the Lord Fitz-Owen, for whom he hath a filial
affection and profound veneration. My proposals
are these :—First, that the criminal make restitution
of the title and estate, obtained with so much in-
justice and cruelty, to the lawful heir, whom he shall
acknowledge such before proper witnesses. Secondly,
that he shall surrender his own lawful inheritance
and personal estate into the hands of the Lord Fitz-
Owen, in trust for his sons, who are his heirs of
blood. Thirdly, that he shall retire into a religious
house, or else quit the kingdom in three months'
time; and, in either case, those who enjoy his for-
tune shall allow him a decent annuity, that he may
not want the comforts of life. By the last, I disable
him from the means of doing further mischief, and
enable him to devote the remainder of his days to
penitence. These are my proposals, and I give him
four-and-twenty hours to consider of them; if he
refuses to comply with them, I shall be obliged to
proceed to severer measures, and to a public prose-
cution. But the goodness of the Lord Fitz-Owen
bids me expect, from his influence with his brother,


174 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
a compliance with proposals made out of respect to
his honourable character."
Lord Graham applauded the humanity, prudence,
and piety of Sir Philip's proposals. He enforced
them with all his influence and eloquence. Lord
Clifford seconded him; and the rest gave tokens of
approbation.
Sir Robert Fitz-Owen then rose up. "I beg
leave to observe to the company, who are going to
dispose so generously of another man's property,
that my father purchased the Castle and estate of
the house of Lovel. Who is to repay him the money
for it?"
Sir Philip then said, "I have also a question to
ask. Who is to pay the arrears of my ward's estate,
which he has unjustly been kept out of these one-
and-twenty years? Let Lord Clifford answer to both
points, for he is not interested in either."
Lord Clifford smiled. ".I think," returned he, " the.
first question is answered by the second, and that
the parties concerned should set one against the
other, especially as Lord Fitz-Owen's children will
inherit the fortune, which includes the purchase-
money."
Lord Graham said, "This determination is both
equitable and generous, and I hope will answer the
expectations on all sides."
"I have another proposal to make to my Lord
Fitz-Owen," said Sir Philip; "but I first wait for the
acceptance of those already made."
Lord Fitz-Owen replied, " I shall report them to
my brother, and acquaint the company with his
resolution to-morrow."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 175
They then separated; and the Baron, with his
sons, returned to the sick man's chamber. There he
exhorted his brother, with the piety of a confessor,
to repent of his sins, and make atonement for them.
He made known Sir Philip's proposals, and observed
on the wonderful discovery of his crime, and the
punishment that followed it. "Your repentance,"
continued he, "may be accepted, and your crime
may yet be pardoned. If you continue refractory,
and refuse to make atonement, you will draw down
upon you a severer punishment."
The criminal would not confess, and yet could not
deny the truth and justice of his observations. The
Baron spent several hours in his brother's chamber.
He sent for a priest, who took his confession; and
they both sat up with him all night, advising, per-
suading, and exhorting him to do justice, and to
comply with the proposals. He was unwilling to
give up the world, and yet more so to become the
object of public shame, disgrace, and punishment.
The next day Lord Fitz-Owen summoned the
company into his brother's chamber, and there de-
clared, in his name, that he accepted Sir Philip
Harclay's proposals; that, if the young man could,
as he promised, direct them to the places where his
parents were buried, and if his birth should be
authenticated by his foster-parents, he should be
acknowledged the heir of the house of Lovel. That
to be certified of these things, they must commission
proper persons to go with him for this purpose; and,
in case the truth should be made plain, they should
immediately put him in possession of the Castle and
estate, in the state it was. He desired Lord Graham
S


176 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
and Lord Clifford to choose the commissioners, and
gave Sir Philip and Edmund a right to add to them
each another person."
Lord Graham named the eldest son of Lord
Clifford, and the other, in return, named his nephew;
they also chose the priest, Lord Graham's confessor,
and the eldest son of Baron Fitz-Owen, to his great
mortification. Sir Philip appointed Mr William
Fitz-Owen, and Edmund named Father Oswald; they
chose out the servants to attend them, who were also
to be witnesses of all that should pass. Lord Clifford
proposed to Baron Fitz-Owen, that, as soon as the
commissioners were set out, the remainder of the
company should adjourn to his seat in Cumberland,
whither Lord Graham should be invited to ac-
company them, and to stay till this affair was de-
cided. After some debate, this was agreed to; and,
at the same time, that the criminal should be kept
with them till everything was properly settled.
Lord Fitz-Owen gave his son William the charge
to receive and entertain the commissioners at the
Castle. But, before they set out, Sir Philip had a
conference with Lord Fitz-Owen, concerning the
surrender of the Castle; in which he insisted on the
furniture and stock of the farm, in consideration of the
arrears. Lord Fitz-Owen slightly mentioned the
young man's education and expenses. Sir Philip
answered, "You are right, my lord, I had not thought
of this point; we owe you, in this respect, more than
we can ever repay. But you know not half the
respect and affection Edmund bears for you. When
restitution of his title and fortune is fully made, his
happiness will still depend on you."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
177
"How on me ?" said the Baron.
"Why, he will not be happy, unless you honour
him with your notice and esteem; but this is not all.
I must hope that you will still do more for him."
"Indeed," said the Baron, "he has put my regard
for him to a severe proof; what further can he expect
from me?"
"My dear lord, be not offended. I have only one
more proposal to make to you ; if you refuse it, I
can allow for you; and I confess it requires a great-
ness of mind, but not more than you possess, to
grant it."
"Well, sir, speak your demand."
"Say rather my request; it is this case: Cease to
look upon Edmund as the enemy of your house;
look upon him as a son, and make him so indeed."
"How say you, Sir Philip? my son!"
"Yes, my lord, give him your daughter. He is
already your son in filial affection ; your son William
and he are sworn brothers; what remains but to
make him yours? He deserves such a parent, you
such a son; and you will, by this means, ingraft into
your family the name, title, and estate of Lovel,
which will be entailed on your posterity for ever."
"This offer requires much consideration," returned
the Baron.
"Suffer me to suggest some hints to you," said Sir
Philip. "This match is, I think, verily pointed out
by Providence, which hath conducted the dear boy
through so many dangers, and brought him within
view of his happiness; look on him as the precious
relic of a noble house, the son of my dearest friend!
or look on him as my son and heir, and let me, as
M


178 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
his father, implore you to consent to his marriage
with your daughter."
The Baron's heart was touched; he turned away
his face.
"Oh, Sir Philip Harclay, what a friend are you!
Why should such a man be our enemy?"
"My lord," said Sir Philip, "we are not, cannot
be enemies; our hearts are already allied; and I am
certain we shall one day be dear friends."
The Baron suppressed his emotions, but Sir Philip
saw into his heart.
"I must consult my eldest son," returned he.
"Then," replied Sir Philip, "I foresee much
difficulty; he is prejudiced against Edmund, and
thinks the restitution of his inheritance an injury to
your family. Hereafter he will see this alliance in a
different light, and will rejoice that such a brother
is added to the family; but at present he will set
his face against it. However, we will not despair;
virtue and resolution will surmount all obstacles.
Let me call in young Lovel."
He brought Edmund to the Baron, and acquainted
him with the proposal he had been making in his
name, my lord's answers, and the objections he feared
on the part of Sir Robert. Edmund kneeled to the
Baron; he took his hand, and pressed it to his lips.
"Best of men, of parents, of patrons !" said he, " I
will ever be your son in filial affection, whether I
have the honour to be legally so or not; not one of
your own children can feel a stronger sense of love
and duty."
"Tell me," said the Baron, "do you love my
daughter?"


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 179
"I do, my lord, with the most ardent affection. I
never loved any woman but her; and, if I am so
unfortunate as to be refused her, I will not marry at
all. Oh, my lord, reject not my honest suit! Your
alliance will give me consequence with myself; it will
excite me to act worthy of the station to which I
am exalted; if you refuse me, I shall seem an abject
wretch, disdained by those whom my heart claims
relation to; your family are the whole world to me.
Give me your lovely daughter; give me also your
son, my beloved William; and let me share with
them the fortune which Providence bestows upon
me. But what is title or fortune, if I am deprived of
the society of those I love?"
"Edmund," said the Baron, "you have a noble
friend; but you have a stronger in my heart, which
I think was implanted there by Heaven to aid its
own purposes. I feel a variety of emotions of diffe-
rent kinds, and am afraid to trust my own heart with
you. But answer me a question: Are you assured
of my daughter's consent? have you solicited her
favour? have you gained her affections?"
"Never, my lord. I am incapable of so base an
action. I have loved her at an humble distance;
but in my situation I should have thought it a viola-
tion of the laws of gratitude and hospitality to have
presumed to speak the sentiments of my heart."
"Then you have acted with unquestionable honour
on this, and I must say on all other occasions."
"Your approbation, my lord, is the first wish of
my life; it is the seal of my honour and happi-
ness."
Sir Philip smiled: "My Lord Fitz-Owen, I am


180 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
jealous of Edmund's preferable regard for you; it is
just the same now as formerly."
Edmund came to Sir Philip, he threw himself
into his arms, he wept, he was overpowered with
the feelings of his heart; he prayed to Heaven to
strengthen his mind, to support his inexpressible
sensations.
"I am overwhelmed with obligation," said he;
"oh, best of friends, teach me, like you, to make my
actions speak for me!"
"Enough, Edmund, I know your heart, and that is
my security. My lord, speak to him, and bring him
to himself by behaving coldly to him if you can."
The Baron said, "I must not trust myself with
you; you make a child of me. I will only add, gain
my son Robert's favour, and be assured of mine. I
owe some respect to the heir of my family; he is
brave, honest, and sincere. Your enemies are sepa-
rated from him; you have William's influence in your
behalf; make one effort, and let me know the result."
Edmund kissed his hand in transports of joy and
gratitude.
"I will not lose a moment," said he; "I fly to obey
your commands."
Edmund went immediately to his friend William,
and related all that had passed between the Baron,
Sir Philip, and himself. William promised him his
interest in the warmest manner; he recapitulated all
that had passed in the Castle since his departure;
but he guarded his sister's delicacy, till it should be
resolved to give way to his addresses. They both
consulted young Clifford, who had conceived an affec-
tion to Edmund for his amiable qualities, and to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 181
William for his generous friendship for him. He
promised them his assistance, as Sir Robert seemed
desirous to cultivate his friendship. Accordingly,
they both attacked him with the whole artillery of
friendship and persuasion. Clifford urged the merits
of Edmund, and the advantages of his alliance.
William enforced his arguments by a retrospect of
Edmund's past life; and observed, that every obstacle
thrown in his way had brought his enemies to shame,
and increase of honour to himself. "I say nothing,"
continued he, "of his noble qualities and affectionate
heart; those who have been so many years his com-
panions can want no proofs of it."
"We know your attachment to him, sir," said Sir
Robert, " and, in consequence, your partiality."
"Nay," replied William, "you are sensible of the
truth of my assertions; and I am confident would
have loved him yourself, but for the insinuations
of his enemies. But if he should make good his
assertions, even you must be convinced of his
veracity."
"And you would have my father give him your
sister upon this uncertainty?"
"No, sir, but upon these conditions."
"But suppose he does not make them good?"
"Then I will be of your party, and give up his
interest."
"Very well, sir; my father may do as he pleases;
but I cannot agree to give my sister to one who has
always stood in the way of our family, and now turns
us out of our own house."
"I am sorry, brother, you see his pretensions in so
wrong a light; but if you think there is any impos-


18a THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
ture in the case, go with us, and be a witness of all
that passes."
"No, not I; if Edmund is to be master of the
Castle I will never more set my foot in it."
"This matter," said Mr. Clifford, "must be left to
time, which has brought strange things to pass. Sir
Robert's honour and good sense will enable him to
subdue his prejudices, and to judge impartially."
They took leave, and went to make preparations
for their journey. Edmund made his report of Sir
Robert's inflexibility to his father, in presence of Sir
Philip, who again ventured to urge the Baron on his
favourite subject.
"It becomes me to wait for the further proofs,"
said he; "but, if they are as clear as I expect, I
will not be inexorable to your wishes; say nothing
more on this subject till the return of the commis-
sioners."
They were profuse in their acknowledgments of
his goodness.
Edmund took a tender leave of his two paternal
friends.
"When," said he, "I take possession of my inherit-
ance, I must hope for the company of you both to
complete my happiness."
"Of me," said Sir Philip, " you may be certain, and
as far as my influence reaches, of the Baron."
He was silent. Edmund assured them of his con-
stant prayers for their happiness.
Soon after, the commissioners, with Edmund, set
out for Lovel Castle; and the following day the
Lord Clifford set out for his own house, with Baron
Fitz-Owen and his son. The nominal Baron was


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 183
carried with them very much against his will. Sir
Philip Harclay was invited to go with them by Lord
Clifford, who declared his presence necessary to bring
things to a conclusion. They all joined in acknow-
ledging their obligations to Lord Graham's generous
hospitality, and besought him to accompany them.
At length he consented, on condition they would
allow him to go to and fro, as his duty should call
him.
Lord Clifford received them with the greatest
hospitality, and presented them to his lady and three
daughters, who were in the bloom of youth and
beauty. They spent their time very pleasantly,
excepting the criminal, who continued gloomy and
reserved, and declined company.
In the meantime, the commissioners proceeded on
their journey. When they were within a day's dis-
tance from the Castle, Mr. William and his servant
put forward, and arrived several hours before the
rest, to make preparations for their reception. His
sister and brother received them with open arms,
and inquired eagerly after the event of the journey
to the north. He gave them a brief account of
everything that had happened to their uncle;
adding, " But this is not all: Sir Philip Harclay has
brought a young man who he pretends is the son of
the late Lord Lovel, and claims his estate and title.
This person is on his journey hither, with several
others who are commissioned to inquire into certain
particulars, to confirm his pretensions. If he make
good his claim, my father will surrender the Castle
and estate into his hand. Sir Philip and my lord
have many points to settle; and he has proposed a


184 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
compromise, that you, my sister, ought to know,
because it nearly concerns you."
"Me! brother William! pray explain yourself."
"Why, he proposes that, in lieu of arrears and
other expectations, my father shall give his dear
Emma to the heir of Lovel, in full of all demands."
She changed colour.
"Holy Mary!" said she; "and does my father
agree to his proposal?"
"He is not very averse to it; but Sir Robert
refuses his consent. However, I have given him my
interest with you."
"Have you indeed? What! a stranger, perhaps
an impostor, who comes to turn us out of our
dwelling?"
"Have patience, my Emma; see this young man
without prejudice, and perhaps you will like him as
well as I do."
"I am surprised at you, William."
"Dear Emma, I cannot bear to see you uneasy.
Think of the man who, of all others, you would
wish to see in a situation to ask you of your father,
and expect to see your wishes realised."
"Impossible !" said she.
"Nothing is impossible, my dear; let us be
prudent, and all will end happily. You must help
me to receive and entertain these commissioners. I
expect a very solemn scene; but when that is once
got over, happier hours than the past will succeed.
We shall first visit the haunted apartment; you, my
sister, will keep in your own till I shall send for you.
I go now to give orders to the servants."
He went and ordered them to be in waiting; and


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
himself, and his youngest brother, stood in readiness
to receive them.
The sound of the horn announced the arrival of
the commissioners; at the same instant a sudden
gust of wind arose, and the outward gates flew open.
They entered the court-yard, and the great folding-
doors into the hall were opened without any assist-
ance. The moment Edmund entered the hall, every
door in the house flew open. The servants all rushed
into the hall, and fear was written on their counte-
nances. Joseph only was undaunted. "These doors,"
said he, "open of their own account to receive their
master! This is he indeed!"
Edmund was soon apprised of what had happened.
"I accept the omen," said he. "Gentlemen, let us
go forward to the apartment! let us finish the
work of fate! I will lead the way." He went on to
the apartment, followed by all present. "Open the
shutters," said he, "the daylight shall no longer be
excluded here; the deeds of darkness shall now be
brought to light." %
They descended the staircase; every door was
open till they came to the fatal closet. Edmund
called to Mr. William: "Approach, my friend, and
behold the door your family overlooked."
They came forward; he drew the key out of his
bosom, and unlocked the door. He made them
observe that the boards were all loose; he then
called to the servants, and bid them remove every-
thing out of the closet. While they were doing this,
Edmund showed them the breastplate all stained
with blood. He then called to Joseph :—
"Do you know whose was this suit of armour?"


186 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"It was my lord's," said Joseph; "the late Lord
Lovel; I have seen him wear it."
Edmund bade them bring shovels and remove the
earth. While they were gone, he desired Oswald to
repeat all that passed the night they sat up together
in that apartment, which he did till the servants
returned. They threw out the earth, while the by-
standers in solemn silence waited the event. After
some time and labour, they struck against something.
They proceeded till they discovered a large trunk,
which, with great difficulty, they drew out. It had
been corded round, but the cords were rotted to dust.
They opened it, and found a skeleton, which appeared
to have been tied neck and heels together, and forced
into the trunk.
"Behold," said Edmund, "the bones of him to
whom I owe my birth!"
The priest from Lord Graham's advanced. "This
is undoubtedly the body of the Lord Lovel; I heard
his kinsman confess the manner in which he was in-
terred. Let this awful spectacle be a lesson to all
present, that though wickedness may triumph for a
season, a day of retribution will come!"
Oswald exclaimed, "Behold the day of retribu-
tion! of triumph to the innocent, of shame and con-
fusion to the wicked!"
The young gentlemen declared that Edmund had
made good his assertions.
"What then," said they, "remains?"
"I propose," said Lord Graham's priest, "that an
account be written of this discovery, and signed by
all the witnesses present; that an attested copy be
left in the hands of this gentleman, and the original


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
be sent to the Barons and Sir Philip Harclay, to con-
vince them of the truth of it."
Mr. Clifford then desired Edmund to proceed in
his own way.
"The first thing I promise to do," said he, "is to
have a coffin made for these honoured remains.
I trust to find the bones of my other parent, and
to inter them all together in consecrated ground.
Unfortunate pair! you shall at last rest together;
your son shall pay the last duties to your ashes."
He stopped to shed tears, and none present but
paid this tribute to their misfortunes. Edmund
recovered his voice and proceeded.
"My next request is, that Father Oswald and this
reverend father, with whoever else the gentlemen
shall appoint, will send for Andrew and Margery
Twyford, and examine them concerning the circum-
stances of my birth, and the death and burial of my
unfortunate mother."
"It shall be done," said Mr. William; "but first
let me entreat you to come with me and take some
refreshment after your journey, for you must be
fatigued; after dinner we will proceed in the in-
quiry."
They all followed him into the great hall, where
they were entertained with great hospitality, and
Mr. William did the honours in his father's name.
Edmund's heart was deeply affected, and the solem-
nity of his deportment bore witness to his sin-
cerity; but it was a manly sorrow, that did not
make him neglect his duty to his friends or him-
self. He inquired after the health of the Lady
Emma.


