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THE OLD ENGLISH BARON 
 
 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
CLARA REEVE, 
 
Clara Reeve — Horace Walpole 
 
 THE 
 
 OLD ENGLISH BARON 
 
 H ©otbic Storg 
 
 By CLARA REEVE 
 
 ALSO 
 
 THE 
 
 CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 B (Botbtc Storg 
 By HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 CBttJ ^too PortrattiS ann JFout Dratoinjjs Ij a. J&. tiaittcier 
 CtcfjeB bp Damtnan 
 
 LONDON 
 
 J. C. NIMMO AND BAIN 
 
 14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1883 
 
A. Lfot of 
 
 /'cgrhellX 
 
 ^ LIBRARY 
 
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" ,, 150 
 
 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 OF 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 ha,d 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 Phcenix. 
 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 
 comphance 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 Barott, 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, herj 
 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-Owen 
 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 
 'v 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 OHvier 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 
 
10 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 from both ; 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 ancient romances, which 
 are only Epics in prose. 
 
 History represents human nature as it is in 
 real life, alas, too often a melancholy retrospect ! 
 Romance displays only the 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. 13 
 
 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, 
 t here is req.uired-a sufBclent, degree of— the marvel- 
 lous to excite attention ; enough ^f the manners „of 
 feaT life to give an air of probability to„ the vvork; 
 and^ enough of the pathetic to engage^ the heart i.a_its 
 
 bihalf 
 
 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 kepfl 
 within the utmost verge of probability, the effect haq 
 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 
 painting, 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. 
 
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 certam 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 
 years travel and warlike service, he determined to re- 
 turn to his native land, and to spend the remainder of 
 
 B 
 
1 8 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 iX^as 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 the 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. 15 
 
 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 Level'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 1 " 
 
 "About fifteen years, to the best of my remem- 
 brance." 
 
 Sir Philip sighed deeply. 
 
 " Alas ! " said he, " what do we, by living loRg, but 
 survive all our friends! But pray tell me how he 
 died ? " 
 
 "I will, sir, to the best of my knowledge. An't 
 iplease 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 "i " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 L " 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. 25 
 
 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 bhnd- 
 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 
 
26 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. rj 
 
 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, ag 
 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 
 one milking her cow, the other feeding her poultry. 
 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 
 young 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 F.Hmiinrl Twyfr^r^ , <-hp 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 Phihp, " 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 logt, 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." 
 
 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 appre^ 
 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 
 where his faithful servant was buried, and caused 
 masses to be said for the repose of his soul ; then 
 pursuing his way by easy journeys, arrived in safety 
 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 dn interval of four years, as by the manu- 
 script ; and this omission seems intended by the -wtifer. 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 We'nlock, 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, andv' 
 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 
 lupon 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;l 
 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 ini 
 the house, to take care of it, and to deliver it intq 
 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 ofiSce 
 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 
 Thgmas_Jig}vson ; 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 
 fthought 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 togethei 
 in what manner they should vent their resentmenti 
 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 
 
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 
 lexpose 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 
 JMr. 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. 
 
 [Another pause 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 gentlemenv 
 
 \Here the manuscript is not legible for several pages. 
 There is mention, about this time, of the death of the Lady 
 Fitz-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 haves ; 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 
 
so THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 in untruths against him. Mr. William spoke of him 
 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 
 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. 51 
 
 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 
 Idependants. He left his lady big with child, and 
 jfuU 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 
 
 I 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 
 
 ^ad 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 
 
 ihis 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 Level. 
 
 " 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 nowj 
 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 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 t 
 him. He came running towards him ; and leapin: 
 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, 
 
55 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 
 
S8 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 S 
 your conversations. You were heard to censure me j 
 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, a.nd 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 relatq 
 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. 
 
6o THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 "You hear, Sir Robert, what both parties sa) 
 have questioned them separately ; neither of t 
 knew what the other would answer, yet their acco 
 agree almost to a word." 
 
 " I confess they do so," answered Sir Robert ; " 
 ^ sir, it is very bold and presuming for them to s] 
 of our family affairs in such a manner ; if my u 
 Lord Lovel, should come to know it, he would pu 
 them severely ; and if his honour is reflected u 
 it becomes us to resent and to punish it." Here 
 Wenlock broke out into passion, and offered to S' 
 to the truth of his accusation. 
 
 "Be silent, Dick," said the Baron; "I shall ji 
 for myself. I protest," said he to Sir Robert 
 never heard so much as Oswald has now told 
 concerning the deaths of Lord and Lady Love 
 think it is best to let such stories alone, till thej 
 away of themselves. I had indeed heard of an 
 story of the east apartment being haunted, when 
 I came hither, and my brother advised me to sh 
 up till it should be forgotten ; but what has now 1 
 said, has suggested a thought that may make 
 apartment useful in future. I have thought 
 punishment for Edmund that will stop the mi 
 of his accusers for the present ; and, as I hope, 
 establish his credit with everybody. Edmund, 
 you undertake this adventure for me .-' " 
 
 " What adventure, my lord } " said Edm 
 "There is nothing I would not undertake to s 
 my gratitude and fidelity to you. As to my cour 
 I would show that at the expense of my malic 
 accusers, if respect to my lord's blood did not tii 
 my hands; as I am situated, I beg it may be pi 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 6i 
 
 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.j 
 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, and 
 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 lockJ 
 and resisted his attempts. He set the lamp on thq 
 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 t " 
 
 A voice at the outer door answered, " It's I ; Joseph, 
 your friend." 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 i" 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. 65 
 
 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 thatj 
 leads to the lower rooms ; and there is likewise al 
 door out of that passage into the dining-room." ^ 
 
 " And what rooms are there below stairs .' " said 
 Edmund. 
 
 E 
 
66 THE OLi> 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 ta 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 
 
 Ichild } " The woman replied, " It is ; and the hour 
 
 lapproaches 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 
 
l^^i^^B^^E^H^r 
 
 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 I 
 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 E 
 then," said he, " not Edmund Twyford, but somei 
 body of consequence, in whose fate so many peopl^ 
 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 
 1 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 fiis 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 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 
 
 j that he preferred Garadoc, 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 ill 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 ! " said the friar ; " yoii 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 
 I 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 
 
 j certain that her time was out, and she expected to 
 
 1 lie down every day; and they did not pretend that 
 
 I 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 
 seem to think it concerns me in particular .'' " 
 
 " Ah, dear sir," said Joseph, " I must tell you, 
 (though I never uttered it to mortal man before; the 
 {striking resemblance this young man bears to my 
 (dear lord, the strange dislike his reputed father took 
 ilto 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, t/ied 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 ; 
 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 verilyi 
 believe that the person that owned this armour liesj 
 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." 
 
8o 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 
 
 i 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 
 ishould corrupt the wife of a peasant his vassal ; and 
 -especially, being so lately married to a lady with 
 iwhom 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. 8i 
 
 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- 
 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 
 I — 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 ! 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." 1 
 
 " On what day was he born .'' " said Oswald. 
 
 "The day before yefsterday," 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 yearsi 
 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 ine, 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 
 2 1st. 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. 
 ' 1 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 
 I 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.' " i 
 
 " Merciful God ! " said Edmund ; " am I 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, 
 
 land 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, 
 
 ^nd 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, 
 
 l 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,"! 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 greatjijen; and Edmund 
 took such delight in hearing him, tliat--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 j and so he would have done, sure 
 
90 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. 91 
 
 earrings. They were pearls of great value ; and the 
 necklace had a locket, on which the cypher of Level 
 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 
 r "I will tell you hereafter," said Oswald ; " for here 
 'comes^ld, Joseph to meet us." 
 