188 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"She is well," said William, "and as much your
friend as ever."
Edmund bowed in silence.
After dinner the commissioners sent for Andrew
and his wife. They examined them separately, and
found their accounts agreed together, and were in
substance the same as Oswald and Edmund had
before related, separately also. The commissioners
observed, that there could be no collusion between
them, and that the proofs were indisputable. They
kept the foster parents all night; and the next day
Andrew directed them to the place where the Lady
Lovel was buried, between two trees, which he had
marked for a memorial. They collected the bones
and carried them to the Castle, where Edmund
caused a stately coffin to be made for the remains
of the unfortunate pair. The two priests obtained
leave to look into the coffin buried in the church, and
found nothing but stones and earth in it. The com-
missioners then declared they were fully satisfied of
the reality of Edmund's pretensions.
The two priests were employed in drawing up a
circumstantial account of these discoveries, in order
to make their report to the Barons at their return.
In the meantime, Mr. William took an opportunity
to introduce Edmund to his sister.
"My Emma," said he, " the heir of Lovel is desirous
to pay his respects to you."
They were both in apparent confusion; but
Edmund's wore off, and Emma's increased.
"I have been long desirous," said he, "to pay my
respects to the lady whom I most honour, but un-
avoidable duties have detained me; when these are


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
189
fully paid, it is my wish to devote the remainder of
my life to Lady Emma!"
"Are you, then, the heir of Lovel?"
"I am, madam; and am also the man in whose
behalf I once presumed to speak."
"'Tis very strange indeed I"
"It is so, madam, to myself; but time, that recon-
ciles us to all things, will, I hope, render this change
in my situation familiar to you."
William said, "You are both well acquainted with/'
the wishes of my heart; but my advice is, that you
do not encourage a farther intimacy till my lord's
determination be fully known."
"You may dispose of me as you please," said
Edmund; "but I cannot help declaring my wishes;
yet I will submit to my lord's sentence, though he
should doom me to despair."
From this period, the young pair behaved with
solemn respect to each other, but with apparent
reserve. The young lady sometimes appeared in
company, but oftener chose to be in her own apart-
ment, where she began to believe and hope for the
completion of her wishes. The uncertainty of the
Baron's determination threw an air of anxiety over
Edmund's face. His friend William, by the most
tender care and attention, strove to dispel his fears,
and encourage his hopes; but he waited with im-
patience for the return of the commissioners, and the
decision of his fate.
While these things passed at the Castle of Lovel,
the nominal Baron recovered his health and strength
at the house of Lord Clifford. In the same proportion
he grew more and more shy and reserved, avoided


190
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
the company of his brother and nephew, and was
frequently shut up with his two servants. Sir Robert
Fitz-Owen made several attempts to gain his con-
fidence, but in vain; he was equally shy to him as
the rest. M. Zadisky observed his motions with the
penetration for which his countrymen have been dis-
tinguished in all ages; he communicated his sus-
picions to Sir Philip and the Barons, giving it as his
opinion, that the criminal was meditating an escape.
They asked, what he thought was to be done.
Zadisky offered to watch him in turn with another
person, and to lie in wait for him; he also proposed
that horses should be kept in readiness, and men to
mount them, without knowledge of the service they
were to be employed in. The Barons agreed to
leave the whole management of this affair to Zadisky.
He took his measures so well, that he intercepted
the three fugitives in the fields adjoining to the house,
and brought them all back prisoners. They confined
them separately, while the lords and gentlemen con-
sulted how to dispose of them.
Sir Philip applied to Lord Fitz-Owen, who begged
leave to be silent. "I have nothing," said he, "to
offer in favour of this bad man; and I cannot propose
harsher measures with so near a relation."
Zadisky then begged to be heard.
"You can no longer have any reliance upon the
word of a man who has forfeited all pretensions to
honour and sincerity. I have long wished to revisit
once more my native country, and to inquire after
some very dear friends I left there. I will undertake
to convey this man to a very distant part of the
world, where it will be out of his power to do further


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 191
mischief, and free his relations from an ungrateful
charge, unless you should rather choose to bring him
to punishment here."
Lord Clifford approved of the proposal; Lord
Fitz-Owen remained silent, but showed no marks of
disapprobation.
Sir Philip objected to parting with his friend, but
Zadisky assured him he had particular reasons for
returning to the Holy Land, of which he should be
judge hereafter. Sir Philip desired the Lord Fitz-
Owen to give him his company to the criminal's
apartment, saying, " We will have one more conver-
sation with him, and that shall decide his fate."
They found him silent and sullen, and he refused
to answer their questions.
Sir Philip then bespoke him: "After the proofs
you have given of your falsehood and insincerity, we
can no longer have any reliance upon you, nor faith
in your fulfilling the conditions of our agreement; I
will, therefore, once more make you a proposal that
shall still leave you indebted to our clemency. You
shall banish yourself from England for ever, and go
in pilgrimage to the Holy Land, with such com-
panions as we shall appoint; or, secondly, you shall
enter directly into a monastery, and there be shut up
for life; or, thirdly, if you refuse both these offers, I
will go directly to court, throw myself at the feet of
my sovereign, relate the whole story of your wicked
life and actions, and demand vengeance on your
head. The king is too good and pious to let such
villany go unpunished; he will bring you to public
shame and punishment; and be you assured, if I
begin this prosecution, I will pursue it to the utmost.


192 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
I appeal to your worthy brother for the justice of my
proceeding. I reason no more with you, I only
declare my resolution. I wait your answer one
hour; and the next, I put in execution whatever
you shall oblige me to determine."
So saying, they retired, and left him to reflect and
to resolve. At the expiration of the hour they sent
Zadisky to receive his answer. He insinuated to him
the generosity and charity of Sir Philip and the lords,
and the certainty of their resolutions, and begged
him to take care what answer he returned, for that
his fate depended on it. He kept silent several min-
utes; resentment and despair were painted on his
visage. At length he spoke:—
"Tell my proud enemies that I prefer banishment
to death, infamy, or a life of solitude."
"You have chosen well," said Zadisky. "To a
wise man all countries are alike; it shall be my care
to make mine agreeable to you."
"Are you then the person chosen for my com-
panion?"
"I am, sir; and you may judge by that circum-
stance, that those whom you call your enemies, are
not so in effect. Farewell, sir—I go to prepare for
our departure."
Zadisky went and made his report, and then set
immediately about his preparations. He chose two
active young men for his attendants, and gave them
directions to keep a strict eye upon their charge, for
that they should be accountable if he should escape
them.
In the meantime, the Baron Fitz-Owen had several
conferences with his brother; he endeavoured to


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 193
make him sensible of his crimes, and of the justice
and clemency of his conqueror; but he was moody
and reserved to him as to the rest. Sir Philip
Harclay obliged him to surrender his worldly estates
into the hands of Lord Fitz-Owen. A writing was
drawn up for that purpose, and executed in the
presence of them all. Lord Fitz-Owen engaged to
allow him an annual sum, and to advance money for
the expenses of his voyage. He spoke to him in the
most affectionate manner, but he refused his embrace.
"You will have nothing to regret," said he
haughtily, "for the gain is yours."
Sir Philip conjured Zadisky to return to him again,
who answered:
"I will either return, or give such reasons for my
stay, as you shall approve. I will send a messenger
to acquaint you with my arrival in Syria, and with
such other particulars as I shall judge interesting to
you and yours. In the meantime, remember me in
your prayers, and preserve for me those sentiments
of friendship and esteem, that I have always deemed
one of the chief honours and blessings of my life.
Commend my love and duty to your adopted son;
he will more than supply my absence, and be the
comfort of your old age. Adieu, best and noblest of
friends!"
They took a tender leave of each other, not with-
out tears on both sides.
The travellers set out directly for a distant sea-
port, where they heard of a ship bound for the
Levant, in which they embarked and proceeded on
their voyage.
The commissioners arrived at Lord Clifford's a few
N


i94
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
days after the departure of the adventurers. They
gave a minute account of their commission, and ex-
pressed themselves entirely satisfied of the justice of
Edmund's pretensions; they gave an account in
writing of all that they had been eye-witnesses to,
and ventured to urge the Baron Fitz-Owen on the
subject of Edmund's wishes. The Baron was already
disposed in his favour; his mind was employed
in the future establishment of his family. During
their residence at Lord Clifford's, his eldest son Sir
Robert had cast his eye upon the eldest daughter of
that nobleman, and he besought his father to ask her
in marriage for him. The Baron was pleased with
the alliance, and took the first opportunity to mention
it to Lord Clifford, who answered him pleasantly:
"I will give my daughter to your son, upon condi-
tion that you will give yours to the heir of Lovel."
The Baron looked serious; Lord Clifford went on:
"I like that young man so well, that I would accept
him for a son-in-law,if he asked me for my daughter;
and if I have any influence with you, I will use it
in his behalf."
"A powerful solicitor indeed!" said the Baron;
"but you know my eldest son's reluctance to it; if
he consents, so will I."
"He shall consent," said Lord Clifford, "or he
shall have no daughter of mine. Let him subdue his
prejudices, and then I will lay aside my scruples."
"But, my lord," replied the Baron, " if I can obtain
his free consent, it will be the best for all; I will try
once more, and if he will not, I will leave it wholly
to your management."
When the noble company were all assembled, Sir


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 195
Philip Harclay revived the subject, and besought the
Lord Fitz-Owen to put an end to the work he had
begun, by confirming Edmund's happiness. The
Baron rose up, and thus spoke:
"The proofs of Edmund's noble birth, the still
stronger ones of his excellent endowments and
qualities, the solicitations of so many noble friends
in his behalf, have altogether determined me in his
favour; and I hope to do justice to his merit, without
detriment to my other children; I am resolved to
make them all as happy as my power will allow me
to do. Lord Clifford has been so gracious to promise
his fair daughter to my son Robert, upon certain
conditions, that I will take upon me to ratify, and
which will render my son worthy of the happiness
that awaits him. My children are the undoubted
heirs of my unhappy brother, Lovel; you, my son,
shall therefore immediately take possession of your
uncle's house and estate, only obliging you to pay
to each of your younger brothers the sum of one
thousand pounds; on this condition, I will secure
that estate to you and your heirs for ever. I will, by
my own act and deed, surrender the Castle and estate
of Lovel to the right owner, and at the same time
marry him to my daughter. I will settle a proper
allowance upon my two younger sons, and dispose of
what remains by a will and testament; and then I
shall have done all my business in this world, and
shall have nothing to do but prepare for the next."
'-' Oh, my father!" said Sir Robert, " I cannot bear
your generosity; you would give away all to others,
and reserve nothing for yourself."
"Not so, my son," said the Baron, " I will repair


196
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
my old castle in Wales, and reside there. I will
visit my children, and be visited by them; I will
enjoy their happiness, and by that means increase
my own; whether I look backwards or forwards, I
shall have nothing to do but rejoice, and be thankful
to Heaven that has given me so many blessings; I
shall have the comfortable reflection of having dis-
charged my duties as a citizen, a husband, a father,
a friend: and whenever I am summoned away from
this world, I shall die content."
Sir Robert came forward with tears on his cheeks;
he kneeled to his father:
"Best of parents, and of men!" said he, "you
have subdued a heart that has been too refractory to
your will; you have this day made me sensible how
much I owe to your goodness and forbearance with
me. Forgive me all that is past, and from hencefor-
ward dispose of me; I will have no will but yours, no
ambition but to be worthy of the name of your son."
"And this day," said the Baron, "do I enjoy the
true happiness of a father! Rise, my son, and take
possession of the first place in my affection without
reserve."
They embraced with tears on both sides; the
company rose and congratulated both father and son.
The Baron presented his son to Lord Clifford, who
embraced him and said:
"You shall have my daughter, for I see that you
deserve her."
Sir Philip Harclay approached—the Baron gave
his son's hand to the Knight.
"Love and respect that good man," said he;
'deserve his friendship, and you will obtain it."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 197
Nothing but congratulations were heard on both
sides.
When the joy was in some degree reduced to com-
posure, Sir Philip proposed that they should begin
to execute the schemes of happiness they had
planned. He proposed that my Lord Fitz-Owen
should go with him to the Castle of Lovel, and settle
the family there. The Baron consented, and both
together invited such of the company as liked it, to
accompany them thither. It was agreed that a
nephew of Lord Graham's, another of Lord Clifford's,
two gentlemen, friends of Sir Philip Harclay, and
Father Oswald, should be of the party; together
with several of Sir Philip's dependants and domestics,
and the attendants on the rest. Lord Fitz-Owen
gave orders for their speedy departure. Lord
Graham and his friends took leave of them, in order
to return to his own home; but before he went, he
engaged his eldest nephew and heir to the second
daughter of the Lord Clifford; Sir Robert offered
himself to the eldest, who modestly received his
address, and made no objection to his proposal.
The fathers confirmed their engagement.
Lord Fitz-Owen promised to return to the celebra-
tion of the marriage; in the meantime, he ordered
his son to go and take possession of his uncle's house,
and to settle his household; he invited young Clif-
ford, and some other gentlemen, to go with him.
The company separated with regret, and with many
promises of friendship on all sides; and the gentle-
men of the North were to cultivate the good neigh-
bourhood on both sides of the borders. ,
Sir Philip Harclay and the Baron Fitz-Owen, with


198 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
their friends and attendants, set forwards for the
Castle of Lovel; a servant went before, at full speed,
] to acquaint the family of their approach. Edmund
was in great anxiety of mind, now the crisis of his
fate was near at hand; he inquired of the messenger,
who were of the party; and finding that Sir Philip
Harclay was there, and that Sir Robert Fitz-Owen
stayed in the North, his hopes rose above his fears.
Mr. William, attended by a servant, rode forward to
meet them; he desired Edmund to stay and receive
them. Edmund was under some difficulty with
regard to his behaviour to the lovely Emma; a
thousand times his heart rose to his lips, as often he
suppressed his emotions; they both sighed frequently,
said little, thought much, and wished for the event.
Master Walter was too young to partake of their
anxieties, but he wished for the arrival of his father
to end them.
Mr. William's impatience spurred him on to meet
his father; as soon as he saw him, he rode up
directly to him.
"My dear father, you are welcome home!" said he.
"I think not, sir," said the Baron, and looked
serious.
"Why so, my lord?" said William.
"Because it is no longer mine, but another man's
home," answered he, " and I must receive my welcome
from him."
"Meaning Edmund?" said William.
"Whom else can it be?"
"Ah, my lord! he is your creature, your servant—
he puts his fate into your hands, and will submit to
your pleasure in all things!"


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 199
"Why comes he not to meet us?" said the Baron.
"His fears prevent him," said William; "but speak
the word, and I will fetch him."
"No," said the Baron, "we will wait on him."
William looked confused.
"Is Edmund so unfortunate," said he, "as to have
incurred your displeasure?"
Sir Philip Harclay advanced, and laid his hand on
William's saddle.
"Generous impatience! noble youth!" said he,
"look round you, and see if you can discover in this
company one enemy of your friend! Leave to your
excellent father the time and manner of explaining
himself; he only can do justice to his own senti-
ments."
The Baron smiled on Sir Philip — William's
countenance cleared up, they went forward, and soon
arrived at the Castle of Lovel.
Edmund was walking to and fro in the hall when
he heard the horn that announced their arrival; his
emotions were so great that he could hardly support
them. The Baron and Sir Philip entered the hall
hand in hand; Edmund threw himself at their feet,
and embraced their knees, but could not utter a
word. They raised him between them, and strove to /
encourage him, but he threw himself into the arms/
of Sir Philip Harclay, deprived of strength, and I
almost of life. They supported him to a seat, where
he recovered by degrees, but had no power to speak
his feelings; he looked up to his benefactors in the
most affecting manner; he laid his hand upon his
bosom, but was still silent.
"Compose yourself, my dear son," said Sir Philip;


20O
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"you are in the arms of your best friends. Look up
to the happiness that awaits you—enjoy the blessings
that Heaven sends you—lift up your heart in grati-
tude to the Creator, and think less of what you owe
to the creature! you will have time enough to pay
us your acknowledgments hereafter."
The company came round them; the servants
flocked into the hall: shouts of joy were heard on
all sides; the Baron came and took Edmund's
hand.
"Rise, sir," said he, "and do the honours of your
house! it is yours from this day: we are your guests,
and expect from you our welcome!"
Edmund kneeled to the Baron; he spoke with a
faltering voice:
"My lord, I am yours! all that I have is at your
devotion! dispose of me as it pleases you best."
The Baron embraced him with the greatest affec-
tion.
"Look round you," said he, "and salute your
friends; these gentlemen come hither to do you
honour."
Edmund revived; he embraced and welcomed the
gentlemen. Father Oswald received his embrace
with peculiar affection, and gave him his benedic-
tion in a most affecting manner.
Edmund exclaimed, "Pray for me, father, that I
may bear all these blessings with gratitude and
1 moderation."
He then saluted and shook hands with all the
servants, not omitting the meanest; he distinguished
Joseph by a cordial embrace; he called him his dear
friend.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
201
"Now," said he, "I can return your friendship, and
I am proud to acknowledge it!"
The old man with a faltering voice cried out:
"Now I have lived long enough! I have seen my
master's son acknowledged for the heir of Lovel!"
The hall echoed with his words, "Long live the
heir of Lovel!"
The Baron took Edmund's hands in his own:
"Let us retire from this crowd," said he; "we have
business of a more private nature to transact."
He led to the parlour, followed by Sir Philip and
the other gentlemen.
"Where are my other children ?" said he.
William retired, and presently returned with his
brother and sister. They kneeled to their father,
who raised and embraced them. He then called out,
"William !—Edmund !—come and receive my bless-
ing also."
They approached hand in hand; they kneeled, and
he gave them a solemn benediction.
"Your friendship deserves our praise, my children;
love each other always; and may Heaven pour down
its choicest blessings upon your heads!"
They rose and embraced in silent raptures of joy.
Edmund presented his friend to Sir Philip.
"I understand you," said he; "this gentleman was
my first acquaintance of this family; he has a title
to the second place in my heart; I shall tell him, at
more leisure, how much I love and honour him for
his own sake as well as yours."
He embraced the youth, and desired his friendship.
"Come hither, my Emma," said the Baron.
She approached with tears on her cheek, sweetly


202
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
blushing like the damask rose wet, with the dew of
the morning.
"I must ask you a serious question, my child;
answer me with the same sincerity you would to
Heaven. You see this young man, the heir of Lovel!
You have known him long; consult your own heart,
and tell me whether you have any objection to receive
him for your husband. I have promised to all this
company to give you to him; but upon condition that
you approve him: I think him worthy of you; and
whether you accept him or not, he shall ever be to
me a son; but Heaven forbid that I should compel
my child to give her hand where she cannot bestow
her heart! Speak freely, and decide this point for me
and for yourself."
The fair Emma blushed, and was under some con-
fusion ; her virgin modesty prevented her speaking
for some moments. Edmund trembled; he leaned
upon William's shoulder to support himself. Emma
cast her eye upon him; she saw his emotion, and
hastened to relieve him; and thus spoke in a soft
voice, which gathered strength as she proceeded:
"My lord and father's goodness has always pre-
vented my wishes; I am the happiest of all children,
in being able to obey his commands, without
offering violence to my own inclinations. As I am
called upon in this public manner, it is but justice to
this gentleman's merit to declare that, were I at
liberty to choose a husband from all the world, he
only should be my choice, who, I can say with joy, is
my father's also."
Edmund bowed low, he advanced towards her;
the Baron took his daughter's hand and presented it


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
to him; he kneeled upon one knee, he took her
hand, kissed it, and pressed it to his bosom. The
Baron (embraced and blessed them; he presented
them to Sir Philip Harclay—" Receive and acknow-
ledge your children !" said he.
"I do receive them as the gift of Heaven!" said
the noble knight; "they are as much mine as if I
had begotten them: all that I have is theirs, and
shall descend to their children for ever." A fresh
scene of congratulation ensued; and the hearts of all
the auditors were too much engaged to be able soon
to return to the ease and tranquillity of common
life.
After they had refreshed themselves, and re-
covered from the emotions they had sustained on
this interesting occasion, Edmund thus addressed
the Baron:
"On the brink of happiness, I must claim your
attention to a melancholy subject. The bones of
both my parents lie unburied in this house; permit
me, my honoured lord, to perform my last duties to
them, and the remainder of my life shall be devoted
to you and yours."
"Certainly," said the Baron; "why have you not
interred them?"
"My lord, I waited for your arrival, that you
might be certified of the reality, and that no doubts
might remain."
"I have no doubts," said the Baron. "Alas!
both the crime and punishment of the offender leave
no room for them!" He sighed. "Let us now put
an end to this affair; and, if possible, forget it
for ever."


204 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
"If it will not be too painful to you, my lord, I
will entreat you, with these gentlemen our friends,
to follow me into the east apartment, the scene of
my parents' woes, and yet the dawning of my better
hopes."
They rose to attend him; he committed the Lady
Emma to the care of her youngest brother, observ-
ing that the scene was too solemn for a lady to be
present at. They proceeded to the apartment; he
showed the Baron the fatal closet, and the place
where the bones were found, also the trunk that
contained them; he recapitulated all that passed
before their arrival; he showed them the coffin
where the bones of the unfortunate pair were
deposited: he then desired the Baron to give orders
for their interment.
"No," replied he, " it belongs to you to order, and
every one here is ready to perform it."
Edmund then desired Father Oswald to give
notice to the friars of the monastery of St. Austin,
that with their permission the funeral should be
solemnised there, and the bones interred in the
church. He also gave orders that the closet should
be floored, the apartment repaired and put in order.
He then returned to the other side of the Castle.
Preparations being made for the funeral, it was
performed a few days after. Edmund attended in
person as chief mourner, Sir Philip Harclay as the
second; Joseph desired he might assist as servant to
the deceased. They were followed by most people
of the village. The story was now become public,
and every one blessed Edmund for the piety and
devotion with which he performed the last duties


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
to his parents.—Edmund appeared in deep mourn-
ing; the week after, he assisted at a mass for the
repose of the deceased.
Sir Philip Harclay ordered a monument to be
erected to the memory of his friends, with the
following inscription:
"Praye for the soules of Arthur Lord Lovele and
Marie his wife, who were cut off in the flowere of
theire youthe, by the trecherye and crueltie of their
neare kinnesmanne. Edmund theire onlie sonne,
one and twentie yeares after theire deathe, by the
direction of heavene, made the discoverye of the
mannere of theire deathe, and at the same time
proved his own birthe. He collected theire bones
together, and interred them in this place: A warn-
ing and proofe to late posteritie, of the justice of
Providence, and the certainty of Retribution."
The Sunday after the funeral Edmund threw off
his mourning, and appeared in a dress suitable to his
condition. He received the compliments of his
friends with ease and cheerfulness, and began to
enjoy his happiness. He asked an audience of his
fair mistress, and was permitted to declare the
passion he had so long stifled in his own bosom.
She gave him a favourable hearing, and in a short
time confessed that she had suffered equally in that
suspense that was so grievous to him. They
engaged themselves by mutual vows to each other,
and only waited the Baron's pleasure to complete
their happiness; every cloud was banished from
their brows, and sweet tranquillity took possession of


206 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
their bosoms. Their friends shared their happiness;
William and Edmund renewed their vows of ever-
lasting friendship, and promised to be as much
together as William's other duties would permit.
The Baron once more summoned all his company
together; he told Edmund all that had passed
relating to his brother-in-law, his exile, and the pil-
grimage of Zadisky; he then related the circum-
stances of Sir Robert's engagement to Lord Clifford's
daughter, his establishment in his uncle's seat, and
his own obligations to return time enough to be
present at the marriage: "But before I go," said he,
"I will give my daughter to the heir of Lovel, and
then I shall have discharged my duty to him, and my
promise to Sir Philip Harclay."
"You have nobly performed both," said Sir Philip,
"and whenever you depart, I shall be your com-
panion."
"What!" said Edmund, "am I to be deprived of
both my fathers at once? My honoured lord, you
have given away two houses—where do you intend
to reside?"
"No matter," said the Baron; "I know I shall be
welcome to both."
"My dear lord," said Edmund, "stay here and be
still the master; I shall be proud to be under your
command, and to be your servant as well as your
son!"
"No, Edmund," said the Baron, "that would not
now be proper; this is your castle, you are its lord
and master, and it is incumbent on you to show
yourself worthy of the great things Providence has
done for you."


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 207
"How shall I, a young man, acquit myself of so
many duties as will be upon me, without the advice
and assistance of my two paternal friends? Oh, Sir
Philip! will you too leave me? once you gave me
hopes"
He stopped greatly affected.
Sir Philip said, "Tell me truly, Edmund, do you
really desire that I should live with you?"
"As truly, sir, as I desire life and happiness!"
"Then, my dear child, I will live and die with
you."
They embraced with tears of affection, and Edmund
was all joy and gratitude.
"My good lord," said Philip, "you have disposed \
of two houses, and have none ready to receive you;
will you accept of mine? It is much at your service;
and its being in the same county with your eldest
son, will be an inducement to you to reside there."
The Baron caught Sir Philip's hand.
"Noble sir, I thank you, and will embrace your
kind offer; I will be your tenant for the present; my
castle in Wales shall be put in repair in the mean-
time; if I do not reside there, it will be an establish-
ment for one of my youngest sons."
"But what will you do with your old soldiers and
dependants?"
"My lord, I will never cast them off. There is
another house on my estate that has been shut up
many years; I will have it repaired and furnished
properly for the reception of my old men: I will
endow it with a certain sum to be paid annually, and
will appoint a steward to manage their revenue; I
will continue it during the lives of the first inha-


208 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
bitants, and after that I shall leave it to my son here
to do as he pleases."
"Your son," said Edmund, "will make it the busi-
ness of his life to act worthy of such a father."
"Enough," said Sir Philip, "I am satisfied that
you will. I propose to reside myself in that very
apartment which my dear friend your father in-
habited: I will tread in his footsteps, and think he
sees me acting his part in his son's family. I will be
attended by my own servants: and whenever you
desire it, I will give you my company; your joys,
your griefs shall be mine; I shall hold your children
in my arms, and their prattle shall amuse my old
age; and as my last earthly wish, your hands shall
close my eyes."
"Long, very long," said Edmund, with eyes and
hands lifted up, "may it be ere I perform so sad a
duty!"
"Long and happily may you live together!" said
the Baron; "I will hope to see you sometimes, and
to claim a share in your blessings. But let us give
no more tears to sorrow; the rest shall be those of
joy and transport. The first step we take shall be
to marry our Edmund; I will give orders for the
celebration, and they shall be the last orders I shall
give in this house." They then separated, and went
to prepare for the approaching solemnity.
Sir Philip and the Baron had a private conference
concerning Edmund's assuming the name and title
of Lovel. "I am resolved," said Sir Philip, "to go
to the king, to acquaint him briefly with Edmund's
history; I will request that he may be called up to
parliament by a writ, for there is no need of a new


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 209
patent, he being the true inheritor; in the meantime
he shall assume the name, arms, and title, and I will
answer any one that shall dispute his right to them.
Sir Philip then declared his resolution to set out with
the Baron at his departure, and to settle all his other
affairs before he returned to take up his residence at
the Castle.
A few days after, the marriage was celebrated to
the entire satisfaction of all parties. The Baron
ordered the doors to be thrown open, and the house
free for all comers; with every other token of joy
and festivity. Edmund appeared full of joy without
levity, of mirth without extravagance; he received
the congratulations of his friends with ease, freedom,
and vivacity. He sent for his foster father and
mother, who began to think themselves neglected, as
he had been so deeply engaged in affairs of more con-
sequence that he had not been particularly attentive
to them; he made them come into the great hall, and
presented them to his lady.
"These," said he, "are the good people to whom I
am, under God, indebted for my present happiness;
they were my first benefactors; I was obliged to
them for food and sustenance in my childhood, and
this good woman nourished my infancy at her own
breast." The lady received them graciously, and
saluted Margery. Andrew kneeled down, and with
great humility begged Edmund's pardon for his
treatment of him in his childhood. "I heartily for-
give you," said he, "and I will excuse you to your-
self; it was natural for you to look upon me as an
intruder that was eating your children's bread; you
saved my life, and afterwards you sustained it by
o


210 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
your food and raiment: I ought to have maintained
myself, and to have contributed to your main-
tenance. But besides this, your treatment of me
was the first of my preferment; it recommended me
to the notice of this noble family. Everything that
happened to me since, has been a step to my present
state of honour and happiness. Never man had so
many benefactors as myself; but both they and
myself have been only instruments in the hands of
Providence to bring about its own purposes; let us
praise God for all! I shared your poverty, and you
will share my riches; I will give you the cottage
where you dwell, and the ground about it; I will
also pay you the annual sum of ten pounds for the
lives of you both; I will put out your children to
manual trades; and assist you to provide for them
in their own station; and you are to look upon this
as paying a debt, and not bestowing a gift; I owe
you more than I can ever pay; and if there be any-
thing further in my power that will contribute to
your happiness, you can ask nothing in reason that I
will deny you." .
Andrew hid his face; "I cannot bear it!" said he;
"oh, what a brute was I, to abuse such a child as
this! I shall never forgive myself!"
"You mustiindeed, my friend; for I forgive and
thank you."
Andrew retired back, but Margery came forward;
she looked earnestly on Edmund, she then threw
her arms about his neck, and wept aloud.
"My precious child! my lovely babe! thank God,
I have lived to see this day! I will rejoice in your
good fortune and your bounty to us, but I must ask


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 211
one more favour yet; that I may sometimes come
hither and behold that gracious countenance, and
thank God that I was honoured so far as to give
thee food from my own breast, and to bring thee
up to be a blessing to me, and to all that know
thee!"
Edmund was affected, he returned her embrace;
he bade her come to the Castle as often as she pleased,
and she should always be received as his mother; the
bride saluted her, and told her the oftener she came
the more welcome she should be.
Margery and her husband retired, full of blessings
and prayers for their happiness; she gave vent to
her joy by relating to the servants and neighbours
every circumstance of Edmund's birth, infancy, and
childhood. Many a tear was dropped by the audi-
tors, and many a prayer wafted to Heaven for his
happiness. Joseph took up the story where she left
it: he told the rising dawn of youth and virtue, dart-
ing its rays through the clouds of obscurity, and how
every stroke of envy and malignity brushed away
some part of the darkness that veiled its lustre. He
told the story of the haunted apartment, and all the
consequences of it; how he and Oswald conveyed
the youth away from the Castle, no more to return
till he came as master of it. He closed the tale with
praise to Heaven for the happy discovery that gave
such an heir to the house of Lovel; to his dependents
such a lord and master; to mankind a friend and
benefactor. There was truly a house of joy; not
that false kind, in the midst of which there is heavi-
ness, but that of rational creatures, grateful to the
Supreme Benefactor, raising their minds by a due


212
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
enjoyment of earthly blessings, to a preparation for
a more perfect state hereafter.
A few days after the wedding, the Lord Fitz-Owen
began to prepare for his journey to the north. He
gave to Edmund the plate, linen, and furniture of the
Castle, the farming stock and utensils; he would have
added a sum of money, but Sir Philip stopped his
hand.
"We do not forget," said he, "that you have other
children—we will not suffer you to injure them; give
us your blessing and paternal affection, and we have
nothing more to ask. I told you, my lord, that you
and I should one day be sincere friends."
"We must be so," answered the Baron, "it is im-
possible to be long your enemy. We are brothers,
and shall be to our lives' end."
They regulated the young man's household; the
Baron gave leave to his servants to choose their
master; the elder ones followed him (except Joseph,
who desired to live with Edmund, as the chief
happiness of his life); most of the younger ones
chose the service of the youthful pair. There was a
tender and affectionate parting on all sides. Edmund
besought his beloved William not to leave him. The
Baron said he must insist on his being at his brother's
wedding, as a due attention to him, but after that he
should return to the Castle for some time.
The Baron and Sir Philip Harclay with their
train set forward. Sir Philip went to London, and
obtained all he desired for his Edmund; from thence
he went into Yorkshire and settled his affairs there,
removing his pensioners to his other house, and
putting Lord Fitz-Owen in possession of his own.