 ) He came indeed as fast as his age would permit 
 jhim. 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 1 " 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 
 coippanion on the way." 
 
 " That is indeed a happy circumstance," 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 
 leave behind you." 
 
 " Lady Emma ! " 
 
 " How can you affect this ignorance, Edmund ? 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 97 
 
 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,i 
 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, 
 that 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." 
 
loo 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 ! 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. loi 
 
 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 
 
102 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. 103 
 
 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 Baronr 
 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 BARON. 
 
 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 WiUiam'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 alread)'-, 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 
 
io6 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- 
 
io8 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 
 
no THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 there. No reply, sirs ! I insist upon being obeyed in 
 this point. Joseph, let the beds be well 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 dififerent 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. 1 1 1 
 
 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 
 
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 1 — it is plaguy dull sitting here." 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 113 
 
 " 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 have always been governed by you, like a fool as 
 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 t " 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 
 
 H 
 
114 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 groan from 
 the room underneath. They stood like statues, 
 petrified by fear, yet listening with trembling expec- 
 tation. A second groan increased their consterna- 
 tion, 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 pubhc ; 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 .' " 
 
ii6 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. "1 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 Ughts, 
 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 h^^ 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 ? " 
 
ii8 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 " 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 sz-y 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 
 himself to your favour ; and if he were indeed of 
 noble birth, I would prefer him to a prince for a 
 husband to my Emma 1 " 
 
 " 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 
 It the east apartment is haunted. It was there 
 it Edmund was made acquainted with many 
 ;rets, I doubt not : and, perhaps, his own fate may 
 
 involved in that of others. I am coniident that 
 lat he saw and heard there was the cause of his 
 parture. We must wait with patience the unravel- 
 g this intricate affair: I believe I need not enjoin 
 ur secrecy as to what I have said ; your heart will 
 my security." 
 
 ' What mean you, brother .'' " 
 'Don't affect ignorance, my dear; you love EdmundTl 
 
 do I ; it is nothing to be ashamed of. It would / 
 ve been strange if a girl of your good sense had/ 
 t distinguished a swan among a flock of geese." 
 ■' Dear William, don't let a word of this escape you ; 
 t you have taken a weight off my heart. You may 
 pend that I will not dispose of my hand or heart 
 
 I know the end of this affair." 
 William smiled : " Keep them for Edmund'sy"n>«(^. 
 ihall rejoice to see him in a situation to ask them." 
 ' Hush, my brother ! not a word more ; I hear 
 )tsteps." 
 
 They were her eldest brother's, who came to ask 
 '. William to ride out with him, which finished 
 5 conference. 
 
 The fair Emma from this time assumed an air of 
 isfaction ; and William frequently stole away from 
 1 companions to talk with his sister upon their 
 rourite subject. 
 
 While these- things passed at the castle of Lovel, 
 Imund and his companion, John Wyatt, proceeded 
 
 their journey to Sir Philip Harclay's seat ; they 
 
122 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 trembling ;;; 
 he kneeled down, took his hand, kissed it, 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 ! 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.V 
 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 
 PhiHp 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 Phihp 
 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 
 t6 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 pubhc 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 briiig 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 obhge 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 
 V 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 
 Level, for which they were resolved to call him to 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 133 
 
 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 Chfford, 
 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 3'ears 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 Plarclay 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. 135 
 
 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 1 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 v/ant 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, "tliat 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 
 your 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, and 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 
 J 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," rephed 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 1" 
 
 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, fie 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 cognoscittLr. 
 
 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 
 miake an honest confession." 
 
 I Lord Lovel desired a surgeon and a confessor. 
 
 i " 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 
 w'as delivered in the fields, and perished herself in 
 seeking a shelter for her infant. I have sufiScient 
 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 mJst 
 concerns." 
 
 " How can he be the heir of Lovel t " 
 
 "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 
 
150 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 unde 
 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 
 intercept him on the way. He made so much haste 
 
"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. 
 ThejMdlled 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 t " 
 
 " 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 
 
152 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. 155 
 
 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 
 ofBces, 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- 
 
IS8 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 piy 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 1 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 I " 
 
 " 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 mine 
 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. 
 
i6o THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Mr. William broke sile 
 
 " My lord," said he, " if you have no great ob 
 tion, I beg leave also to accompany you both ?" 
 
 " You shall, my son, if you desire it ; I think I 
 see your motives, and your brother's also ; your c 
 ness will be a good balance to his warmth ; you s 
 go with us. My son Walter shall be his sister's 
 tector in our absence, and he shall be master here 
 we return." 
 
 " I hope, my dear father, that will not be lon| 
 shall not be happy till you come home," said the 
 Emma. 
 
 " It shall be no longer, my dearest, than till 
 untoward affair is settled." 
 
 The Baron desired to know when the messen 
 were expected to return. Oswald took this op 
 tunity to retire ; he went to his own apartment, 
 read the letter, as follows : — 
 
 "The Heir of Lovel, to his dear and revei 
 friend. Father Oswald. 
 
 " Let my friends at the Castle of Lovel know ■ 
 I live in hopes one day to see them there. If 
 could, by any means, return with the messenc 
 your testimony would add weight to mine ; perl 
 you might obtain permission to attend the Baroi 
 leave it to you to manage this. John Wyatt 
 inform you of all that has passed here, and 
 hitherto my success has outrun my expectation, 
 almost my wishes. I am in the high road to my 
 heritance, and trust, that the Power who hath > 
 ducted me thus far, will not leave his work unfinis 
 Tell my beloved William that I live, and hop( 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. i6i 
 
 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 
 
i62 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 remains of life and strength to help my young Ic 
 his right and title. But do they not begin to su 
 who is the heir of Lovel ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," said Oswald ; " they thin! 
 concerned in the discovery, but have no idea c 
 being interested in the event." 
 
 " O father ! " said Joseph, " I shall think everj 
 a week till your return ; but I will no longer keej 
 from your repose." 
 
 " Good night," said Oswald ; " but I have an( 
 visit to pay before I go to rest." 
 
 He left Joseph, and went on tip-toe to 
 William's room, and tapped at his door. He < 
 and opened it. " WJiat news, father } " 
 
 " Not much ; I have only orders to tell you 
 Edmund is well, and as much your friend as evei 
 
 " I guessed," said William, " that we should 
 something of him. I have still another guess." 
 
 "What is that, my child .?" 
 
 " That we shall see or hear of him where we 
 going." 
 
 " It is very likely," said Oswald ; " and I w 
 have you be prepared for it ; — I am confideni 
 shall hear nothing to his discredit." 
 
 " I am certain of that," said William, " and I ! 
 rejoice to see him. I conclude that he is undei 
 protection of Sir Philip Harclay." 
 
 " He is so," said Oswald ; " I had my informa 
 from Sir Philip's servant, who is one of the messenj 
 and was guide to the others in their way hither." 
 
 After some farther conversation they separa 
 and each went to his repose. 
 
 The next morning the whole party set out on t 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 163 
 
 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 recovere'd 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. 
 
i64 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 He enlarged on his humanity to the vanquished 
 the desire he expressed to have justice done to 
 heirs ; finally, he mentioned his great respect for 
 Lord Fitz-Owen, and the solicitude he ishowe( 
 have him come to settle the estate of the sick i 
 in favour of his children. Lord Clifford also 
 ployed his son to soften Sir Robert, and to exp 
 to him every doubtful part of Sir Philip's behavic 
 
 After the travellers had taken some rest, the I 
 Graham proposed that they should make a visi 
 the sick man's chamber. The lords sent to acqu 
 him they were coming to visit him, and they folio 
 the messenger. The Lord Fitz-Owen went up 
 the bedside; he embraced his brother with str 
 emotions of concern ; Sir Robert followed him ; t 
 Mr. William. 
 
 Lord Lovel embraced them, but said nothing; 
 countenance showed his inward agitations. I 
 Fitz-Owen first broke silence. 
 
 " I hope," said he, " I see my brother better f 
 I expected." 
 
 Lord Lovel bit his fingers, he pulled the 1 
 clothes, he seemed almost distracted. At lengtl 
 broke out — 
 
 " I owe no thanks to those who sent for 
 
 relations! Sir Philip Harclay, you have used 
 
 I generously the advantage you have gained over 
 
 you spared my life only to take away my reputal 
 
 i You have exposed me to strangers, and, wha 
 
 : worse, to my dearest friends. When I lay in a s 
 
 'of danger, you obliged me to say anything, and 
 
 you take advantage of it, to ruin me in my frie 
 
 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." 
 ■J^ord Lovel seemed almost choked with passion, 
 to^ee every one giving some marks of approbation 
 pld 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 1 
 peasant, who, by a train of circumstances that could I 
 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- 
 
i66 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 Clififord said- 
 
 "Sir Philip offers fairly, and like himself; thei 
 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 
 
i68 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 
 
 the knowledge of his birth, the adventures of 
 haunted apartment, the discovery of the fatal clo 
 and the presumptive proofs that Lord Lovel ' 
 buried there. At this part of his narration L 
 ' Fitz-Owen interrupted him. 
 
 " Where is this closet you talk of? for I and 
 sons went over the apartment since Edmund's dej 
 ture, and found no such place as you describe." 
 
 " My lord," said Edmund, " I can account for 
 the door is covered with tapestry, the same as 
 room, and you might easily overlook it ; but I h 
 a witness here," said he, and putting his hand i 
 his bosom, he drew out the key. " If this is not 
 key of that closet, let me be deemed an impos 
 and all I say a falsehood. I will risk my pretensi 
 upon this proof." 
 
 "And for what purpose did you take it awaj 
 said the Baron. 
 
 " To prevent any person from going into 
 replied Edmund; "I have vowed to keep it til 
 shall open that closet before witnesses appointed 
 that purpose." 
 
 " Proceed, sir," said the Baron Fitz-Owen. 
 
 Sir Philip then related the conversation betw 
 Edmund and Margery Twyford, his supposed mot] 
 
 Lord Fitz-Owen seemed in the utmost surpi 
 He exclaimed, " Can this be true .' strange i 
 covery 1 unfortunate child ! " 
 
 Edmund's tears bore witness to his veracity, 
 was obliged to hide his face ; he lifted up his clas] 
 hands to heaven, and was in great emotion during 
 this part of the relation ; while Lord Lovel groar 
 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 ? " 
 
I70 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 |bund_a s^7 
 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 I 
 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 Phihp 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 Level'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 I\itz- 
 Owen'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 prop&sals 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 
 afifection and^ profound veneration. My proposals 
 are these m — First, that the criminal make restitution 
 of the title and e.state, obtained with so much in- 
 justice and cruelty, to the lawful heir, whom he^sh^ll 
 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, ihat 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-OVen 
 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 
 approbationy 
 
 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 1 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, j'ou 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 
 
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 
 j'our 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 
 rehc 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 1 " 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 "i have you gained her affections t " 
 
 "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 
 
i8o 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 ClifTord, who had conceived an affec- 
 tion to Edmund for his amiable qualities, and to 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 18 1 
 
 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- 
 
1 82 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 
 
i84 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. 185 
 
 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 suddei? 
 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 assists 
 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 I 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 ? " 
 
1 86 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 
 iinto 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 " 
 
 " 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. 187 
 
 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 groundj 
 Unfortunate pair ! you shall at last rest together 1 
 your son shall pay the last duties to your ashes." i 
 
 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. 
 
1 88 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 ! " 
 
 "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 
 
194 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. Thf 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 L" 
 
 " 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 1 " 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. 
 
 jmy 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 5ne^ 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 V said William. 
 
 " Because it is no longer mine, but another man's 
 home," answer-ed 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 I " 
 
THE OLD ENGLISH BARON. 199 
 
 " Why comes he not to meet us ? " said the Baron. 
 
 " His fears prevent him," said WilHam ; " 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 1 " 
 
 Sir PhiHp 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 — -WilHam'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 
 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 ; 
 
200 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 
 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. 203 
 
 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. 205 
 
 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 
 jMarie 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 
 
2o6 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 olA 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- 
 
2o8 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 
 
2IO 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 mustj indeed, 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 \3astle 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 ; 
 
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 WiUiam ; 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 
 
2i6 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 
 
 ^ ffiotijic Storg. 
 
 By HORACE WALPOLE. 
 
. . . Van<2 
 Fingentur species, tamen v't pes, et caput uni 
 Reddantur fortntE. — HOR. 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR 
 
 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.! The 
 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 WALPOLE. 
 
 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 W ALP 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 17 16- 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 W ALP OLE. 
 
 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 Jionours, 
 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 WALPOLE. 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, tq 
 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 
 econortiy, 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 Authors, 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 W ALP OLE. 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- 
 
226 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 
 
 house with a front borrowed from the fagade 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- 
 sive acquaintance with foreign literature, on which 
 he justly prided himself, was subordinate to his 
 pursuits as an English antiquary and genealogist, 
 in which he gleaned subjects for poetry and for 
 romantic 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 
 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 wiih 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 niodern 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 
 1 764.. u shered into the world, as a translation, by 
 William Marshall, from the Italian of Onuphriol 
 Muralto, a sort of anagram, or translation of his ownj 
 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 : — 
 
 "■^th 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 W ALP 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 Httle ; 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 this is the only 
 one of my works with which I am myself pleased ; I 
 have given reins to my imagination till I became on 
 
i» 
 
 230 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 
 
 fire 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 
 Tke 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 Tlic 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 W ALP OLE. 
 
 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 W ALP OLE. 
 
 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 dass 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 Vords, the appeal to that 
 secret and reserved feehng of love for the marvellous 
 and supernatural, which occupies a hidden corner in 
 almost every one's bosom. Were this all which he 
 had attempted, the means by which he sought to 
 attain his purpose might, with justice, be termed 
 both clumsy and puerile. But Mr. Walpole's pur- 
 pose was both more difficult of attainment, and more 
 important when attained. It was his object to draw 
 such a picture of domestic life and 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 the 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 vifhich 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- 
 digies congenial to the creed and feelings of the 
 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, so far as it is 
 natural, form the accompaniments of his spectres 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR TO W ALP OLE. 237 
 
 and his miracles, and have the same effect on the 
 mind of the reader, that the appearance and drapery 
 of such a chamber as we have described may 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 period 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 
 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 
 feeling's 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 l] 
 by ihore enlightened ages, was j^ cqnsfljiaJit yitb ' 
 |he faith_ of.ear^ '"'''• <"'""^p? The subject of The Castle 
 of Otranto is of the latter class. Mrs. Radcliffe, 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 prodigi-es to an explanation founded 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR TO W ALP OLE. 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 MEMOIR TO W ALP OLE. 
 
 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 W A LP OLE. 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 
 V deemed the greatest enemy of the effect which he 
 
 Q 
 
242 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO W A LP OLE. 
 
 hoped to produce. It may be added also, that the 
 supernatural occurrences of The 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 th^ 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 WALPOLE. 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 original 
 model. What is more striking in The Castle of 
 Otranto, is the manner in which the various prodi- 
 gious appearances, bearing each upon the other, 
 and all upon the accomplishment of the ancient pro- 
 phecy, denouncing the ruin of the house of Manfred, 
 gradually prepare us for the grand catastrophe. The 
 moonlight vision of Alphonso dilated to immens 
 magnitude, the astonished group of spectators i 
 the front, and the shattered ruins of the castle ini 
 the back-ground, are briefly and sublimely described 
 We know no passage of similar merit, unless it bs 
 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 WALPOLE. 
 