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 213
They had a generous contention about the terms;
but Sir Philip insisted on the Baron's accepting the
use of everything there.
"You hold it in trust for a future grandchild," said
he, "whom I hope to live to endow with it."
During Sir Philip's absence, the young Lord Lovel
caused the haunted apartment to be repaired and
furnished for the reception of his father by adoption.
He placed his friend Joseph over all his men-servants,
and ordered him to forbear his attendance; but the
old man would always stand at the side-board and
feast his eyes with the countenance of his old master's
son surrounded with honour and happiness. John
Wyatt waited upon the person of his lord, and
enjoyed his favour without abatement. Mr. William
Fitz-Owen accompanied Sir Philip Harclay from the
north country, when he returned to take up his resi-
dence at the Castle of Lovel.
Edmund, in the arms of love and friendship,
enjoyed with true relish the blessings that surrounded
him, with a heart overflowing with benevolence to
his fellow-creatures, and raptures of gratitude to his
Creator. His lady and himself were examples of
conjugal affection and happiness. Within a year
from his marriage she brought him a son and heir,
whose birth renewed the joy and congratulations of
all his friends. The Baron Fitz-Owen came to the
baptism, and partook of his children's blessings.
The child was called Arthur, after the name of its
grandfather.
The year following was born a second son, who
was called Philip Harclay; upon him the noble
knight of that name settled his estate in Yorkshire;
s


214 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
and by the king's permission, he took the name and
arms of that family.
The third son was called William; he inherited
the fortune of his uncle of that name, who adopted
him; and he made the Castle of Lovel his residence,
and died a bachelor.
The fourth son was called Edmund; the fifth
Owen; and there was also a daughter, called Emma.
When time had worn out the prejudices of Sir
Robert Fitz-Owen, the good old Baron of that name
proposed a marriage between his eldest son and heir
and the daughter of Edmund Lord Lovel, which was
happily concluded. The nuptials were honoured
with the presence of both families; and the old
Baron was so elevated with this happy union of his
descendants, that he cried out, " Now I am ready to
die—I have lived long enough—this is the band of
love that unites all my children to me, and to each
other." He did not long survive this happy event;
he died full of years and honours, and his name was
never mentioned but with the deepest marks of
gratitude, love, and veneration. Sweet is the remem-
brance of the virtuous, and happy are the descen-
dants of such a father! they will think on him, and
emulate his virtues—they will remember him, and
be ashamed to degenerate from their ancestor.
Many years after Sir Philip Harclay settled at the
Castle he received tidings from his friend Zadisky,
by one of the two servants who attended him to the
Holy Land. From him he learned that his friend
had discovered, by private advices, that he had a
son living in Palestine, which was the chief motive of
his leaving England; that he had met with various


THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 215
adventures in pursuit of him; that at length he found,
him, converted him to the Christian religion, and!
then persuaded him to retire from the world into a
monastery by the side of Mount Libanus, where he
intended to end his days.
That Walter, commonly called Lord Lovel, had
entered into the service of the Greek Emperor, John
Paleologus, not bearing to undergo a life of solitude
and retirement; that he made up a story of his being
compelled to leave his native country by his relations,
for having accidentally killed one of them; and that
he was treated with great cruelty and injustice; that
he had accepted a post in the Emperor's army, and
was soon after married to the daughter of one of the
chief officers of it.
Zadisky foresaw and lamented the downfall of that
Empire, and withdrew from the storm he saw ap-
proaching. Finally, he bade the messenger tell Sir
Philip Harclay and his adopted son that he should
not cease to pray for them, and desired their prayers
in return.
Sir Philip desired Lord Lovel to entertain this
messenger in his service. That good knight lived to
extreme old age, in honour and happiness, and died
in the arms of his beloved Edmund, who also per-
formed the last duties to his faithful Joseph.
Father Oswald lived many years in the family as
chaplain; he retired from thence, and at length died
in his own monastery.
Edmund Lord Lovel lived to old age, in peace,
honour, and happiness, and died in the arms of his
children.
Sir Philip Harclay caused the papers relating to


2l6
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON.
his son's history to be collected together; the first
part of it was written under his own eye in Yorkshire,
the subsequent parts by Father Oswald at the Castle
of Lovel. All these, when together, furnish a strik-
ing lesson to posterity of the overruling hand of Pro-
vidence, and the certainty of RETRIBUTION.


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO
3 ffiotijic Storg.
By HORACE WALPOLE.


. . . Vance
Fingentur species, tamen ui pes, et caput uni
Reddantur forma.—HOR.






HORACE WALPOLE.


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PREFATORY MEMOIR
TO
WALPOLE.
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. TheN
neglect and discredit of these venerable 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 allegorical interpretation, than the
plain and obvious meaning of his chivalrous pageant.
The drama, which shortly afterwards rose into splen-
dour, and English versions from the innumerable
novelists of Italy, supplied to the higher class the
amusement which their fathers received from the
legends of Don Belianis and the Mirror of Knight-
hood; and the huge volumes, which were once the
pastime of nobles and princes, shorn of their orna-


220 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WA LP OLE.
ments, and shrunk into abridgments, were banished
into the kitchen or nursery, or, at best, to the hall-
window of the old-fashioned country manor-house.
Under Charles II. the prevailing taste for French
literature dictated 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 insufferable
length and breadth of the prose volumes of chivalry,
the same detailed account of reiterated and unvaried
combats, the same unnatural and extravagant turn
of incident, without the rich and sublime strokes of
genius, and vigour of imagination, which often dis-
tinguished the early romance; while they exhibited
all the sentimental languor 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-imagined species of composition retained
its ground longer than might have been expected,
only because these romances were called works of
entertainment, and there was nothing better to sup-
ply their room. Even in the days of the Spectator,
Clelia, Cleopatra, and the Grand Cyrus (as that
precious folio is christened by its butcherly trans-
lator), were the favourite closet companions of the
fair sex. But this unnatural taste began to give way
early in the eighteenth century; and about the
middle of it, was entirely superseded by the works


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALP OLE. 221
of Le Sage, Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett; so
that even the very name of romance, now so vener-
able 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
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.
Horace Walpole, it is needless to remind the
reader, was the son of Sir Robert Walpole, that
celebrated minister who held the reins of govern-
ment under two successive monarchs, with a grasp
so firm and uncontrolled, that his power seemed
entwined with the rights of the Brunswick family.
Horace was born in the year 1716-17; was educated
at Eton, and formed, at that celebrated seminary,
a school-boy acquaintance with the celebrated Gray,
which continued during the earlier part of their
residence together at Cambridge, so that they
became fellow-travellers by joint consent in 1739.
They disagreed and parted on the continent; the
youthful vivacity, and perhaps the aristocratic
assumption of Walpole, not agreeing with the some-
what formal opinions and habits of the professed


222 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
man of letters. In the reconciliation afterwards
effected between them, Walpole frankly took on
himself the blame of the rupture, and they continued
friends until Gray's death.
When Walpole returned to England, he obtained
a seat in Parliament, and entered public life as the
son of a prime minister as powerful as England had
known for more than a century. When the father
occupied 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 patron-
age 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 Robert Walpole,
and even the domestic affairs of his family, with the
parties in the Royal Family of England, and with
the changes in the public affairs of Europe. It is
not therefore wonderful that the turn of Horace
Walpole's mind, which was naturally tinged with the
love of pedigree, and a value for family honours,
should have been strengthened in that bias by cir-
cumstances 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 eminence, and turning his family im-


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WA LP OLE. 223
portance to advantage in his career, the termination
of his father'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 vindicated
the memory of his father with great dignity and
eloquence, he took no share in the debates of the
House, and not much in the parties which main-
tained them. Indeed, in the account which he has
himself rendered us of his own views and dispositions
with respect to State affairs, he seems rather to have
been bent on influencing party spirit, and bustling
in public affairs, for the sake of embroilment and
intrigue, than in order to carry any particular
measure, whether important to himself, or of con-
sequence to the State. In the year 1758, and at the
active age of forty-one, secured from the caprices of
fortune, he retired altogether from public life, to
enjoy his own pursuits and studies in retirement.
His father's care had invested him with three good
sinecure offices, so that his income, managed with
economy, which no one understood better how to
practise, was sufficient for his expense in matters of
virtu, as well as for maintaining his high rank in
society.
The subjects of Horace Walpole's studies were, in
a great measure, dictated by his habits of thinking
and feeling operating upon an animated imagination,


224 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
and a mind, acute, active, penetrating, and fraught
with a great variety of miscellaneous knowledge.
Travelling had formed his taste for the fine arts; but
his early predilection in favour of birth and rank
connected even those branches of study with that of
Gothic history and antiquities. His Anecdotes of
Painting and Engraving evince many marks of his
favourite pursuits; but his Catalogue of Royal and
Noble Aut/iors, and his Historical Doubts, we owe
entirely to his pursuits as an antiquary and genea-
logist. The former work evinces, in a particular
degree, Mr. Walpole's respect for birth and rank;
yet is perhaps ill calculated to gain much sympathy
for either. It would be difficult, by any process or
principle of sub-division, to select a list of as many
plebeian authors, containing so very few whose genius
was worthy of commemoration; but it was always
Walpole's foible to disclaim a professed pursuit of
public favour, for which, however, he earnestly
thirsted, and to hold himself forth as a privileged
author, "one of the right-hand file," who did not
mean to descend into the common arena, where pro-
fessional authors contend before the public eye, but
wrote merely to gratify his own taste, by throwing
away a few idle hours on literary composition.
There was much affectation in this, which accord-
ingly met the reward which affectation usually
incurs; as Walpole seems to have suffered a good
deal from the criticism which he affected to despise,


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 225
and occasionally from the neglect which he appeared
to court.
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. Wal-
pole's doubts acquired, in his own eyes, the respec-
tability 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 anti-
quities, which was then uncommon. He loved, as a
satirist has expressed it, "to gaze on Gothic toys
through Gothic glass," and the villa at Strawberry
Hill, which he chose for his abode, gradually swelled
into a feudal castle, by the addition of turrets,
towers, galleries, and corridors, whose fretted roofs,
carved panels, and illuminated windows, were gar-
nished with the appropriate furniture of scutcheons,
armorial bearings, shields, tilting lances, and all the
panoply of chivalry. The Gothic order of archi-
tecture is now so generally, and indeed indiscri-
minately used, that we are rather surprised if the
country-house of a tradesmen retired from business
does not exhibit lanceolated windows, divided by
stone shafts, and garnished by painted glass, a cup-
board in the form of a cathedral-stall, and a pig-
p


226 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
house with a front borrowed from the facade of an
ancient chapel. But in the middle of the eighteenth
century, when Mr. Walpole began to exhibit speci-
mens of the Gothic style, and to show how patterns,
collected from cathedrals and monuments, might be
applied to chimney-pieces, ceilings, windows, and
balustrades, he did not comply with the dictates of
a prevailing fashion, but pleased his own taste, and
realised his 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 historical
researches, and his taste in architecture. His exten-
I sive acquaintance with foreign literature, on which
he justly prided himself, was subordinate to his
pursuits as an English antiquary and genealogist,
1 in which he gleaned subjects for poetry and for
(jximantic fiction, as well as for historical controversy.
These are studies indeed proverbially dull; but it is
only when they are pursued by those whose fancies
nothing can enliven. A Horace Walpole, or a
Thomas Warton, is not a mere collector of dry
and minute facts, which the general historian passes
over with disdain. ((He brings with him the torch
I 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 Froissart. His mind being thus


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 227
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 pur-
poses of modern convenience, or luxury, the rich
varied, and complicated tracery and carving of the
ancient cathedral, so^in The Castle of Otranto, it was
his object to unite the marvellous turn of incident,
and imposing tone of chivalry, exhibited in the
ancient romance, with that accurate display 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, in
1764, ushered into the world, as a translation,'by
William Marshall, from the Italian of Onuphrio
Muralto, a sort of anagram, or translation of his own
name. It did not, however, long impose upon the
critics of the day. It was soon suspected to proceed
from a more elegant pen than that of any William
Marshall, and, in the second edition, he disclosed the


228 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
secret. In a private letter, he gave the following
account of the origin of the composition, in which he
contradicts the ordinary assertion that it was com-
pleted in eight days :—
"gth March 1763. .
"Shall I confess to you what was the origin of
this romance? I waked one morning in the begin-
ning of last June from a dream, of which all I could
recover was, that I had thought myself in an an-
cient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled
like mine with Gothic story), and that on the upper-
most bannister of a great staircase, I saw a gigantic
hand in armour. In the evening I sat down and
began to write, without knowing in the least what I
intended to say or relate. The work grew on my
hands, and I grew fond of it. Add, that I was very
glad to think of anything rather than politics. In
short, I was so engrossed with my tale, which I com-
pleted in less than two months, that one evening I
wrote from the time I had drank my tea, about six
o'clock, till half an hour after one in the morning,
when my hands and fingers were so weary that I
could not hold the pen to finish the sentence, but
left Matilda and Isabella talking in the middle of a
paragraph."
It does not seem that the authenticity of the
narrative was at first suspected. Mr. Gray writes to
Mr. Walpole, on 30th December 1764: "I have


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WA LP OLE. 229
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." The friends
of the author, as appears from the letter already
quoted, were probably soon permitted to peep be-
neath the veil he had thought proper to assume;
and in the second edition, it was altogether with-
drawn by a preface in which the tendency and
nature of the work are shortly commented 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 author. 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 uneasi-
ness. 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 me madder than ever), that Wiis is the only I
one of my works with which I am myself pleased! I'
have given reins to my imagination till I became on


230 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALP OLE.
Jjre with the visions and feelings which it excited.
I have composed it in defiance of rules, of critics,
and of philosophers; and it seems to me just so
much the better for that very reason. I am even
persuaded that some time hereafter, when taste shall
/ resume the place which philosophy now occupies,
my poor Castle will find admirers; we have actually
a few among us already, for I am just publishing
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;
the first, however, accords best with the style of the
fiction. I wished it to be believed ancient, and
almost everybody 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 editions 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 justly considered
not only as the original and model of a peculiar
species of composition, attempted and successfully
* 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.


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 231
executed by a man of great genius, but as one of the
standard works of our lighter literature.
Horace Walpole continued the mode of life which
he had adopted so early as 1753, until his death,
unless it may be considered as an alteration, that his
sentiments of Whiggism, which, he himself assures
us, almost amounted to Republicanism, received a
shock from the French Revolution, which he appears
from its commencement to have thoroughly detested.
The tenor of his life could be hardly said to suffer
interruption by his father's earldom of Orford de-
volving upon him when he had reached his 74th
year, by the death of his nephew. He scarce assumed
the title, and died a few years after it had descended
to him, 2d March 1797, at his house in Berkeley
Square.
In Miss Hawkins's very entertaining reminiscences
of her early abode at Twickenham, the following
description of the person of Horace Walpole, before
1772, gives us the most lively idea of the person
and manners of a Man of Fashion about the middle
of the last century:—"His figure was not merely
tall, but more properly long and slender to excess;
his complexion, and particularly his hands, of a most
unhealthy paleness. His eyes were remarkably
bright and penetrating, very dark and lively:—his
voice was not strong, but his tones were extremely
pleasant, and if I may so say, highly gentlemanly.
I do not remember his common gait; he always


232 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
entered a room in that style of affected delicacy,
which fashion had then made almost natural;
chapeau bras between his hands, as if he wished to
compress it, or under his arm; knees bent, and feet
on tiptoe, as if afraid of a wet floor. His dress in
visiting was most usually, in summer, when I most
saw him, a lavender suit, the waistcoat embroidered
with a little silver, or of white silk worked in the
tambour, partridge silk stockings, and gold buckles,
ruffles and frill generally lace. I remember, when a
child, thinking him very much under-dressed, if at
any time, except in mourning, he wore hemmed
cambric. In summer no powder, but his wig combed
straight, and showing his very smooth pale forehead,
and queued behind; in winter, powder."
We cannot help thinking that this most respect-
able lady, by whose communications respecting
eminent individuals the public has been so much
obliged, has been a little too severe on the Gothic
whims of the architecture at Strawberry Hill. The
admirers of the fine arts should have toleration for
each other, when their fervent admiration of a
favourite pursuit leads them into those extremes
which are caviar to the multitude. And as the ear
of the architect should not be hasty to condemn the
over-learned conceits of the musician, so the eye of
the musician should have some toleration for the
turrets and pinnacles of the fascinated builder.
It is foreign to our plan to say much of Horace


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 233
Walpole's individual character. His works bear
evidence to his talents; and even striking out the
horribly impressive but disgusting drama of The
Mysterious Mother, and the excellent Romance
which we are about to analyse more critically, they
must leave him the reputation of a man of excellent
taste, and certainly of being the best letter-writer in
the English language.
In private life, his temper appears to have been
precarious; and though expensive in indulging his
own taste, he always seems to have done so on the
most economical terms possible. He is often, in his
epistolary correspondence, harsh and unkind to
Madame Deffand, whose talents, her blindness, and
her enthusiastic affection for him, claimed every
indulgence from a warm-hearted man. He is also
severe and rigid towards Bentley, whose taste and
talents he had put into continual requisition for the
ornaments of his house. These are unamiable traits
of character, and they have been quoted and ex-
aggerated. But his memory has suffered most on
account of his conduct towards Chatterton, in which
we have always thought he was perfectly defensible.
That unhappy son of genius endeavoured to impose
upon Walpole a few stanzas of very inferior merit,
as ancient; and sent him an equally gross and
palpable imposture under the shape of a pretended
List of Painters. Walpole's sole crime lies in not
patronising at once a young man who only appeared


234 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
before him in the character of a very inartificial
impostor, though he afterwards proved himself a
gigantic one. The fate of Chatterton lies, not at the
door of Walpole, but of the public at large, who, two
years (we believe) afterwards, were possessed of the
splendid proofs of his natural powers, and any one
of whom was as much called upon as Walpole to
prevent the most unhappy catastrophe.
Finally, it must be recorded to Walpole's praise,
that, though not habitually liberal, he was strictly
just, and readily parted with that portion of his
income which the necessities of the State required.
He may perhaps have mistaken his character when
he assumes as its principal characteristic, "dis-
interestedness and contempt of money," which, he
intimates, was with him less "a virtue than a
passion." But by the generous and apparently most
sincere offer to divide his whole income with Marshal
Conway, he showed, that if there existed in his
bosom more love of money than perhaps he was
himself aware of, it was subjugated to the influence
of the nobler virtues and feelings.
We are now to offer a few remarks on The Castle
of Otranto, and on the class of compositions to which
it belongs, and of which it was the precursor.
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


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 235
horror;" 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, j 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-j
such a picture of domestic life and manners, during
the feudal times, as might actually have existed, and
to paint it chequered and agitated by the action of
supernatural machinery, such as the superstition -of
the period received as matter of devout credulity.
The natural parts of the narrative are so contrived,
that they associate themselves with the marvellous
occurrences; and by the force of that association,
render those speciosa miracula striking and impressive,
though our cooler reason admits their impossibility^
Indeed, to produce, in a well-cultivated mind, any
portion of that surprise and fear which are 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 th^gigantic
and preposterous figures dimly visible in the defaced 


236 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
tapestry,—the remote clang of the distant doors
which divide him from living society,—the deep
darkness which involves the high and fretted roof of
the apartment,—the dimly-seen pictures of ancient
knights, renowned for their valour, and perhaps for
their crimes,—the varied and indistinct sounds which
disturb the silent desolation of a half-deserted
mansion,—and, to crown all, the feeling that carries
us back to ages of feudal power and papal super-
stition, join together to excite a corresponding
sensation of supernatural awe, if not of terror. It is
in such situations, when superstition becomes con-
tagious, that we listen with respect, and even with
dread, to the legends which are our sport in the
garish light of sunshine, and amid the dissipating
sights and sounds of everyday 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 reception of pro-
j digies congenial to the creed and feelings of the
V actors^} His feudal tyrant, his distressed damsel, his
resigned yet dignified churchman,—the Castle itself,
with its feudal arrangements of dungeons, trap-doors,
oratories, and galleries,—the incidents of the trial,
the chivalrous procession, and the combat;—in short,
the scene, the performers, and action, snjfar as it is
natural, form the accompaniments of his spectres