 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 Otranio 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 its own sake, is scarcely once attempted 
 in The Castle of Otranto ; and if authors would con- 
 sider how 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 is for the dialogue that Walpole 
 reserves his strength ; and it is remarkable how, 
 while conducting his mortal agents with all the art 
 of a modern dramatist, he adheres to the sustained 
 
W/. 
 
 246 PREFATORY MEMOIR TO WALPOLE. 
 
 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 the one case, his romance 
 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 
 pleaded 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 W ALP OLE. 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; — the applause, in fine, which cannot be 
 denied to him who' can excite the passions of fear 
 and of pity, must be awarded to the author of The 
 Castle of Otranto. 
 
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 
 
250 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 beauty of the diction, and the zeal of the author 
 (moderated, however, by singular judgment), concur 
 to make me think that the date of the composi- 
 tion was little antecedent to that of the impression. 
 Letters were then in 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 niiraculous 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. Tf'"'""'" the author's prin- 
 cipal engine, prevents the story from ever languish- 
 ing; and it is so often contrasted by pit\L 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 thein 
 naivete and simplicity. In particular, the womanisll 
 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 
 
252 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 favour of his adopted work. More impartial readers 
 may not be so much struck with the beauties of this 
 piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author's 
 defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on 
 a more useful moral than this ; that " the sins of 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 stronj 
 presumptions that the author had some certair 
 building in his eye. Curious persons, who havJ 
 leisure to employ in such researches, may possiblj 
 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 
 
2S6 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 fancy have been dammed up, by a strict adherence 
 to common Hfe. But if in the latter species Nature 
 has 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 
 the powers of fancy at liberty to expatiate through 
 the boundless realms of invention, and thence of 
 creating more interesting situations, he wished to 
 conduct the mortal agents in his drama according to 
 the rules of probability ; in short, to make them 
 think, speak, and act, as it might be supposed mere 
 men and women would do in extraordinary positions. 
 He had 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 
 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. The simplicity 
 of their behaviour, almost tending to excite smiles, 
 which at first seems not consonant to the serious cast 
 of the work, appeared to me not only not improper, 
 but was marked designedly in that manner. My rule 
 was Nature. However grave, important, or even 
 melancholy, the sensations of princes and heroes 
 may be, they do not stamp the same affections on 
 their domestics ; at least, the 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 
 feels, while delayed by the coarse pleasantries of 
 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 
 
•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 Esstx, 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. 255 
 
 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 funther 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 
 melange de serieux et de plaisanterie, de comique ^t de 
 touchani ; souvent meme une seule avanture produit 
 tous ces contrastes. Rien nest si commun qiiune 
 maison dans laquelle un pere gronde, une fille occupee 
 de sa passion pleure ; le fits se moque des deux, et 
 quelques parens prennent part differemment a. la scene ^ 
 &c. Nous n'inferons pas de Id que toute Comedie 
 doive avoir des scenes de bouffonerie et des scenes 
 attendrissantes : II y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pikes 
 
26o PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 oil il ne regtte que de la gayete ; d'autres toiites 
 serieuses ; D'autres melangees : d'autres oil I'atten- 
 drissement va jusqii aux larmes : II ne faut donner 
 I'exclusion k aucun genre : et si ton me demandoit, quel 
 genre est le meilleur, je repondrois, celui qui est le mieux 
 traitf.' 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, " Toiis 
 ces traits sont naifs : Tout y est convenable a ceux que 
 vous introduises sur la scene, et aux moeurs que vous 
 leur donnez. Ces familiarites naturelles eussent ^tk a 
 ce queje crois. Men replies dans Athenes ; inais Paris et 
 noire parterre veulent une autre espcce de sunplicite'." 
 
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 
 
 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 parte est prochaine, 
 Et cette autre conduit dans celici 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. 
 
 If, 
 
 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, w hen Conrad him s elf wa s 
 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 contmued 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 shoeing 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 sablel 
 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 bad 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 l&w 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 cHurcITofSt. 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 astonished, 
 not conceiving how he had offended the Prince : yet 
 recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and 
 humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred's 
 _gnpef 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, 
 jerdered 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, i 
 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 youno- 
 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 1 '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 dobr. 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 OTRANTO. 
 
 I know how Manfred doated on his son : is not the 
 stroke too heavy for him ? has he not sunk under 
 it ? you do not answer me ; alas ! I dread the worst. 
 — Raise me, my maidens ; I will, I will see my lord. 
 Bear me to him instantly : he is dearer to me even 
 than my children 1 " 
 
 Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hip- 
 polita's rising; and both those lovely young women 
 were using their g entle 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 I 
 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 
 HippoHta as my parents." 
 
 "Curse on HippoHta!" 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 \ 
 I me : — in short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my 
 I 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 Hippolital" 
 
 " 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"tliii~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 n or 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, to 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 
 recolle cted 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 ; andjt 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 
 she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty 
 hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth 
 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 
 
28o 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, artd- from-W-hence-hung a 4ragBi-&ntL of 
 earth or building, she CiDuld. 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 — i 
 
 " 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 }'0u ? 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 mustjbe 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." 
 J^ " 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." 
 
 VjJ Generous youth!" said Isabella, "how shall I 
 ever requite "- 
 
 As she uttered these words, a ray of moonshine, 
 treaming through a cranny of the ruin above, shone 
 ^irectly 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 
 
 V 
 
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 
 necroman-Gers-! I tell you she must be in the castle ; 
 I will find her in spite of enchantment." 
 
 " O heavens 1 " 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 earnest thou here? 
 I thought thee in durance above in the court." 
 
 " I am no traitor," replied the young man boldly, 
 
 5>Hfer am I answerable for your thoughts." 
 
 <^ "Presumptuous villain!" cried Manfred, "dost 
 
 thou provoke my wrath .? tell me, how hast thou 
 
 escaped from above 1 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. W 
 
 Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and 
 perceived that one of the cheeks of the^enchantgd 
 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 Hfe," 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." 
 
286 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour 
 and indifference of the youth, cried — 
 
 " Well then, thou man of truth ! answer ; was it 
 the fall of the trap-door that I heard ? " 
 
 " It was," said the youth. 
 
 " It was !" said the Prince; "and how didst thou 
 come to know there was a trap-door here ?" 
 
 " I saw the plate of brass, by a gleam of 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~T7 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 — 
 v/hat 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.'^nThe 
 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 confuse'd 
 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 disect 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 ray 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 OTRANTQ. 289 
 
 " Oh I 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 foojs ! " 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 
 
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 dooir 
 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,j 
 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, w 
 heard the door of the great chamber clap behin 
 us, but we did not dare turn back to see if thi 
 giant was following us — yet, now I think on it, wej 
 must have heard him if he pursued us. But, forj 
 heaven's sake, good my lord, send for the chaplai 
 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. 
 Hippohta, 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 heayens ! 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 copld 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 ofif 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 m^" 
 
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 t hat a ba d 
 husband is better than no husband_ at_all, did not 
 luiKJet^ you — bless me ! what noise is that ? St. 
 Nicholas forgive me ! I was but in jest." 
 
 " It is the wind," said Matilda, " whistling through 
 the battlements in the tower above : you have heard 
 it a thousand times." 
 
 "Nay,'' said Bianca, "there was no harm 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 i:;esem- 
 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 Bianca, "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 ! 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 
 
300 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 may," said Matilda ; " but never with my mother's : 
 a child ought to have no ears or eyes, but as a 
 parent directs." 
 
 " Well, to be sure, madam, you viras born to be a 
 saint," said Bianca, " and there is no resisting one's 
 vocation : you will end in a convent at last. But 
 there is my lady Isabella would not be so reserved 
 to me; she will let me talk to her of young men; 
 and when a handsome cavalier has come to the 
 castle, she has owned to me that she wished your 
 brother Conrad resembled him." 
 
 " Bianca," said the princess, " I do not allow you to 
 mention my friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a 
 cheerful disposition, but her soul is as pure as virtue 
 itself. She knows your idling babbling humour, and, 
 perhaps, has now and then encouraged it, to divert 
 melancholy, and enliven the solitude in which my 
 father keeps us." 
 
 " Blessed Mary ! " said Bianca, starting, " there it is 
 again Dear madam, do you hear nothing ? this 
 castle is certainly haunted ! " 
 
 "Peace!" said Matilda, " and listen! I did think 
 I heard a voice — but it must be fancy ; your terrors, 
 I suppose, have infected me." 
 
 " Indeed ! indeed ! madam," said Bianca, half 
 weeping with agony, " I am sure I heard a voice ! " 
 
 " Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath ?" 
 said the princess. 
 
 " Nobody has dared to lie there," answered Bianca, 
 " since the great astrologer, that was your brother's 
 tutor, drowned himself. For certain, madam, his 
 ghost and the young prince's are now met in the 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 301 
 
 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 perspn jing, 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 1 " 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 highness's 
 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 I 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'i? " 
 
 "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 ! 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,~dl5serve — 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 
 
3o6 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 question him j'ourself ; 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, biit- 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 i ntercours e with 
 injernal 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 
 
3o8 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 
 askedforvou." 
 
 ^ Ma jfredj 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. 
 
 " Tnat 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 i nterrogate 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 ? " 
 
 " Fath-er," 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 mankindJo_£urbjthe[r 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. 
 
310 THE CASTLE OF. OTRANTO. 
 
 "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.) "^vX, as it is no longer possible for her to be 
 allied to you, she^^Mreats^yottr-corrserrt^toT^emain in 
 sanctaaTyTill she can learn 'news of her father .4 „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 3. 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 v irgin s 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." 
 
312 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 "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 my 
 resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent 
 reasons, my own and the safety of my people, 
 demand that I should have a son. Itjls^jxufairLto 
 expect an heir from H ippolit a. I have made choice 
 of Isabeliar' You must bring her back j"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 
 amqurs, 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 OTRANTO. 
 
 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. Hipgoljta js- related to me in the 
 fourth degree. It is true we had a dispensation ; but 
 I have" lieen "informed that she had also been con- 
 tracted -to'anbther. 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 ! 
 He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was 
 determined ; and he feared, if Manfred had no hope 
 of recovering Isabella, that his impatience for a son 
 would direct him to some other object, who might 
 not be equally proof against the temptation of 
 Manfred's rank. For some time the holy man 
 remained 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 1 
 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 
 
3i6 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 hi-s 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 
 toconfirm 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 thi| 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 t " 
 
 " 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." 
 
3i8 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. "^ 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 I 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 deatminot 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 1 " 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!" .. ,,, ,,. . ',,>(,/f 
 
 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, 
 
320 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 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- witlr 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 1" 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 " Despa tch ! " 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 
 
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 -tiie..niarjk 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 1 " 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 323 
 
 "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 cad 
 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, IjuttheCount^ 
 of Fodconara. 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, thoii 
 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 still 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," repHed 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, 
 ai 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; yxnir 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,CSJ£nsn ^theGood. If thou 
 dost not instantly comply with these just demands, 
 ihe 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 isswe.; but Manfred^ jiis fatherj and grandfather) 1 
 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. J Her death affected him so 
 much, that he~hadr'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„joii 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 tliat 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 
 convehTbut 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 1 " 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 
 
332 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 princess, but she was not in "her chamber. He 
 inquired of the domestics of the convent, but could 
 learn no news of her. He searched in vain through- 
 out the monastery and the church, and despatched 
 messengers round the neighbourhood, to get inteUi- 
 gence 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 herself to some more secret 
 place of concealment. This new flight would pro- 
 bably carry the Prince's 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 
 his 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 ahd 
 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 
 side 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 turnei 
 and beheld the plumes of the enchanted helmeff 
 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 
 
336 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 1 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 \\ 
 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 S 
 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 ahi 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 kngw-ofjiQiieJjut 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 
 
340 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 thought of seeing a hard unfeeling viceroy sdt 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, tiie-oa-ly^ 
 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 hei" 
 flight, riishing to the door, said — I 
 
 " Tlaou trajtor Prince, Isabella jhairbe 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 
 
342 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 the castle ; Manfred privately giving orders to have 
 the knight's company secured, while to the knight: 
 he affected to despatch a messenger to require their 
 assistance. 
 
 The company had no sooner quitted the castle, 
 than Matilda, who felt herself deeply interested for 
 the young peasant, since she had seen him con- 
 demned to death in the hall, and whose thoughts 
 had been taken up with concerting measures to save 
 him, was informed by some of the female attendants 
 that Manfred had despatched all his men various 
 ways in pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry 
 given this order in general terms, not meaning to 
 extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore, 
 but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey 
 so peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own 
 curiosity and love of novelty to join in any pre- 
 cipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matilda 
 disengaged herself from her women, stole up to the 
 black tower, and unbolting the door, presented her- 
 self to the astonished Theodore. 
 
 "Young man," said she, "though filial duty, and 
 womanly modesty, condemn the step I am taking, 
 yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties, justifies 
 this act; FLy ; the doors of thy prison are open. 
 My fatherTand his domestics are absent, but they 
 may soon return. Begone in safety; and may the 
 angels of heaven direct thy course ! " 
 
 " Thou art surely one of those angels ! " said the 
 enraptured Theodore. "None but a blessed saint 
 could speak, could act — could look like thee ! , May 
 I not know the name of my divine protectress .' 
 
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.'' 
 
 "1 "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 inaid, 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." 
 I " Stay," said Matilda, " I will conduct thee to the 
 isubterraneous 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, whichi 
 seemed to come from above, startled the princess^ 
 and Theodore. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! we are overheard ! " 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 
 sofcly, 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 h'e concealed, till thou 
 canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore 
 and take thee off. Go ! 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, suffer ed 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. 
 
 r 
 
 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 OTRANTO. 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 mooq 
 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 aa^a.-woiTian fell 
 breathless before^hirrn — 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 Ljg^jiJsabella." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " TcL -Manfred ! " cried Theodore ; " no, lady, I 
 have once already delivered thee from his tyrSiiny, 
 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 ? " vVio ^0^0^ 
 
 " 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^P£x£ect-as-your farm | 
 is, and though my wis_hgs 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 
 "hinnie 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 camest, 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 V'icenza, 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 Manfredj 
 of being privy to the princess's absconding ; and thi^ 
 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 jwounded the 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 351 
 
 knight in three several places, .and at last disarmed 
 hifti-, ..aa_lie-fei-flted* by the ioss 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 Isa^dlaJs,^ hand, c^ljier — 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 princes^sT' 
 
 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, 
 
352 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 who had been transported at hearing the voice of 
 Theodore, as he called to her to come forth, was 
 astonished at what she heard. Suffering herself to 
 be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose 
 valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she came where 
 the bleeding knight lay speechless on the ground ; 
 but her fears returned when she beheld the domes- 
 tics of Manfred. She would again have fled, if 
 Theodore had not made her observe that they 
 were unarmed, and had not threatened them with 
 instant death, if they should dare to seize the 
 princess. 
 