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALP OLE. 237
and his -miracles, and have the same effect on the
mind cTThereader, that the appearance and drapery
of such a chamber as we have described may pro-
duce 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
broken and disarranged. It is, for instance, almost
impossible to build such a modern Gothic structure
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
melancholy ideas; but it must fail in bringing forth
the sensation of supernatural awe, connected with
halls that have echoed to the sounds of remote
generations, and have been pressed by the footsteps
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 perioef in/
which his scene is laid—the art with which he has
furnished forth its Gothic decorations—the sustained^
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 consistent with^
the belief of all mankind at that in which the action ^- J
is placed. \ It was therefore the author's object, not


238 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
merely to excite surprise and terror by the introduc-
tion 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."
The difficulty of attaining this nice accuracy of
delineation may be best estimated by comparing The
Castle of Otranto with the less successful efforts of
later writers; where, amid all their attempts to
assume the tone of antique chivalry, something
occurs in every chapter so decidedly incongruous, as
at once reminds us of an ill-sustained masquerade,
in which ghosts, knights-errant, magicians, and
damsels gent, are all equipped in hired dresses from
the same warehouse in Tavistock 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 impossible
by more enlightened ages, was yet consonant with
tbe.faith.of earlier times. The subject of The Castle
of Otranto is of the latter class. Mrs. RacTcTiffe, a
name not to be mentioned without the high respect
due to genius, has endeavoured to effect a com-
promise between those different styles of narrative,
by referring her prodigies to an explanation founded


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 239
on natural causes, in the latter chapters of her
romances. > To this improvement upon the Gothic
romance there are so many objections, that we own
ourselves inclined to prefer, as more simple and
impressive, the narrative of Walpole, which details
supernatural incidents as they would have been
readily believed and received in the eleventh or
twelfth century. ^In the first place, the reader feels
indignant at discovering that he has been cheated
into sympathy with terrors, which are finally ex-
plained as having proceeded from some very simple
cause; and the interest of a second reading is en-
tirely destroyed by his having been admitted behind
the scenes at the conclusion of the first. Secondly,
The precaution of relieving our spirits from the
influence of supposed supernatural terror, seems as
unnecessary in a work of professed fiction, as that of
the prudent Bottom, who proposed that the human
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 substi-
tutes for supernatural agency are frequently to the
full as improbable as the machinery which they are
introduced to explain away and to supplant. The
reader, who is required to admit the belief of super-
natural interference, understands precisely what is
demanded of him; and if he be a gentle reader,
throws his mind into the attitude best adapted to


240 PREFATORY AtEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
humour the deceit which is presented for his enter-
tainment, 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 circumstances
in the narrative has proved equally, nay, even more
incredible, than if they had been accounted for by
the agency of supernatural beings; for the most
incredulous must allow, that the interference 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 har-
monise 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 recon-
cile the superstitious credulity of feudal ages with
the philosophic scepticism of our own, by referring
* 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.


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 241
those prodigies to the operation of fulminating
powder, combined mirrors, magic lanterns, trap-
doors, speaking trumpets, and such-like apparatus
of German phantasmagoria.
It cannot, however, be denied, that the character |
of the supernatural machinery in The Castle of
Otranto is liable to objections. Its action and inter-
ference 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 operate. The fund
of fearful sympathy which can be afforded by a
modern reader to a tale of wonder, is much dimi-
nished by the present habits of life and modes of
education. Our ancestors could wonder and thrill
through all the mazes of an interminable metrical
romance of fairyland, and of an enchantment, 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 different,
and a transient, though vivid, impression is all that
can be excited by a tale of wonder even in the
most fanciful mind of the present day. By the too
frequent recurrence of his prodigies, Mr. Walpole
ran perhaps his greatest risk of awakening la raison
froide, that "cold common sense," which he justly
deemed the greatest enemy of the effect which he
Q


242 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE.
hoped to produce. ^It may be added also, that the
supernatural occurrences of Tfie Castle of Otranto
are brought forward into too strong daylight, and
marked by an over degree of distinctness and ac-
curacy of outline. A mysterious obscurity seems
congenial at least, if not essential, 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 borders on extravagance, is finely intro-
duced, and interrupts an interesting dialogue with
striking effect. We have heard it observed that the
animated figure should rather have been a statue
than a picture. We greatly doubt the justice of the
criticism. The advantage of the colouring induces
us decidedly to prefer Mr. Walpole's fiction to the
proposed 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 hyper-
critical 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


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALP OLE. 243
eleventh century, is rather too early for the introduc-
tion of a full-length portrait. The apparition of the
skeleton hermit to the Prince of Vicenza was long
accounted a masterpiece of the horrible; but of late
the valley of Jehoshaphat could hardly supply the
dry bones necessary for the exhibition of similar
spectres, so that injudicious and repeated imitation
has, in some degree, injured the effect of its origina^
model. What is more striking in The Castle of [
Otranto, is the manner in which the various prodi- I
gious appearances, bearing each upon the other, I
and all upon the accomplishment of the ancient pro- f
phecy, denouncing the ruin of the house of Manfred, |
gradually prepare us for the grand catastrophe. The
moonlight vision of Alphonso dilated to immense
magnitude, the astonished group of spectators in
the front, and the shattered ruins of the castle in J
the back-ground, are briefly and sublimely described.)
We know no passage of similar merit, unless it be
the apparition of Fadzean, or Faudoun, in an ancient
Scottish poem.*
That part of the romance which depends upon
human feelings and agency, is conducted with the
dramatic talent which afterwards was so conspicuous
in The Mysterious Mother. The persons are indeed
* This spectre, the ghost of a follower whom he had slain upon
suspicion 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. i.


244 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WA LP OLE.
rather generic than individual; but this was in a
degree necessary to a plan, calculated rather to ex-
hibit a general view of society and manners during
the times which the author's imagination loved to
contemplate, than the more minute shades and dis-
criminating points of particular 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, the art, the duplicity, the ambition
of a barbarous chieftain of the dark ages, yet with
touches of remorse and natural feeling, which pre-
serve some sympathy for him when his pride is
quelled, and his race extinguished. The pious
Monk, and the patient Hippolita, are well contrasted
with the selfish and tyrannical Prince. Theodore is
the juvenile 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
degree a departure from the rules of chivalry; and
however natural an occurrence in common life, rather
injures the magic illusions of romance. In other
respects, making allowance for the extraordinary
incidents of a dark and tempestuous age, the story,


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 245
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
standard. Mr. Walpole rejected, upon taste and
principle, those heavy though powerful auxiliaries
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 language,
and the simplicity of his narrative, admit that luxu-
riant, florid, and high-varnished landscape-painting,
with which Mrs. Radcliffe often adorned, and not un-
frequently encumbered, her kindred romances. De-
scription, for iti-OWn. S.ake,- 'J- srarrply nnpp atl-prrip^frl
in The Castle of Otranto; and if authors would con-
sider Tiovv very much this restriction tends to realise
narrative, they might be tempted to abridge at least
the showy and wordy exuberance of a style fitter for
poetry than prose. It isjjox-thjedialogue that Walpole
r^erv^4Ha-strength; and it is remarkable how,
while conducting his mortal agents with all the art
of a modern dramatist, adheres to the sustained


246 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALP OLE.
tone of chivalry which marks the period of the action.
This is not attained by patching his narrative or dia-
logue with glossarial terms, or antique phraseology,
but by taking care to exclude all that can awaken
modern associations. In th~e one case, Ers~r6mance
would have resembled a modern dress, preposterously
decorated with antique ornaments; in its present
shape, he has retained the form of the ancient armour,
but not its rust and cobwebs. (In illustration of what
is above stated, we refer the reader to the first inter-
view 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 in attempted exculpation, even
before a mute accuser^ 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
pieaded his own cause fully in the original Prefaces.
We have only to add, in conclusion to these de-
sultory 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 feverish
and anxious suspense, through a protracted and com-
plicated narrative, more will yet remain with him
than the single merit of originality and invention.
| The applause due to chastity and precision of style,


PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 247
—to a happy combination of supernatural agency
with human interest,—to a tone of feudal manners
and language, sustained by characters strongly drawn
and well discriminated,—and to unity of action,
producing scenes alternately of interest and of
grandeur;4-the applause, in fine, which cannot be
denied to aim who can excite the passions of fear
and of pity\must be awarded to the author of The
Castle of Otranto.





PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
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 after-
wards. 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 establish-
ment of the Arragonian kings in Naples had made
Spanish appellations familiar in that country. The


2jo PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITIOX.
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 iittle antecedent to that of the impression.
Letters were then in the 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 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 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


PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
251
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. 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 prin-
cipal engine, prevents the story from ever languish-
ing; and it is so often contrasted by pity, that the (
mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of interest-
ing 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, con-
duce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.
It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in


*J2 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDTTIOX.
favour of his adopted work. More impartial readers
may cot be so much struck with the beauties of this
piece as I was. Yet I am not biiad to my author's
defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on
a more useful moral than this; that "the sins of the
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 senti-
ments, 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 narra-
tive. 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


PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 253
or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speak-
ing 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 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.





PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The 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 tran-
slator. As diffidence of his own abilities, and the
novelty of the attempt, were the sole inducements
to assume that disguise, he flatters himself he shall
appear excusable. He resigned his performance to
the impartial judgment of the public; determined to
let it perish in obscurity, if disapproved; nor mean-
ing to avow such a trifle, unless better judges should
pronounce 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 improbability: 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


256 PREFACE TO THE SECC.VD EDLTIOX.
fasicy Have been, cammed up. by a strict adherence
to common life. But if in the latter species Nature
ha3 cramped imagination, she did but take her
revenge, having been totally excluded from old
Romances. The actions, sentiments, conversations,
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 pos-
sible to reconcile the two kinds. Desirous of leaving
A^4he 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 observed, that in all inspired writings, the
personages under the dispensation of miracles, and
witnesses to the most stupendous phenomena, never
lose sight of their human character; whereas, in the
v productions of romantic story, an improbable event
- never fails to be attended 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 unequal 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,


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 257
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.
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. Tiie__gimplicity
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. IVly. 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 latter 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 reader 1
feels, while delayed by the coarse pleasantries of I
vulgar actors from arriving at the knowledge of the
important catastrophe he expects, 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 Csesar would not lose a considerable share of
R


258 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
their spirit and wonderful beauties, if the humour of
the gravediggers, the fooleries of Polonius, 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 exalted 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.
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 autho-
* The following remark is foreign to the present question, yet ex-
cusable in an Englishman, who is willing to think that the severe
criticisms of so masterly a writer as Voltaire on our immortal country-
man, 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 power of our language have been as incorrect and incom-
petent as his knowledge of our history? 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, forgetting 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!


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 259
rity, 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 judgment grows weaker, when it ought
to be further 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
nor decry Shakespeare's practice; consequently at a
moment when Voltaire was impartial. In the pre-
face 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 tragedy
is, as surely it ought to be, a picture of human life;
nor can I conceive why occasional pleasantry ought
more to be banished from the tragic scene, than
pathetic seriousness from the comic), " On y voit un
melaiige de serieux et de plaisanterie, de comique et de
touchanl; souvent meme une seule avanture produit
tons ces contrastes. Rien nest si commun qu'utie
maison dans laquelle un pere gronde, une fille occupee
de sa passion pleure; le fils se moque des deux, et
quelques parens prennent part dijferemment a la scene}
&c. Nous n'inferons pas de la que toute Comedie
doive avoir des scenes de boitffonerie et des scenes
attendrissantes: II y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pieces


26o PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
où il ne règne que de la gay eté; d'autres toutes
serieuses; D'autres melangées: d'autres où l'atten-
drissement va jusqu' aux larmes: Il ne faut donner
l'exclusion à aucun genre: et si loti me demandoit, quel
genre est le meilleur, je repondrois, 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 passages, 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 Maffei, 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 passage
in Maffei's Merope, Monsieur de Voltaire adds, " Tous
ces traits sont naif s: Tout y est convenable à ceux que
vous introdicisez sur la scene, et aux mœurs que vous
leur donnez. Ces familiarités naturelles eussent été à
ce que je crois, bien reçues dans Athènes; mais Paris et
notre parterre veulent une autre espèce de simplicité."


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 261
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 introducing
them, as the parterre of Paris. "On the contrary,"
says Voltaire (and I cannot but admire his reason-
ing), " there were but ten thousand citizens at Athens,
and Paris has near eight hundred thousand inhabi-
tants, among whom one may reckon thirty thou-
sand judges of dramatic works." Indeed! but
allowing so numerous a tribunal, I believe this is
the only instance in which it was ever pretended that
thirty thousand persons, living near two thousand
years after the era in question, were, upon the mere
face of the poll, declared 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
simplicity which the parterre of Paris demands, nor
of the shackles with which the thirty thousand
judges have cramped their poetry, the chief merit of
which, as I gather from repeated passages in the
New Commentary on Corneille, 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
nugce with a witness! I cannot, however, help


262 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
mentioning a couplet, which, to my English ears,
always sounded as the flattest and most trifling
instance of circumstantial propriety, but which
Voltaire, who has dealt so severely with nine parts
in ten of Corneille's works, has singled out to de-
fend in Racine:—
"De son appartement 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 Rosen-
crantz inform his compeer, Guildenstern, of the
ichnography of the palace of Copenhagen, instead
of presenting us 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 cannon of the brightest genius
this country, at least, has produced. I might have
pleaded, that having created a new species of
Romance, 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, however faintly,
weakly, and at a distance, so masterly a pattern,


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 263
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 public have
honoured it sufficiently, whatever rank their suffrages
allot to it.





THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 deli-
vered 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 family and neighbours. The former, indeed,
apprehending the severity of their Prince's disposi-
tion, did not dare to utter their surmises on this
precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady,
did sometimes venture to represent the danger of


266 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 dis-
courses. 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 be-
ginning 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.
The servant, who had not stayed 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 terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita,
without knowing what was the matter, but anxious
for her son, swooned away. Manfred, less appre-
hensive than enraged at the procrastination of the


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
267
nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked
imperiously what was the matter?
The fellow made no answer, but continued point-
ing towards the courtyard; and, at last, after re-
peated questions put to him, cried out—
"Oh! the helmet! the helmet!"
In the meantime, 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
himself to get information of what occasioned this
strange confusion. Matilda remained, endeavouring
to assist her mother; and Isabella stayed for the same
purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for
the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had con-
ceived little affection.
The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes, was a
group of his servants, endeavouring to raise some-
thing that appeared to him a mountain of sable
plumes. He gazed, without believing his 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 dread-
ing 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 enor-
mous 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


268 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 hel-
met. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the
hall, without receiving the least direction from Man-
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 Man-
fred's lips were—
"Take care of the Lady Isabella."
The domestics, without observing the singularity
of this direction, 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 269
been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who
returned that tenderness with equal duty and affec-
tion, 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 commiseration; and she was not sorry to be
delivered from a marriage which had promised her
little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or
from the severe temper of Manfred; who, 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? No-
body could give him the least information. However,
as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity,
it soon became so to the rest of the spectators,
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 neigh-
bouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet
/--


270 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 circumstance.
The young peasant himself was still more astonishedi
not conceiving how he had offended the Prince: yet
recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and
humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred's
gripe, and then with an obeisance which discovered
more jealousy of innocence, than dismay, 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 poniarded the
peasant in their arms.
During this altercation, some of the vulgar spec-
tators had run to the great church, which stood near
the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring
that the helmet was missing from Alfonso'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—


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 271
"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 discharge
their bewildered reasonings, caught the words from
the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed—
"Ay, ay; 'tis he! 'tis he! He has stolen the helmet
from good Alfonso's tomb, and dashed out the brains
of our young Prince with it!" never reflecting 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 prodigious a weight.
The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred
to himself: yet, whether provoked at the peasant
having observed the resemblance 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 certainly a necromancer, and that till the
church could take cognizance 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 preposterous sentence; in vain did Manfred's
friends endeavour to divert him from this savage


272 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were
charmed with their lord's decision, which, to their
apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as
the magician was to be punished by the very instru-
ment 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 cheerfully
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 meantime, the care and zeal of the young
ladies had brought the Princess Hippolita to herself,
who, amidst the transports of her own sorrow, fre-
quently demanded news of her lord, would have dis-
missed her attendants to watch over him, and at last
enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort
her father. Matilda, who wanted not affectionate
duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his
austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she
tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of
the domestics of her father, was informed that he
was retired to his chamber, and had commanded
that nobody should have admittance to him. Con-
cluding 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 273
whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet
solicitude for him, backed by the commands 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 chamber backwards and for-
wards 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 angrily who it was? Matilda
replied, trembling—
"My dearest father, it is I, your daughter."
Manfred stepping back hastily, 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 assured her he was well, and supported
his misfortune with manly fortitude.
"But will he not let me see him?" said Hippolita
mournfully, "will he not permit me to blend my
tears with his, and shed a mother's sorrows in the
bosom of her lord? or do you deceive me, Matilda?
S


274 THE CASTLE OF OTRASTO.
I know how Manfred coated 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 Hip-
polita's rising; and both those lovely young women
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 Hippolita, relieved 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 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 275
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 per-
haps 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 understanding. Her next thought sug-
gested that this strange discourse was designed to
ensnare her: she feared that Manfred had perceived
her indifference for his son; and in consequence 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 now be better disposed of. Instead of a


276 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 consented to give my hand to
your son: but until his return, permit me to remain
under your hospitable roof, and employ the melan-
choly 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 cannot give you my
son, I offer you myself."
"Heavens !" cried Isabella, waking from her delu-
sion, "what do I hear! You, my lord! You! My
father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of
the virtuous and tender Hippolita!"
"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 Isa-
bella, who was half dead with fright and horror. She
shrieked and 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 helmet, which rose


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 277
to the height of the windows, waving backwards and
forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accom-
panied with a hollow and rustling sound.
Isabella, who gathered 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
intentions!"
"Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs," said
Manfred, advancing again to seize the princess.
At that instant 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 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, distracted 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 after her, still
looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it
quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave
and melancholy air.
"Do I dream ?" cried Manfred, returning; "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 de-
scendant, who too dearly pays for"
Ere he could finish the sentence the vision sighed
again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.