 The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a 
 woman, said — 
 
 " Art thou — pray tell me truly — art tijou^I-Sahella 
 of Vicenza ? " 
 
 " i am," said she. " Good Heaven restore thee 1 " 
 
 "Then thou — then thou" — said the knight, strug- 
 gling for utterance — "seest — thy father — give me 
 'one " 
 
 " Oh, amazement ! horror ! what do I hear ! what do 
 I see .? " cried Isabella. " My father ! you my father ?J 
 how came you here, sir .'' for Heaven's sake speak ! 
 Oh ! run for help, or he will expire ! " 
 
 '"Tis most true," said the wounded knight, exerting 
 all his force ; |U.,axii-Frederic thy father — yes, I came 
 to,d«Hver thee— it will not be — give me^aTpartlng^ 
 kiss, and -take" 
 
 " Sir," said Theodore, " do not exhaust yourself; 
 suffer us to convey you to the castle." 
 
 " To the castle ! " said Isabella ; " is there no help 
 nearer than the castle ? would you expose my father 
 
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. 
 
( 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 c;hamber, 
 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 \)f 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. 
 !^edei:ic, however, incensed against Manfred, was 
 not insensible to the- coUTt^S^farid "benevolence of 
 Hippolita ; but, he was still more struck with the 
 lovely form" of Matildai, ' 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 theaganiss_ii£-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 — 
 yet 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^Nichglas appeared to me^ 
 and revealed a secret which he bade, me nevet_dis- 
 close to mortal man, but on my death -bed. This j s 
 tEat" tremendous hour, and ye are no dou bt th e 
 chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my 
 trust. -As soon as ye have done the last office's" to 
 this wretched corse, dig_^ujide|^the sevenTlT'tree on 
 the 'left"hand~of^liis-p©or 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 
 courE C5nthe 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 foundj 
 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 riide, 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 p rocured 
 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." 
 
360 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 earnest 
 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 
 tjf 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 gushgd from Jerome's eyes, .on whose 
 countenance a thousand anxious passions stood 
 expressed. 
 
 "Before she died," continued JTheodore, "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 generoiisly 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 rn other and 
 me into captivity ; that his castle hadTjeen burnt to 
 the^round"; and that niy-father, on his return, had 
 sold whatjremained, and was retired into religion in 
 thekingdom of .Niiples ; 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 i" — 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 1 " 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 fever 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 rriy 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 incli;iation 
 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^sabella, whose heart- was 
 too honest to resist a kind Expression, "it is you 
 that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am persuaaed"of 
 it ; nor shall a thought of my o\?n^appiness suffer 
 me to interfere with yours." 
 
 This frankness drew tears ' from the gentle ]\Ia- 
 
THE CASTLE Op bTRANTO. 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 I to divorce 
 ithee!" 
 
 "To divorce mej " — " To divor pe my mother!" 
 cried H ippolit a- 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, "and you are virtuous, j>/^2^ are guiltless! — 
 Oh, TOust 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 
 hangg 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 — T wTH gn anH 
 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 
 
37o THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 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 1 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-r-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 .-' " 
 
372 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 J_o Matilda. Hippolita 
 blaihed- 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, 
 pould not determine" to avoid him, and made no 
 feply. 
 
 " 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. 373 
 
 " 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 
 
376 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 us, lady ; thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption 
 from the judgments which the portents of these days 
 but too speakingly denounce against thy house." 
 
 " I pray fervently to Heaven to divert them," said 
 the pious princess. " Thou knowest it has been the 
 occupation of my life to wrest a blessing for my lord 
 and my harmless children. — One, alas ! is taken from 
 me ; would Heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda ! 
 Father, intercede for her ! " 
 
 " Every heart will bless her," cried Theodore with 
 rapture. 
 
 " Be dumb, rash youth," said Jerome. " And thou, 
 fond Princess, contend not with the powers above ; 
 the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away : Bless 
 His holy name, and submit to His decrees." 
 
 " I do most devoutly," said Hippolita ; "but will 
 He not spare my only comfort; must Matilda perish 
 too ? — Ah ! father, I came — but dismiss thy son. No 
 ear but thine must hear what I have to utter." 
 
 " May Heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent 
 Princess ! " said Theodore, retiring. Jerome frowned. 
 
 Hippolita then acquainted the friar with the 
 proposal she had suggested to Manfred, his appro- 
 bation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was 
 gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not con- 
 ceal his dislike of the motion, which he covered 
 under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the 
 nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to 
 claim his succession, would yield to an alliance with 
 the usurper of his right. But nothing could equal 
 the perplexity of the friar, when Hippolita confessed 
 
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 lier-cnnsent, 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_pxiace,, who had been struck with the 
 chains' 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 
 u|)on 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 
 
378 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 divorc^ 
 
 " 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 ! " 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 .' " 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 379 
 
 "Thou art no lawful prince," said Jerome; "thou 
 art no prince — go, discuss thy claim with Frederic ; 
 and when that is done " 
 
 "It is done," replied Manfred; "Frederic accepts 
 Matilda's hand, and is content to waive his claim, 
 pnless I have no male issue." 
 
 As he spo ke those words, three drops of bloo.d fell 
 from the n ose of Alfonso's statue. Manfred turned 
 pale, and the Princess sunk on her knees. 
 
 " Behold ! " said the friar ; " mark this miraculous 
 indication that the blood of Alfonso will never mix 
 with that of Manfred ! " 
 
 "My gracious lord," said Hippolita, "let us submit 
 ourselves to Heaven. Think not thy ever obedient 
 wife rebels against thy authority.* I have no will 
 but that of my lord and the Church. To that 
 revered tribunal let us appeal. It does not depend 
 on us to burst the bonds that unite us. If the 
 Church shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, 
 be it so — I have but few years, and those of sorrow, 
 to pass. Where can they be worn away so well as 
 at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and 
 Matilda's safety ? " 
 
 " But thou shalt not remain here until then," said 
 Manfred. " Repair with me to the castle, and there 
 I will advise on the proper measures for a divorce ; 
 but this meddling friar comes not thither ; my 
 hospitable roof shall never more harboiir a traitor. 
 And for thy reverence's offspring," continued he, 
 "I'banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is 
 no sacred personage, nor under the protection of the 
 
38o THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 Church. Whoever weds Isabella, it shall not be 
 Father Falconara's started-up son." 
 
 "They start up," said the friar, "who are suddenly 
 beheld in the seat of lawful princes ; but they wither 
 away like the grass, and their place knows them no 
 more.'' 
 
 Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the friar, led 
 Hippolita forth, but, at the door of the church, 
 whispered one of his attendants to remain concealed 
 about the convent, and bring him instant notice if 
 anv one from the castle should repair thither. 
 
( 38i ) 
 
 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- 
 
382 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 nee^d„ little 
 persuasions to bend her to hTs~pIeaiure. 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 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 383 
 
 of the hall, and soothing her with many fair words 
 and promises, he demanded of her whether she knew 
 aught of the state of Isabella's affections. 
 
 " I ! my lord ! no, my lord ! — yes, my lord — poor 
 lady ! she is wonderfully alarmed about her father's 
 wounds ; but I tell her he will do well, don't your 
 highness think so ? " 
 
 " I do not ask you," replied Manfred, " what she 
 thinks about her father : but you are in her secrets; 
 come, be a good girl, and tell me; is there any 
 young man — ha ! — you understand me ? " 
 
 " Lord bless me ! understand your highness, no, 
 not I. I told her a few vulnerary herbs and 
 repose." 
 
 " I am not talking," replied the Prince impatiently, 
 " about her father ; I know he will do well." 
 
 "Bless me, I rejoice to hear your highness say so ; 
 for though I thought it not right to let my young 
 lady despond, methought his greatness had a wan 
 look, and a something — I remember when young 
 
 Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian" 
 
 "Thou answerest from the point," interrupted 
 Manfred ; " but here, take this jewel, perhaps that 
 may fix thy attention — nay, no reverences; my 
 favour shall not stop here — come, tell me truly, how 
 stands Isabella's heart ? " 
 
 " Well ! your highness has such a way," said 
 Bianca, " to be sure — but can your highness keep a 
 
 secret ? If it should ever come out of your lips" 
 
 " It shall not, it shall not," cried Manfred. 
 
 " Nay, but swear, your highness : by my halidame, 
 
384 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 1 — 
 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 sehses," 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. 387 
 
 " Thou ravest," said Manfred, in a rage ; " begone, 
 and keep these fooleries to frighten thy com- 
 panions." 
 
 " What ! my lord," cried Bianca, '' do you think 
 I have seen nothing ? Go to the foot of the great 
 stairs yourself — as I live I saw it." 
 
 " Saw what ? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast 
 seen," said Frederic. 
 
 " Can your highness listen," said Manfred, " to the 
 dehrium of a silly wench, who has heard stories of 
 apparitions until she believes them ? " 
 
 " This is more than fancy," said the Marquis ; 
 " her terror is too natural and too strongly impressed 
 to be the work of imagination. Tell us, fair maiden, 
 what it is has moved thee thus." 
 
 " Yes, my lord, thank your greatness," said Bianca; 
 " I believe I look very pale ; I shall be better when 
 I have recovered myself. I was going to my lady 
 Isabella's chamber by his highness's order." 
 
 " We do not want the circumstances," interrupted 
 Manfred ; " since his highness will have it so, pro- 
 ceed ; but be brief." 
 
 " Lord I your highness thwarts one so ! " replied 
 Bianca. " I fear my hair — I am sure I never in my 
 life — well ! as I was telling your greatness, I was 
 going, by his highness's order, to my lady Isabella's 
 chamber ; she lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, 
 on the right hand, one pair of stairs ; so when I 
 came to the great stairs — I was looking on his high- 
 ness's present here" 
 
 " Grant me patience ! " .said Manfred, " will this 
 
388 "THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 wench never come to the point ? What imports it to 
 the Marguis that I gave thee a bauble for thy faith- 
 ful attendance on my daughter ? we want to know 
 what thou sawest." 
 
 " I was going to tell your highness," said Bianca, 
 " if you would permit me. So as I was rubbing the 
 ring — I am sure I had not gone up three steps, but I 
 heard the rattling of armour ; for all the world such 
 a clatter as Diego says he heard when the giant 
 turned him about in the gallery-chamber." 
 
 " What does she mean, my lord ? " said the 
 Marquis ; " is your castle haunted by giants and 
 goblins } " 
 
 " Lord ! what, has not your greatness heard the 
 story of the giant in the gallery-chamber ? " cried 
 Bianca ; " I marvel his highness has not told you — 
 mayhap you do not know there is a prophecy ? " 
 
 "This trifling is intolerable," interrupted Manfred.. 
 " Let us dismiss this silly wench, my lord ; we have 
 more important affairs to discuss ? " 
 
 " By your favour," said Frederic, " these are no 
 trifles ; the enormous sabre I was-dirgcted to in th'e- 
 wood — yon casque, its fellow — are these visions ^of 
 thisj)oor_maiden's brain ? " 
 
 " So Jaquez thinks, may it please your greatness," 
 said Bianca. " He says this moon will not be out 
 without our seeing some strange revolution. For my 
 part, I should not be surprised if it was to happen 
 to-morrow; for, as I was saying, when I heard the 
 clattering of armour, I was all in a cold sweat — I 
 looked up, and, if your greatness will believe me, I 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. ' 389 
 
 saw upon the uppermost banister of the great stairs 
 a hand in armour as big, as big — I thought I should 
 have swooned — I never stopped until I came hither. 
 Would, I were well out of this castle ! My lady- 
 Matilda told me but yester-morning that her high- 
 ness Hippolita knows something." 
 
 " Thou art an insolent ! " cried Manfred. " Lord 
 Marquis, it much misgives me that this scene is 
 concerted to affront me. Are my own domestics 
 suborned to spread tales injurious to my honour.'' 
 Pursue your claim by manly daring ; or let us bury 
 our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage 
 of our children ! But trust me, it ill becomes a 
 prince of your bearing to practise on mercenary 
 wenches." 
 
 " I scorn your imputation," said Frederic. " Until 
 this hour I never set eyes on this damsel — I have 
 given her no jewel ! My lord, my lord, your con- 
 science, your guilt accuses you, and would throw 
 the suspicion on me. But keep your daughter, 
 and think no more of Isabella. The judgments 
 already fallen on your house forbid me matching 
 into it." \ 
 
 Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which 
 Frederic delivered these words, endeavoured to pacify 
 him. Dismissing Bianca, he made such submissions 
 to the Marquis, and threw in such artful encomiums 
 on Matilda, that Frederic was once more staggered. 
 However, as his passion was of so recent a date, it 
 could not at once surmount the scruples he had con- 
 ceived. He had gathered enough from Bianca's 
 
390 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 discourse to persuade him that Heaven declared 
 itself against Manfred. The proposed marriages, too, 
 removed his claim to a distance ; and the princi- 
 pality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than 
 the contingent reversion of it with Matilda. Still he 
 would not absolutely recede from his engagements ; 
 but, purposing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred 
 if it was true in fact that Hippolita consented to the 
 divorce. The Prince, transported to find no other 
 obstacle, and depending on his influence over his 
 wife, assured the Marquis it was so, and that he 
 might satisfy himself of the truth from her own 
 mouth. 
 
 As they were thus discoursing, word was brought 
 that the banquet was prepared. Manfred conducted 
 Frederic to the great hall, where they were received 
 by Hippolita and the young princesses. Manfred 
 placed the Marquis next to Matilda, and seated him- 
 self between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita com- 
 ported herself with an easy gravity; but the young 
 ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred, who 
 was determined to pursue his point with the Marquis 
 in the remainder of the evening, pushed on the feast 
 until it waxed late ; affecting unrestrained gaiety, 
 and plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. 
 The latter, more upon his guard than Manfred 
 wished, declined his frequent challenges, on pretence 
 of his late loss of blood ; while the Prince, to raise 
 his own disordered spirits, and to counterfeit uncon- 
 cern, indulged himself in plentiful draughts, though 
 not to the intoxication of his senses. 
 
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 door gently, 
 he saw a person kneeling before the altar. As he 
 approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one 
 in a long woollen weed, whose back was towards 
 him. The person seemed absorbed in prayer. The 
 Marquis was about to return, when the figure rising, 
 stood some moments fixed in meditation, without 
 regarding him. The Marquis, expecting the holy 
 person to come forth, and meaning to excuse his 
 uncivil interruption, said — 
 
 " Reverend father, I sought the lady Hippolita." 
 
 "Hippolita!" replied a hollow voice; "camest 
 thou to this castle to seek Hippolita .''" and then the 
 figure, turning slowly round, discovered to Frederic 
 the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, 
 wrapt in a hermit's cowl. 
 
 " Angels of peace, protect me ! " cried Frederic, 
 recoiling. 
 
 " Deserve their protection ! " said the spectre. 
 
 Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom 
 to take pity on him. 
 