278 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"Lead on!" cried Manfred; "I will follow thee to
the gulf of perdition."
The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, tp the
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 invisible 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 not satisfy my curiosity," said
Manfred, " I will use the human means in my power
for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape
me."
That lady, whose resolution had given way to
terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, con-
tinued 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 im-
petuosity 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 cir-
cumstance in her favour, if she could, for that night
at least, avoid his odious purpose. Yet, where


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 279
conceal 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 sacredness 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 staircase, and hurried towards the secret
passage.
The lower part of the castle was hollowed into
several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for
one, under so much anxiety, 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 V
she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty j <' ,
hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth )c^'.
of darkness. Every murmur 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 con-
cluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 anybody to her assistance. 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 ajar at some distance to the left, was opened
gently; but ere a lamp, which she held up, could
discover who opened it, the person retreated preci-
pitately on seeing the light.
Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to
dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her
dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other
terror. The very circumstance of the person avoid-
ing 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 reflections, 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 that met her at the door, extin-
guished her lamp and left her in total darkness.
Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 281
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 there-
abouts; all these thoughts crowded on her distracted
mind, and she was ready to sink under her appre-
hensions. She addressed herself to every saint in
heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. For
a considerable time she remained in an agony 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 appeared to have been crushed inwards. She
advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she
discerned a human form standing close against the
wall.
She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her be-
trothed Conrad. 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


282
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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
assist you? I will die in your defence; but I am
unacquainted with the castle, and want"
"Oh!" said Isabella, hastily interrupting him,
"help me but to find a trap-door that must be here-
about, 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 likewise, for a
smooth piece of brass enclosed 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 accomplice of my
flight, and you will fall a victim to his resentment."
"I value not my life," said the stranger, "and it
will 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 moonshine,
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 the key, she touched the
spring which, starting aside, discovered an iron
ring.
"Lift up the door," said the princess. The





I
•i I
'. t



WE MUST GO DOWN HERE.





THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 283
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. Nicholas.
But perhaps," added the princess modestly, "you
have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther
occasion for your service; in a few minutes I shall
be safe from Manfred's rage—only let me know to
whom I am so much obliged."
"I will never quit you," said the stranger eagerly,
"until I have placed you in safety—nor think me,
princess, more generous 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 the castle;
I will find her in spite of enchantment."
"O 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 servants with torches.
"It must be Isabella," cried Manfred, before he


284 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
entered the vault; she is escaping by this 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 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 dis-
culpate 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 accomplices!"
"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 enchanted
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.


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 285
"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 peasant; "I heard it
as well as you."
"What door ?" said Manfred 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 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 for-
feiting the other."
"Indeed! young philosopher!" said Manfred
contemptuously: "tell me, then, what was that noise
I heard?"
"Ask me what I can answer," said he, "and put
me to death instantly if I tell you a lie."


2*6 THE CASTLE OF OTRASTO.
Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour
and indifference of the youth, cried—
"Well then, thou man of truth I answer; was it
the fall of the trap-door that I heard?"
"I: 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 moon-
shine," 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.
"Providence 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 thee for a fool, who
did not know how to make use of its favours. 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, perhaps 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 im-
mediate arrival followed.' I had given the alarm—
what imported it to me whether I was seized a
minute sooner or a minute later?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 287
"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 dis-
position towards pardoning one who had been guilty
of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage
tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The
circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity
to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his
virtues were always ready to operate, when his pas-
sions 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 approached, he distinguished the
clamours of some of his domestics, 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?"


288 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"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," interrupted 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 new absurdity is this!" cried Manfred;
"give me a dinect answer, or by Heaven"
"Why, my lord, if it please your highness 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, answer; 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, according 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?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 289
"Oh! worse! worse! my lord," cried Diego; "I
had rather have seen ten whole ghosts."
"Grant me patience!" said Manfred; "these
blockheads distract me. Out of my sight, Diego!
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 cala-
mitous misfortune of my young lord—God rest his
precious soul!—not one of us, your highness's faithful
servants—indeed 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 high-
ness wanted something to impart to her."
"Oh blundering foois!" cried Manfred, "and in
the meantime 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; "am I 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 gallery."
"For Heaven's sake, my dear good lord," cried
T


290 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 faltered, 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 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 pictures in their places?" said
Manfred.
"Yes, my lord," answered 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 Jaquez, "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 foolhardy, 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, "saw nothing; I was
behind Diego; but I heard the noise."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 291
"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?"
"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 on end—it is a giant, I believe; he is all
clad in 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 pursued us. But, for
heaven's sake, good my lord, send for the chaplain,
and have the castle exorcised! for, for certain it is
enchanted."
"Ay, pray do, my lord," cried all the servants at
once, " or we must leave your highness's service."
"Peace, dotards!" said Manfred, "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."


292 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
The young peasant, who had stood silent, now
spoke.
"Will your highness," said he, "permit me to
try this adventure? my life is of consequence to
nobody: I fear no bad angel, and have offended no
good one."
"Your behaviour is above your seeming," said
Manfred, viewing him with surprise and admiration
—" hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,"
continued he, with a sigh, "I am so circumstanced,
that I dare trust no eyes but my own. However, I
give you leave to accompany 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 her 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?"
"Isabella, my lord!" said the astonished Hippolita.
"Yes! Isabella," 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," says Hippolita, "your daughter
tells you the truth; Isabella left us by your com-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 293
mand, 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 morning."
"What, then, you know where she is!" cried
Manfred: "Tell me directly, for I will not lose an
instant—and you, woman," speaking to his wife,
"order your chaplain to attend me forthwith."
"Isabella," said Hippolita calmly, "is retired, I
suppose, to her chamber: she is not accustomed to
watch at this late hour. Gracious my lord," con-
tinued she, "let me know what has disturbed you.
Has Isabella offended 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," replied 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 thunderstruck
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 accompany him. He
ascended the staircase without stopping, till he


294 'THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met
Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been
dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the
Princess's apartment with the alarm of what he had
seen. That excellent lady, who no more than
Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet
affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant.
Willing, however, to save her lord from any addi-
tional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs 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. Dismissing
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 chamber, 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 everything 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 returned
every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty,
he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes.
But not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one
against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 295
more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of his
heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity.
The next transition of his soul was to exquisite
villany. Presuming on the unshaken submission of
Hippolita, he flattered himself that she would not
only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would
obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to
persuade Isabella to give him her hand; but, ere he
could indulge this horrid hope, he reflected that
Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself,
he gave orders that every avenue to the castle
should be strictly guarded, and charged his domes-
tics, on pain of their lives, to suffer nobody to pass
out. The young peasant, to whom he spoke favour-
ably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on
the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the
key of which he took away himself, telling the youth
he would talk with him in the morning. Then,
dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen
kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own
chamber.


( 296 )
CHAPTER II.
Matilda, 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 surprised 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
filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She
waited anxiously 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 simple additions from the
incoherent accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt
principally on the gigantic leg and foot, which had
been seen in the gallery chamber. This last circum-
stance had terrified Bianca so much, that she was
rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not
go to rest, but would watch till the Princess should
rise.
The young princess wearied herself in conjectures


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 297
on the flight of Isabella, and on the threats of
Manfred to her mother.
"But what business could he have so urgent with
the chaplain?" said Matilda; "does he intend to
have my brother's body interred privately in the
chapel?"
"O madam," said Bianca, "now I guess. As
you are become his heiress, he is impatient to have
you married; he has always been raving for more
sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons.
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 Rossara 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 to
me? No, Bianca: his heart was ever a stranger to
me—but he is my father, and I must not complain.
Nay, if Heaven shuts my father's heart against me,
it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my
mother. Oh 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."
"O madam," said Bianca, "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."


298 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"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 I 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 neither
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 curtsey, and tell
him you would rather take the veil?"
"Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger," said
Matilda: "you know how many proposals for me he
has rejected."
"And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do
you, madam? But come, madam; suppose, to-
morrow morning, he was to send for you to the
great council-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 hero resem-
bling the picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery,
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 panel. The character of


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 299
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, somehow 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 almanac. If you must pray, why does
she not bid you address yourself to our great St.
Nicholas? 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 words that intimated as much."
"Oh dear madam," cried Biarita, "what were
they?"
"No," said Matilda; "if a parent lets fall a word,
and wishes it recalled, it is not for a child to
utter it."
"What I was she sorry for what she had said?"
asked Bianca; "I am sure, madam, you may trust
me."
"With my own little secrets, when I have any, I


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
chamber below—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 in
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 Matilda'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, indeed, madam," said Bianca.
"Thou art a very fool," said Matilda, opening the
window gently herself. The noise that the princess
made was, however, heard by the person beneath,
who stopped, and they concluded had heard the
casement open.
"Is anybody below?" said the princess; "if there
is, speak."
"Yes," said an unknown voice.
"Who is it?" said Matilda.
"A stranger," replied the voice.
"What stranger ?" said she, " and how didst thou


302 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 for-
saken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste
the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach
of morning, impatient to be 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 beneficent 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 remember
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 others, not for myself."
"Now I have it, madam!" said Bianca, 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 303
this young man's heart? He seems virtuous and
frank, and tells us he is unhappy: are those circum-
stances that authorise us to make a property of
him? how are we entitled to his confidence?"
"Lord! madam, how little you know of love!"
replied Bianca: "why, lovers have no pleasure equal
to talking of their mistress!"
"And would you have me become a peasant's
confidant?" said the princess.
"Well, then, let me talk to him," said Bianca;
"though I have the honour of being your highnesses
maid of honour, I was not always so great; besides,
if love levels ranks, it raises them too: I have a
respect 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 happened
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 within the compass of the Princess
Hippolita's power to redress, I will take upon me to
answer that she will be thy protectress. 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."


304 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"May the saints guard thee, gracious lady!"
replied the peasant; "but oh! if a poor and worth-
less stranger might presume to beg a minute's
audience farther—am I so happy? the casement 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, faltering, "yet the humanity 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 intrusted to a virtuous breast."
"I would ask," said the peasant, recollecting him-
self, "whether what I have heard from the domestics
is true, that the princess is missing from the castle?"
"What imports it to thee to know?" replied
Matilda. "Thy first words bespoke a prudent 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 sharpness, "if I had let thee
converse with this peasant: his inquisitiveness seems
of a piece with thy own."
"It is not fit for me to argue with your highness,"
replied Bianca; "but perhaps the questions I should
have put to him, would have been more to the


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 305
purpose than those you have been pleased to ask
him."
"Oh! no doubt," said Matilda: "you are a very
discreet personage t may I know what you would
have asked him?"
"A bystander 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 minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls
from the moon—so 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 purity," said Bianca, "gone she is
—a stranger is found that nobody knows; you
U


306 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 anybody un-
happy about another unless they are in love with
them? And at the very next word he asks, inno-
cently, 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, madam, but this stranger
may be some prince in disguise? Do, madam, let me
open the window, and ask him a few questions."
"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself: if
he knows aught of Isabella, he is not worthy that I
should converse farther 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 per-
suaded," said she to Bianca, "that whatever be the
cause of Isabella's flight, it had no unworthy motive.
If this stranger was accessary 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."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 307
"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 accompany-
ing her in her flight? why expose himself unneces-
sarily and rashly to my father's resentment?"
"As for that, madam," 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 everything into magic," said Ma-
tilda; "but a man who has 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 contrary, 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 incon-
sistent with the friendship between us, I cannot for-
get the disinterested warmth with which she always


308 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 told the princess that the
lady Isabella was found.
"Where?" said Matilda. "She has taken sanc-
tuary 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 inquire if she
knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning
her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to
speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause
of the friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed
by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be
admitted, intending to leave them together, while he
pursued his search after Isabella.
"Is your business with me or the Princess?" 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's!" said Manfred


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 309
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 highness's good liking, in the
presence of both I shall deliver it. But first, my
lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she is
acquainted with the cause of the lady Isabella's
retirement from your castle."
"No, on my soul," said Hippolita; "does Isabella
charge me with being privy to it?"
"Father," interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reve-
rence to your holy profession; 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 headstrong passions. 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
countenance declared her astonishment and impa-
tience to know where this would end; her silence
more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.


3io THE CASTLE OF 0TRANT0.
"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 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 for her 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;
"Isabella's conduct leaves room for strange sus-
picions— 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 311
uncharitable surmises," said Jerome, "if your high-
ness were not satisfied in your conscience how
unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to 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 parent'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 forbade 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. Attend
the Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my
oratory, and pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire
you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart
of my gracious lord to its wonted peace and
gentleness."
f


THE CASTLE OF OTRAKTD.
"Excellent woman!" said the friar. 'My lord. I
attend your pleasure."
Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his
own apartment, where, shutting the door—
"I perceive, father," said he, "that Isabella has
acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear m--
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 vair to
expect an heir from Hippolita. 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 dissolution 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 destruction. 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 repose
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 thee, Prince, of thy unwarrantable
designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have
mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 313
reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repu-
diating her; by me thou art warned not to pursue
the 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 allurements with which it has
pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I love my
order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of
thy Princess; but I will not betray the confidence
she reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of
religion by foul and sinful compliances. But, for-
sooth, the welfare of the state depends on your
highness having a son. Heaven mocks the short-
sighted views of man. But yester-morn, 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 Heaven,
towards the welfare of thy subjects, than a marriage
which, founded on lust or policy, could never pro-
sper. The sceptre, which passed from the race of
Alfonso to thine, cannot be preserved 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
deserve a crown that can never pass away. Come,
my lord, I like this sorrow; let us return to the


314 THE CASTLE OF OTRASTO.
Princess. She is not apprised of your cruel inten-
tions; 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 assure you of her unalterable affection."
"Father," said the Prince, "you mistake my com-
punction. True, I honour Hippolita'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 con-
tracted 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; dis-
solve our marriage, and accomplish the work of
godliness which your divine exhortations have com-
menced in my soul."
How cutting was the anguish which the good man
felt when he perceived this turn in the wily Prince!
lie 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 absorbed in thought. At length, conceiving
some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest con-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 315
duct 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
addresses, 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 motive of your repugnance
to your virtuous lady, far be it from me to endeavour
to harden your heart. The Church is an indulgent
mother; unfold your griefs to her; she alone can
administer comfort to your soul, either by satisfying
your conscience, or, upon examination of your scru-
ples, by setting you at liberty, and indulging you in
the lawful means of continuing 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 over-
joyed 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 determined 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


316 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
flight. Tell me truly—is he her lover? or is he an
agent for another's passion? I have often suspected
Isabella's indifference to my son; a thousand cir-
cumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that
suspicion. She herself was so conscious of it, that
while I discoursed her in the gallery, she outran my
suspicions, and endeavoured to justify herself from
coolness to Conrad."
The friar, who knew nothing of the youth but
what he had learned occasionally from the princess,
ignorant what was become of him, and not suffi-
ciently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred's
temper, conceived that it might not be amiss to sow
the seeds of jealousy in his mind. They might be
turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing
the Prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that
union; or, by diverting his attention to a wrong
scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary
intrigue, prevent 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 com-
mand 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 317
boasted veracity now? It was Providence, was it,
and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock
of the trap-door to thee? Tell me, audacious boy,
who thou art, and how long thou hast been ac-
quainted 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 concluding
that anything 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 falsehood. 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 labourer 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."


3'8
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"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 dis-
pleasure?"
"I fear no man's displeasure," said Theodore,
"when a woman in distress puts herself under my
protection."
During this examination, Matilda was going to
the apartment of Hippolita. At the upper end of
the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded 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 distinctly,
interested her in his favour. His person was noble,
handsome, and commanding, even in that situation;
but his countenance 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
insolence. Thou shalt experience the wrath with
which thou darest to trifle. Seize him," continued
Manfred, "and bind him—the first news the princess


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 319
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 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 already,"
said the youth, "for the truth I have told thee. If
that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sin-
cerity, 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 courtyard," said Man-
fred; "I will see his head this instant severed from
his body."
Matilda fainted at hearing those 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,


THE CASTLE OF QTRAXTQ.
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, bade
Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the
fatal blow.
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence
with a resignation that touched every heart but Man-
fred's. He wished 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 make his peace with Heaven. Manfred, who
hoped by the confessor's means to come at the
youth's history, readily granted 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
catastrophe 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 indiscre-
tion, endeavoured to exculpate the youth, and left
no method untried to soften the tyrant's rage. Man-
fred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's inter-
cession, whose retraction now made him suspect he
had been imposed upon by both, commanded the
friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow
the prisoner many minutes for confession.
"Nor do I ask many, my lord," said the unhappy
young man. "My sins, thank Heaven, have not been
numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 321
my years. Dry your tears, good father, and let us
despatch. 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 con-
fession, 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 canst thou forgive
that impious man there?"
"I can," said Theodore; "I do."
"And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?"
said the friar.
"I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred
sternly; "not to plead for him. Thou didst first in-
cense 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 blessed youth is going!"
"Despatch!" 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 possible 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 moment is thy
last."
X
s


322 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who
was touched with the sorrow which he saw he had
infused into all the spectators, as well as into the
friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his
doublet, and unbuttoning 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!"
The 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. Surprise, doubt,
tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the
countenance 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 passed the inflexibility of
Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards 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 forbade his owning himself affected. He even
doubted whether this discovery was not a contriv-
ance of the friar to save the youth.
"What may this mean?" said he. "How can he
be thy son? Is it consistent with thy profession or
reputed sanctity to avow a peasant's offspring for
the fruit of thy irregular amours?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"O God!" said the holy man, "dost thou ques-
tion his being mine? could I feel the anguish I
do if I were not his father? Spare him, good Prince!
spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest."
"Spare him, spare him!" cried the attendants,
"for this good man's sake!"
"Peace!" said Manfred sternly; "I must know,
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 venerable man's son, though
no prince, as thou art, know, the blood that flows in
my veins"
"Yes," said the friar, interrupting 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 Fal-
conara. 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 whither we
must return."
"Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you for-
get you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count
of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will
have time enough to moralise hereafter, if you should
not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy
criminal there."
"Mother of God!" said the friar, "is it possible
my lord can refuse a father 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!"


324 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it
is to lose an only son! A little hour ago thou
didst preach up resignation to me. My house, if
fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Fal-
conara" .
"Alas, my lord!" said Jerome, " I confess I have
offended; but aggravate not an old man's sufferings!
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 fall on me."
Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of
the youth; and ere Manfred could reply, the tramp-
ling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet,


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 325
which hung without the gate of the castle, was
suddenly sounded. At the same instant the sable
plumes on the enchanted helmet, which stiil remained
at the other end of the court, were tempestuously-
agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some
invisible wearer.


( 326 )
CHAPTER III.
Manfred'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 ministers. 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 Manfred; "but inquire who is
without!"
Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged
a flood of tears, that spoke the fulness of his soul.


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 327
"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 styled usurper,
his rage rekindled, 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 myself. 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?"
"Heaven," replied Manfred, " does not send heralds
to question the title of a lawful prince—I doubt
whether it even notifies its will through friars—but
that is your affair, not mine. At present you know


328 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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
commanded 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 permit-
ting the father and son to exchange a hasty embrace
at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and seat-
ing himself in princely state, ordered the herald to
be admitted 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 principality 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 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 Manfred.
"At the distance of a league," said the herald;
"he comes to make good his lord's claim against


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 329
thee, as he is a true knight, and thou a 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 style of Princes
of Otranto from the death of Alfonso the Good with-
out 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
childbed of Isabella. Her death affected him so
much, that he had taken the cross and gone to the
Holy Land, where he was wounded in an engage-
ment 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 co-operated to make him so suddenly
resolved on espousing her himself; and the same
reflection determined him now to endeavour at
obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage.
A like policy inspired him with the thought of in-
viting Frederic'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


330 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. -
these reflections, "return to thy master, and tell
him, ere we liquidate 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 reception,
and full security for himself and followers. If we
cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I
swear he shall depart 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 per-
suade 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 sub-
mission to the will of her lord; and though he did
not doubt but he could alarm her piety not to con-
sent 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 imputed to him. He returned discon-
solately 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 CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 331
The holy man started and cried, " What meanest
thou, brother? I came 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 attach-
ment to that good lady, and are anxious for the
affliction it will cause 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 hers!"
"Good brother, thou 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 com-
fort; I reminded her of the transitory condition of
mortality, and advised her to take the veil. I
quoted the example of the holy Princess Sanchia of
Arragon."
"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 contrary—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


princess, hut she was not in her chamber. He
incut re.1 if the lamest:cs of the qiiivent, but could
learn no aews af hen. He searched, in ram through-
out the monastery and. the church, and despatched
messengers round the neighhaurhaod, to get imjeili-
jence if she had been seen.: but to no purpose,
Nothing 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 hrreeif to some more secret
place of concealment. This new flight would pro-
bably carry the Princes fury to the height The
report of Hippolita's death, though it seemed almost
incredible, increased his consternation; and though
Isabella's escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred
for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it,
while it endangered the life of his son. He deter-
mined to return to the.castle, and made several of
hi* brethren accompany him, to attest his innocence
to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercessions
with his for Theodore.
The. Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the
court, and ordered the gates of the castle to be flung
open for the reception 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,
clothed in scarlet and black, the colours of the
knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds on each
of a gentleman on horseback bearing a banner,


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 333
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, comrades
to the principal knight. The squires of the two
knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
knight's own squire. An hundred gentlemen bear-
ing an enormous sword, and seeming to faint under
the weight of it. The knight himself on a chestnut
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 trum-
pets, closed the procession, which wheeled off to the
right and left, to make room for the principal 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
agitated in the same extraordinary manner as before.
It required intrepidity like Manfred's not to sink
under a concurrence 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 wel-
come. If thou art of mortal mould, thy valour shall


334 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 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 shall 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 accommodation of your train, and return to you."
The three knights bowed, as accepting his courtesy.
Manfred directed the stranger's retinue to be con-
ducted to an adjacent hospital, founded by the
Princess Hippolita for the reception of pilgrims. As
they made the circuit of the court to return towards
the gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters,


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 335
and falling to the ground opposite to the helmet,
remained immovable. Manfred, almost hardened to
preternatural appearances, surmounted the shock of
this new prodigy, and returning to the hall, where by
this time the feast was ready, he invited his silent
guests to take their places. Manfred, however ill
his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the
company with mirth. He put several questions to
them, but was answered only by signs. They raised
their vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and
that but sparingly.
"Sirs," said the Prince, "ye are the first guests I
ever treated within these walls who scorned to hold
any intercourse with me; nor has it oft been cus-
tomary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and
dignity against strangers and mutes. You say you
come in the name of Frederic of Vicenza; I have
ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous knight;
nor would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him
to mix in social converse with a prince who is his
equal, and not unknown by deeds in arms. Still ye
are silent. Well, be it as it may; by the laws of
hospitality and chivalry ye are masters of this roof.
Ye shall do your pleasure—but come, give me a
goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to pledge me to
the healths of your fair mistresses."
The principal knight sighed and crossed himself,
and was rising from the board.
"Sir Knight," said Manfred, "what I said was but
in sport; I shall constrain you in nothing; use your
good liking. Since mirth is not your mood, let us
be sad. Business may hit your fancies better; let


33«
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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:—
"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 require me to resign
my dominions to your lord, who gives himself 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 principality of Otranto from my
father Don Manuel, as he received it from his father
Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying
childless in the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to
my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration of his
faithful services."
The stranger shook his head.
"Sir Knight," said Manfred warmly, "Ricardo
was a valiant and upright man; he was a pious man;
—witness his munificent foundation of the adjoin-
ing church and two convents. He was peculiarly
patronised by St. Nicholas—my grandfather was
incapable—I say, sir, Don Ricardo was incapable—
excuse me, your interruption has disordered me. I
venerate the memory of my grandfather. Well! sirs,
he held this estate; he held it by his good sword, and


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 337
by the favour of St. Nicholas so did my father,
and so, sirs, will I, come what come will. But
Frederic, your lord, is nearest in blood—I have con-
sented 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 sup-
pose yourselves 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 ques-
tion? But to the point. Ye require me to deliver
up the Lady Isabella—sirs, I must ask if ye are
authorised to receive her?"
The knight nodded.
"Receive her," continued Manfred; "well, you are
authorised to 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.
Y


338 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"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 bloodshed.
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 greatness have no
longer any charms in my eyes. I wished to transmit
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 sub-
mit; 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 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 nothing 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
materials. If I were ambitious, I should not for
so many years have been a prey to all the hell of


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 339
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 Princess
Hippolita. Oh, sirs, if ye were acquainted with that
excellent 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
definitive 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.
Manfred continued—
"The death of my son betiding while my soul was
under this anxiety, I thought of nothing but resign-
ing my dominions, and retiring for ever from the
sight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on
a successor, who would be 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, pardon 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 Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality
of Otranto? If he would not, could I bear the


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
thought of seeing a hard unfeeling 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 these difficulties and my
misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall
soon be so—I would submit to anything 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 virtues will ever be
dear to me, a Prince must not consider himself; he
is born for his people."
A servant at that instant entering the chamber,
apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of his
brethren demanded immediate access to him.
The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and
fearing that the friar would discover to the strangers
that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going to
forbid Jerome's entrance; but, recollecting that he
was certainly arrived to notify the princess's return,
Manfred began to excuse himself to the knights for
leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented
by the arrival of the friars. Manfred angrily repri-
manded them for their intrusion, and would have
forced them back from the chamber; but Jerome
was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared
aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of his
own innocence. Manfred, distracted at the news,
and not less at its coming to the knowledge of the
strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences,


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 341
now upbraiding the friar, now apologising to the
knights; earnest to know what was become of
Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing;
impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them
join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch mes-
sengers in quest of her; but the chief knight, no
longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter
terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and
demanded the cause of Isabella's first absence from
the castle. Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome,
implying a command of silence, pretended that on
Conrad's death he had placed her in a sanctuary
until he could determine how to dispose of her.
Jerome, who trembled for his son's life, did not dare
contradict this falsehood; but one of his brethren,
not under the same anxiety, declared frankly that
she had fled to their church in the preceding night.
The Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this dis-
covery, which overwhelmed him with shame and
confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the
contradictions he heard, and more than half per-
suaded that Manfred had secreted the princess,
notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her
flight, rushing to the door, said—
"Thou traitor Prince, Isabella 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
attendants. Manfred, finding it 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 OF OTRANTO. 343
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 waste a
thought on a wretch like Theodore? let us fly to-
gether. The life thou bestowest shall be dedicated
to thy defence."
"Alas, thou mistakest," said Matilda, sighing; "I
am Manfred's daughter, but no dangers await me."
"Amazement!" said Theodore; "but last night
I blessed myself for yielding thee the service thy
gracious compassion so charitably returns me now."
"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 tremble."
"How?" said Theodore; "thinkest thou, charm-
ing maid, that I will accept of life at the hazard
of aught calamitous 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 wait,
whatever can befall 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."


344 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"Forbear," said the princess, " this must not be."
"Alas," said Theodore, "I have never known but
calamity until this hour—perhaps shall never know
other fortune again. Suffer the chaste raptures of
holy gratitude. 'Tis my soul would print its effu-
sions on thy hand."
"Forbear, and begone," said Matilda; "how would
Isabella approve of seeing thee at my feet?"
"Who is Isabella?" said the young man with
surprise.
"Ah me! I fear," said the princess, "I am serving
a deceitful one! hast thou forgot thy curiosity this
morning?"
"Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self,
seem an emanation of divinity," said Theodore;
"but thy words are dark and mysterious—speak,
lady, speak to thy servant's comprehension."
"Thou understandest but too well," said Matilda;
"but once more, I command thee to begone. Thy
blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head,
if I waste the time in vain discourse."
"I go, lady," said Theodore, "because it is thy
will, and because I would not bring the grey hairs
of my father with sorrow to the grave. Say but,
adored lady, that I have thy gentle pity."
"Stay," said Matilda, " I will conduct thee to the
subterraneous vault by which Isabella escaped; it
will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas, where
thou mayest take sanctuary."
"What!" said Theodore, "was it another, and not
thy lovely self, that I assisted to find the subter-
raneous passage?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 345
"It was," said Matilda; "but ask no more. I
tremble to see thee still abide here. Fly 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
appearance of it. Give me a sword, lady, and thy
father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious
flight."
"Rash youth," said Matilda, "thou wouldst not
dare to lift thy presumptuous arm against the Prince
of Otranto?"
"Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not," said
Theodore. "Excuse 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 Heaven! we are overheard I" said the
princess. They listened, but perceived no further
noise; they both concluded it the effect of pent-up
vapours; and the princess, preceding Theodore
softly, carried him to her father's armoury, where,
equipping him with a complete suit, he was con-
ducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.
"Avoid the town," said the princess, "and all the
western side of the castle. It is 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


346 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
into a labyrinth of caverns 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 I Heaven be thy guide!—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 per-
mission to swear himself eternally her knight. Ere
the princess could reply, a clap of thunder was
suddenly heard, that shook the battlements. Theo-
dore, regardless of the tempest, would have urged
his suit; but the princess, dismayed, retreated has-
tily into the castle, and commanded the youth to
begone, 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 Isabella, with some
particulars of whose story he now first became
acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature
prompted him to wish to assist her; but the monks
could lend him no lights to guess at the route she
had taken. He was not tempted to wander far in
search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted
itself so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear


THE CASTLE OF O THAN TO. 347
to absent himself at much distance from her abode.
The tenderness Jerome had expressed for him con-
curred to confirm this reluctance; and he even per-
suaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause
of his hovering between the castle and monastery,
until Jerome should return at night. Theodore at
length determined to repair to the forest that Matilda
had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought
the gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing
melancholy that reigned in his mind. In this mood
he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly
served as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported
round the country to be haunted by evil spirits. He
recollected to have heard this tradition; and being
of a brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly
indulged his curiosity in exploring the secret recesses
of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far before
he thought he heard the steps of some person who
seemed to retreat before him. Theodore, though
firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be
believed, had no apprehension that good men were
abandoned without cause to the malice of the powers
of darkness. He thought the place more likely 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 mistaken, redoubled his pace, and evi-


• 348 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
dently gained on the person that fled, whose haste
increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell
breathless before him. He hasted 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 defend her at the peril of his life-
The lady, recovering her spirits from his courteous
demeanour, and gazing on her protector, said—
"Sure, I have heard that voice before!"
"Not to my knowledge," replied Theodore, " unless,
as I conjecture, thou art the Lady Isabella."
"Merciful Heaven!" cried she, "thou art not sent
in quest of me, art thou?" and saying these words,
she threw herself at his feet, and besought him not
to deliver her up to Manfred.
"To Manfred!" cried Theodore; "no, lady, I
have once already delivered thee from his tyranny,
and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will 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 thyself 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."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 349
"Alas, 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 accompany you alone in these perplexed
retreats? Should we 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," continued he, drawing
a deep sigh, "beauteous and all perfect as your form
is, and though my wishes are not guiltless of aspir-
ing, know, my soul is dedicated to another; and
although" a sudden noise prevented Theodore
from proceeding. They soon distinguished these
sounds, " Isabella! what ho! Isabella!"
The trembling princess relapsed into her former
agony of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage
her, but in vain. He assured her he would rather
die than suffer her to return under Manfred's
power, and begging her to remain concealed, he
went forth to prevent the person in search of her
from approaching.
At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed
knight, discoursing 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.


350 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"And who art thou who darest to cross my
way?" said the knight haughtily.
"One who does not dare more than he will per-
form," 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 provoked
my resentment."
"Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is
contemptible," said Theodore. "Return whence
thou eamest, or we shall soon know whose resent-
ment is most terrible."
The stranger, who was the principal knight that
had arrived from the Marquis of Vicenza, had
galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting
information of the princess, and giving various
orders to prevent her falling into the power of the
three knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred
of being privy to the princess's absconding ; and this
insult from a man who, he concluded, was stationed
by that Prince to secrete her, confirming his sus-
picions, he made no reply, but discharging a blow
with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have re-
moved all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him
for one of Manfred's captains, and who had no
sooner given the provocation than he 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 combat
was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 351
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
pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the knight
fell, whom they soon discovered to be the noble
stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding his hatred to
Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained
without emotions of pity and generosity; but he was
more touched when he learned the quality of his
adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer,
but an enemy of Manfred. He assisted the servants
of the latter in disarming the knight, and in endea-
vouring to staunch the blood that flowed from his
wounds. The knight recovering his speech, said, in
a faint and faltering 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? Andrea, 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 unfortu-
nate 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,
,-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 353
to the tyrant? If he goes thither I cannot accom-
pany 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—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 expense of his
life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be con-
ducted 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 Isabella, who
could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully
behind.
z


( 354 )
CHAPTER IV.
THE sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle
than they were met by Hippolita and Matilda, to
whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics before
to advertise of their approach. The ladies causing
Frederic to be conveyed into the nearest chamber,
retired, while the surgeons examined his wounds.
Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella
together, but endeavoured to conceal it by embrac-
ing the latter, and condoling with her on her father's
mischance. The surgeons soon came to acquaint
Hippolita that none of the Marquis's wounds were
dangerous; and that he was desirous of seeing his
daughter and the princesses. Theodore, under pre-
tence of expressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic,
could not resist the impulse of following Matilda.
Her eyes were so often cast down on meeting his,
that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively
as he gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object
was that he had told her in the cave engaged his
affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita
demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken
that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter;
and threw in various apologies to excuse her lord


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 355
for the match contracted between their children.
Frederic, however, incensed against Manfred, was
not insensible to the courtesy and benevolence of
Hippolita; but he was still more struck with the
lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them
by his bedside, he informed Hippolita of his story.
He told her, that while prisoner to the infidel, 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 mis-
fortunes; 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 liberty, 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 evening of the
third they came to a cell, in which they found a
venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying
rich cordials, 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—
3'et I die with the satisfaction of performing the will
of Heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude,
after seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers
—it is, alas! above fifty years since I was witness to


356 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
that dreadful scene !—St. Nicholas appeared to me,
and revealed a secret which he bade me never dis-
close 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 ordered 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 Frederic, " when we
had committed the holy relics to earth, we dug
according to direction; but what was our astonish-
ment, 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 following lines No;
excuse me, madam," added the Marquis, turning to
Hippolita, "if I forbear to repeat them. I respect
your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offend-
ing 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 Matilda,
a silent tear stole down her cheek; but recollecting
herself, she said—
"Proceed, my lord—Heaven does nothing in vain
—Mortals must receive its divine behests with lowli-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 357
ness and submission. It is our part to deprecate its
wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence
my lord; we listen resigned."
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 faltering and
low voice, the following lines:—
"Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compassed 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 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 dic-
tated by his sentiments for Matilda, "discompose
not yourself for the glosing 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 zeal; and changing the conversa-


358
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
tion, demanded of Frederic where he had left her
lord? As the Marquis was going to reply, 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 circumstances of the
combat; when, starting in an agony of terror 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, Hippolita? Is this ghastly phantom
sent to me alone? To me, who did not"
"For mercy's sweetest self, my lord," said Hip-
polita, "resume your soul—command your reason.
There are none here, but us, your friends."
"What, is not that Alfonso?" 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 strik-
ing his forehead—" Theodore, or a phantom, he has
unhinged the soul of Manfred. But how comes he
here?—and how comes he in armour?"
"I believe he went in search of Isabella," said
Hippolita.


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 359
"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 hypocritical 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 comprehend 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 ungrateful 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?" added he,
laying his sword respectfully 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 CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
The grace and fervour with which Theodore
uttered these words, interested every person present
in his favour. Even Manfred was touched; yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his ad-
miration was dashed with secret horror.
"Rise," said he, " thy life is not my present pur-
pose. But tell me thy history, and how thou carnest
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, 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, "she
bound a writing about my arm, under my garments,
which told me I was the son of the Count Fal-
conara."
"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 cruises, I was delivered by a Christian
vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discover-
ing myself to the captain, he generously put me on


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
361
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 religion in
the kingdom of Naples; but where, no man could
inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost
of attaining the transport of a parent's embrace, I
took the first opportunity 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 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 approbation 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 frankness 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


362 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
recently traced itself to its source.—Come, my lord,"
turning to Manfred, " 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 his
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 con-
ducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theo-
dore, 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 occu-
pied with their own reflections, and too little content
with each other, to wish for farther converse that
night. They separated, each to her chamber, with
more expressions of ceremony, and fewer of affection,
than had passed between them since their child-
hood.
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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 363
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
the truth, lest she should wrong her friend by enter-
taining a passion for Isabella's lover. Thus jealousy
prompted, and at the same borrowed an excuse from
friendship to justify its curiosity.
Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation
for her suspicions. Both Theodore's tongue and
eyes had told her his heart was engaged—it was
true—yet perhaps Matilda might not correspond to
his passion—she had ever appeared insensible to
love. All her thoughts were set on heaven.
"Why did I dissuade her?" said Isabella to
herself. "I am punished for my generosity.—But
when did they meet ?—Where ?—It cannot be. I
have deceived myself—perhaps last night was the
first time they ever beheld each other—it must be
some other object that has prepossessed his affec-
tions. If it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought;
if it is not my friend Matilda.—How! can I stoop
to wish for the affection of a man who rudely and
unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference?
and that at the very moment in which common
courtesy demanded at least expressions of civility?
I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me
in this becoming pride—Man is false—I will advise


364 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
with her on taking the veil. She will rejoice to
find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her
that I no longer oppose her inclination for the
cloister."
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 confidence
she had purposed to place in her friend. They
blushed 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, indif-
ferent to the rest.
Matilda blushed, and stammered,
"My father—he was sitting in judgment on a
criminal."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 365
"What criminal ?" said Isabella eagerly.
"A young man," said Matilda—" I believe—I
think it was that young man that"
"What, Theodore ?" said Isabella.
"Yes," answered she; "I never saw him before; 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?" replied Isabella; "do you term it
serving 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 tender-
ness 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 friend-
ship 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 Isabella 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! I am mistaken, or he returns your charity."


366 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"What mean 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 you not 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 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 anything 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 yours."
This frankness drew tears from the gentle Ma-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 367
tilda; and jealousy, that for a moment had raised a
coolness between 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 insist-
ing 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 pas-
sion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.
During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered
her daughter'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," con-
tinued 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 houses. With
this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord;
to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic, your
father."
"Me to Lord Frederic!" cried Matilda; "good
heavens! my gracious mother. And have you
named it to my father?"


368 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"I have," said Hippolita. "He listened benignly
to my proposal, and is gone to break it to the
Marquis."
"Ah, wretched Princess!" cried Isabella, "what
hast thou done? what ruin has thy inadvertent
goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for
Matilda?"
"Ruin from me to you and to my child!" said
Hippolita; "what can this mean?"
"Alas!" said Isabella, "the purity of your own
heart prevents your seeing the depravity of others.
Manfred, your lord, that impious man"
"Hold," said Hippolita, "you must not in my
presence, young lady, mention Manfred with dis-
respect; he is my lord and husband, and"
"Will not long be so," said Isabella, "if his wicked
purposes can be carried into execution."
"This language amazes me," said Hippolita.
"Your feeling, Isabella, is warm; but until this
hour I never knew it betray you into temperance.
What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him
as a murderer, an assassin?"
"Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!"
replied Isabella; "it is not thy life he aims at—
it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce
thee!"
"To divorce me!"—"To divorce my mother!"
cried Hippolita 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.


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 369
Hippolita was silent. Grief choked 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. O 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, "andyou are virtuous,you are guiltless!—
Oh, must not I, must not I complain?"
"You must not," said Hippolita—" Come, all will
be well. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy
brother, knew not what he said; perhaps Isabella
misunderstood 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 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 neighbour-
ing 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
2 A


370 THE CASTLE OF 0TRANT0.
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 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 speech-
less tears—" but no; answer me not, my daughter;
I must not hear a word against the pleasure of thy
father."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 371
"Oh, 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 con-
ceal 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!" 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!"
"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?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"Not pity my child!" said Hippolita, catching
Matilda in her arms. "Oh! I know she is good, she
is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty. I do forgive
thee, my excellent, my only hope!"
The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their
mutual inclination for Theodore, and the purpose
of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita
blamed their imprudence, and showed 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
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 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 inten-
tion. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to for-
bear.—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."


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
"Do not deceive me," said Matilda. "I will not
marry Frederic until thou commandest it.— Alas,
what will become of me?"
"Why that exclamation?" 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 recall 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 tenderness, 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 oft urged Manfred to resign the
principality, which the delicacy 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 overnight, had ques-
tioned Theodore severely why he had accused him
to Manfred of being privy to his escape. Theodore
owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred's
suspicion from alighting on Matilda; and added, the


374 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
holiness of Jerome's life and character 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 con-
quering his passion. Theodore, 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 prior's
reasons, and less disposition to obey them. The
lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on
them 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 commands to attend him at Alfonso's
tomb.
"Young man," said Jerome, when he saw him,
"this tardiness does not please me. Have a father's
commands already so little weight?" Theodore
made awkward excuses, and attributed 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 375
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 Theodore.
"The fair Matilda has virtues enough—to undo
thee," interrupted Jerome. "Hast thou so soon for-
gotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced
thy sentence?"
"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 the
good Alfonso; a prince adorned with every virtue;
the father of his people, the delight of mankind:
Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father
unfolds a tale of horror, that will expel every senti-
ment from thy soul but sensations of sacred ven-
geance—Alfonso, much injured prince, let thy un-
satisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while
these trembling lips—ha! who comes there?"
"The most wretched 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 377
her readiness not to oppose the separation, and
demanded his opinion on the legality of her acqui-
escence. The friar catched eagerly at her request of
his advice, and without explaining his aversion to
the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he
painted to Hippolita, in the most alarming colours,
the sinfulness of her consent, denounced judgments
against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the
severest terms to treat any such proposition with
every mark of indignation and refusal.
Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose
to Frederic, 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 Manfred, 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 Matilda. He made faint
opposition to the proposal; affecting, for form only,
not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should consent
to the divorce. Manfred took that upon himself.
Transported 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 indignation that she
was absent at the convent. His guilt suggested to
him that she had probably been informed by Isabella
of his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement
to the convent did not import an intention of


373
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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 inspired Hippolita with the resolution of taking
sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this clue, and to
defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent,
and arrived there as the friar was earnestly exhort-
ing 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 came to implore a blessing on your councils,"
replied Hippolita.
"My councils do not need a friar's interven-
tion," said Manfred; "and of all men living is that
hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to
confer with?"
"Profane Prince I" said Jerome; "is it at the altar
thou choosest to insult the servants of the altar?
—but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are known.
Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—Nay,
frown not, Prince; the Church despises thy menaces.
Her thunders will be heard above thy wrath. Dare to
proceed in thy curst purpose of a divorce, until her
sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema
at thy head."
"Audacious rebel!" said Manfred, endeavouring
to conceal the awe with which the friar's words
inspired him; "dost thou presume to threaten thy
lawful prince?"


( 3«i )
CHAPTER V.
EVERY reflection which Manfred made on the friar's
behaviour, conspired to persuade him that Jerome
was privy to an amour between Isabella and Theo-
dore. But Jerome's new presumption, so dissonant
from his former meekness, suggested still deeper
apprehensions: the Prince even suspected that the
friar depended on some secret support from Frederic,
whose arrival coinciding with the novel appearance
of Theodore, seemed to bespeak a correspondence.
Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of
Theodore to Alfonso's portrait. The latter he knew
had unquestionably died without issue. Frederic
had consented to bestow Isabella on him. These
contradictions agitated his mind with numberless
pangs. He saw but two methods of extricating him-
self from his difficulties. The one was to resign his
dominions to the Marquis. Pride, ambition, and his
reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed
out a possibility of his preserving them to his
posterity, combated that thought. The other was to
press his marriage with Isabella. After long rumi-
nating on these anxious thoughts, as he marched
silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last dis-


3S2
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
coursed with that princess on the subject of his
disquiet, and used every insinuating and plausible
argument to extract her consent to, even her promise
of promoting the divorce. Hippolita needed little
persuasions to bend her to his pleasure. She en-
deavoured to win him over to the measure of resign-
ing his dominions; but finding her exhortations
fruitless, she assured him, that as far as her con-
science would allow, she would raise no opposition
to a separation, though without better founded
scruples than what he yet alleged, 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 resolved to engage Frederic to
take a journey on purpose. That prince had dis-
covered 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 gained, until he could take
further measures for his security.
Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he re-
paired to that of the Marquis; but crossing the great
hall through which he was to pass, he met Bianca.
The damsel he knew was in the confidence of both
the young ladies. It immediately occurred to him to
sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore.
Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel window


3S4
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
if it should ever be known that I said it why,
truth is truth, I do not think my lady Isabella ever
much affectioned my young lord your son—yet he
was a sweet youth as one should see. I am sure, if
I had been a princess—but bless me! I must attend
my lady Matilda; she will marvel what is become of
me."
"Stay," cried Manfred, " thou hast not satisfied my
question. Hast thou ever carried any message, any
letter?"
"I! good gracious!" cried Bianca; "I carry a
letter! I would not to be a queen. I hope your
highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest.
Did your highness never hear what Count Marsigli
offered me, when he came a-wooing to my lady
Matilda?"
"I have not leisure," said Manfred, "to listen to
thy tales. I do not question thy honesty; but it is
thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How long
has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?"
"Nay, there is nothing can escape your high-
ness!" said Bianca; "not that I know anything of
the matter. Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young
man, and, as my lady Matilda says, the very image
of good Alfonso; has not your 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 Isa-
bella first become acquainted with this Theodore?"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 385
"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 companion. Wait at the foot
of the winding staircase; I am going to visit the
Marquis, and will talk farther with thee at my
return."
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
-
2 B


386
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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.
"O 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 Francesco! this
comes of ambition!"
"What has terrified thee thus, young woman?"
said the Marquis. "Thou art safe here; be not
alarmed."
"Oh! your greatness is wonderfully good," said
Bianca, " but I dare not—no, pray let me go—I had
rather leave everything 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 im-
portant matters. My lord, this wench is subject to
fits. Come with me, Bianca."
"Oh! the saints! no," said Bianca; "for certain
it comes to warn your highness; why should it
appear to me else; I say my prayers morning and
evening. Oh! if your highness had believed Diego
—'tis the same hand that he saw the foot to in
the gallery-chamber. Father Jerome has often told
us the prophecy would be out one of these days.
'Bianca,' said he, 'mark my words'"


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 391
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 chamber, 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.
Soon as the company were dispersed their several
ways, Frederic, quitting his chamber, inquired if
Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of her
attendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that
at that hour she generally withdrew to her oratory,
where he probably would find her. The Marquis,
during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase
of passion. He now wished to find Hippolita in
the disposition her lord had promised. The por-
tents that had alarmed him were forgotten in his
desires.
Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment
of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution to en-
courage her acquiescence to the divorce, having per-
ceived that Manfred was resolved to make the
possession of Isabella an unalterable condition, before
he would grant Matilda to his wishes.
The Marquis was not surprised at the silence
that reigned in the Princess's apartment. Conclud-
ing her, as he had been advertised, in her oratory,
he passed on. The door was ajar; the evening


392
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.

gloomy and overcast . Pushing open the d
he saw a person kneeling before the alt
approached nearer, it seemed not a wom
in a long woollen weed, whose back w
him. The person seemed absorbed in pr;
Marquis was about to return, when the fi
stood some moments fixed in meditatic
regarding him. The Marquis, expecting
person to come forth, and meaning to
uncivil interruption, said—
"Reverend father, I sought the lady Hi
"Hippolita!" replied a hollow voice
thou to this castle to seek Hippolita?" ar
figure, turning slowly round, discovered t
the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of
wrapt in a hermit's cowl.
"Angels of peace, protect me!" criec
recoiling.
"Deserve their protection !" said the sp
Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured th
to take pity on him.
"Dost thou not remember me?" said t
tion. "Remember the wood of Joppa!"
"Art thou that holy hermit?" criec
trembling. "Can I do aught for tl
peace?"
"Wast thou delivered from bondage,'
spectre, " to pursue carnal delights? Has
gotten the buried sabre, and the behest i
engraven on it?"
"I have not, I have not," said Frede


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
395
by her impatience to meet Theodore. 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 imper-
fect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly through
the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb
of Alfonso, to which he was directed by indistinct
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 prevent 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 Heaven, receive my soul!"
"Savage, inhuman monster, what hast thou done?"
cried Theodore, rushing on him, and wrenching 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
endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to
despatch 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 endea-
voured, in concert with the afflicted Theodore, to
stop the blood of the dying princess, the rest pre-
vented Manfred from laying violent hands on him-
self.
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THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 397
my lord? will you not put her away? Indeed she
loves you. Oh, I am faint! bear me to the castle.
Can I live to have her close my eyes?"
Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly
to suffer herself to be borne into the convent; but
her entreaties were so pressing to be carried to the
castle, that, placing her on a litter, they conveyed
her thither as she requested. Theodore, supporting
her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an
agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire
her with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side,
comforted her with discourses of Heaven, and hold-
ing a crucifix before her, which she bathed with
innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to
immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest afflic-
tion, followed the litter in despair.
Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed
of the dreadful catastrophe, had flown to meet her
murdered child; but when she saw the afflicted pro-
cession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of
her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a
swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her,
were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda
alone seemed insensible to her own situation. Every
thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.
Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was
brought to herself, she asked for her father. 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 him-


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 399
"Those of a prince," said Theodore; "of the
sovereign of Otranto. This reverend man, my
father, has informed 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 com-
mand, "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 duti-
fully 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 pos-
sible?"
The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda
to herself. Lifting up her eyes, she looked around
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


400 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow
never dwells. Isabella, thou hast loved me; wot
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 Matilda; "commend me to
Heaven. Where is my father? forgive him, dearest
mother—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 calamity; but it was not intentional. Can you
pardon me?"
"Oh, wound not my agonising soul!" said Hippo-
lita; "thou never couldst offend me. Alas, she
faints! help! help!"
"I would say something more," said Matilda,
struggling,—"but it wonnot be—Isabella—Theo-
dore—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 thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and
uttered every expression that despairing love could
dictate.
Isabella, in the meantime, 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


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 401
chamber where she lay. As the moon was now at
its height, he read in the countenances of this un-
happy company the event he dreaded.
"What! is she dead?" cried he, in wild con-
fusion.
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.
Frederic and Jerome thought the last day was at
hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with
them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore
appeared, the walls of the castle behind 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 those words, accompanied
by a clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly 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.
The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknow-
ledging 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 pro-
2 C


402
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
nounced! Shall we not—can we but—dedicate the
few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating
the farther 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!" replied Manfred, "my heart at last
is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh, could!—
but it cannot be. Ye are lost in wonder—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 offended Heaven. My story has drawn down
these judgments. Let my confession atone—but
ah! what can atone for usurpation and a murdered
child! a child murdered in a consecrated place!—
List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warning
to future tyrants!
"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 drink to the dregs?
Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain—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 I 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
appeared to him in a dream, and promised that


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknow-
ledge her for his lawful wife. He left her preg-
nant. 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 succession of Ricardo. What could a
friendless, helpless woman do? would her testi-
mony avail? Yet, my lord, I have an authentic
writing"
"It needs not," said Manfred; "the horrors of these
days, the vision we have but now seen—all cor-
roborate thy evidence beyond a thousand parch-
ments. Matilda's death and my expulsion"
"Be composed, my lord," said Hippolita; "this
holy man did not mean to recall your griefs."
Jerome proceeded—" I shall not dwell on what is
needless. The daughter of which Victoria was de-
livered, was at her maturity bestowed 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 re-
tired to the remaining part of the castle. In the
morning Manfred signed his abdication of the prin-
cipality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each
took on them the habit of religion in the neighbour-
ing convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the
new Prince, which Hippolita's tenderness for Isabella
concurred to promote. But Theodore's grief was too
fresh to admit the thought of another love; and it


THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
405
was not until after frequent 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.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNK, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
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