 " Dost thou not remember me 1 " said the appari- 
 tion. " g£m«mbisr"the-weod-of-Joppa ! " 
 
 " Art thou that holy hermit ? " cried Frederic, 
 trembling. " Can I do aught for thy eternal 
 peace ? " 
 
 "Wast thou delivered from bondage," said the 
 spectre, " to pursue carnal .delights .■' Hast thou for- 
 gotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven 
 engraven on it .'' " 
 
 " I have not, I have not," said Frederic. " But 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 393 
 
 say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me? what 
 remains to be done ? " 
 
 " To forget Matilda ! " said the apparition — and 
 vanishedT 
 
 Frederic's blood froze in his veins. For some 
 minutes he remained motionless. Then falling pros- 
 trate on his face before the altar, he besought the 
 intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of 
 tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of 
 the beauteous Matilda rushing, in spite of him, on 
 his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of 
 penitence and passion. Ere he could recover from 
 this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita, with 
 a taper in her hand, entered the oratory alone. 
 Seeing a man without motion on the floor, she gave 
 a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought 
 Frederic to himself Rising suddenly, his face be- 
 dewed with tears, he would have rushed from hdr 
 presence, but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him, 
 in the most plaintive accents, to explain the cause of 
 his disorder, and by what strange chance she had 
 found him there in that posture. 
 
 " Ah, virtuous Princess ! " said the Marquis, pene- 
 trated with grief — and stopped. 
 
 " For the love of Heaven, my lord," said Hippolita, 
 " disclose the cause of this transport ; what mean 
 these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on 
 my name .' What woes ,has Heaven still in store 
 for the wretched Hippolita ? Yet silent ! by every 
 pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble prince," continued 
 she, falling at his feet, " to disclose the purport of 
 
394 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me ; 
 thou feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictest ! — 
 Speak for pity ! does aught thou knowest concern 
 my child ? " 
 
 "I cannot speak," cried Frederic, bursting from 
 her. " O Matilda ! " 
 
 Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened 
 to his own apartment. At the door of it he was 
 accosted by Manfred, who, flushed by wine and love, 
 had come to seek him, and to propose to waste some 
 hours of the night in music and revelling. Frederic, 
 offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood 
 of his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and, entering 
 his chamber, flung^ the door intemperately against 
 Manfred, and bolted it inwards. " The haughty 
 Prince, enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, 
 withdrew in a frame of mind capable of the most 
 fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was 
 met by the domestic whom he had planted at the 
 convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore. This 
 man, almost breathless with the haste he had made, 
 informed his lord that Thgisdore, and soni e_ladv 
 fjxHQUie castle, were at that instant in private con- 
 fereneellatJffie: tomb of Alfonso, in St. "NicKblas's 
 Church. He had dogged Theodore thither, but the 
 gloominess of the night had prevented his discover- 
 ing who the woman was^ 
 
 Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom 
 Isabella had driven from her on his urging his 
 passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but the 
 inquietude she had expressed had been occasioned 
 
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, afid 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| rn^i ^ am sl ain ! " 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. 
 
396 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, 
 acknowledged, with looks of grateful love, the zeal 
 of Theodore. Yet oft, as her faintness would per- 
 mit her speech its way, she begged the assistants 
 to comfort her father. Jerome, by this time, had 
 learned the fatal news, and reached the church. His 
 looks seemed to reproach Theodore; but turning 
 to Manfred, he said, " Now, tyrant, behold the com- 
 pletion of woe fulfilled on thy impious and devoted 
 bead 1 The blood of Alfonso cried to Heaven for 
 vengeance ; and Heaven has permitted its altar to 
 be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest 
 shed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince's 
 sepulchre ! " 
 
 "Cruel man," cried Matilda, "to aggravate the 
 woes of a parent ! may Heaven bless my father, and 
 forgive him as I do. My lord, my gracious sire, dost 
 thou forgive thy child ? Indeed I came not hither 
 to meet Theodore. I found him praying at this 
 tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for 
 thee, for her. Dearest father, bless your child, and 
 say you forgive her ! " 
 
 "Forgive thee! murderous monster!" cried Man- 
 fred, " can assassins forgive .■' I took thee for 
 Isabella; but Heaven directed my bloody hand 
 to the heart of my child. O Matilda! — I cannot 
 utter it — canst thou forgive the blindness of my 
 rage ? " 
 
 " I can ! I do ! and may Heaven confirm it ! " said 
 Matilda; "but while I have life to ask it — O my 
 mother ! what will she feel 1 Will you comfort her. 
 
HE stole; towards the tomb of ALFONSO, 
 
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 loye, 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- 
 
398 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO. 
 
 self on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. 
 Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion 
 were more than Matilda could support, took upon 
 herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apart- 
 ment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to 
 the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive 
 than her daughter, was regardless of everything but 
 her ; but when the tender Isabella's care would have 
 likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined 
 Matilda's wound, she cried — 
 
 " Remove me ! never ! never ! I lived but in her, 
 and will expire with her." Matilda raised her eyes 
 at her mother's voice, but closed them again without 
 speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness 
 of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. 
 Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer 
 chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sen- 
 tence with a transport equal to frenzy. 
 
 "Since she cannot live mine," cried he, "at least 
 she shall be mine in death \ Father ! Jerome ! will 
 you not join our hands ? " cried he to the friar, 
 who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the sur- 
 geons. 
 
 " What means thy distracted rashness } " said 
 Jerome ; " is this an hour for marriage 1 " 
 
 " It is, it is," cried Theodore, " alas, there is no 
 other ! " 
 
 "Young man, thou art too unadvised," said 
 Frederic ; " dost thou think we are to listen to thy 
 fond transports in this hour of fate ? What preten- 
 sions hast thou to the princess?" 
 
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." 
 
 J " 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 I am here," cried Hippolita ; 
 " think not I will quit thee ! " 
 
 " Oh, you are too good," said Matilda, " but weep 
 
4C30 THE CASTLE OF OTRAN 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 
 
E 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 forni 
 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 ttiiracle 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 Icist 
 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, wals 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 ! 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. 403 
 
 Ricardo's posterity should reign in Otranto, until the 
 rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit 
 the castle, and as long as issue-male from Ricardo's 
 loins should remain to enjoy it. Alas, alas ! ng* 
 male nor female, except myself, remains of all his 
 wretched race ! I have done — the woes of these 
 three days speak the rest. How this young man 
 can be Alfonso's heir I know not^-yet i do not 
 doubt it. His are these dominions : I resign them — 
 yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir. I question not 
 the will of Heaven — poverty and prayer must fill up 
 the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned 
 to Ricardo." 
 
 "What remains is my part to declare," said 
 Jerome. " When Alfonso set sail for the Holy 
 Hand, he was driven by a storm to the coast of 
 Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and 
 his train, as your Lordship must have heard, was 
 separated from him." 
 
 " It is most true," said Manfred ; " and the title 
 you give me is more than an outcast can claim — 
 Well ! be it so — proceed." 
 
 Jerome blushed, and continued — 
 
 " For three months Lord Alfonso was wi ndbojund 
 in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair 
 virgin named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt 
 her to forbidden pleasures ; they were married. Yet 
 deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow 
 of arms by which he was bound, he determined to 
 conceal their nuptials until his return from the 
 
404 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 
 orr~me. Victoria, died ; and thie-secret femiained 
 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 eacB 
 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 perstia3e3 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 BALLANTVNH, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON. 
 
LONDON, 
 
 14, King William Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 February i8Sj, 
 
 In Twelve Volumes, Crown 8vo, Parchment Boards or 
 Cloth, per Volume, 7s. 6d. 
 
 THE 
 
 OLD SPANISH ROMANCES 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 
 
 Translated from the Spanish of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra 
 by Motteux. With copious Notes (including the Spanish Ballads), 
 and an Essay on the Life and Writings of Cervantes by John G. 
 Lockhart. Preceded by a Short Notice of the Life and Works of 
 Peter Anthony Motteux by Henri Van Laun. Illustrated 
 with Sixteen Original Etchings by R. de Los Rios. Four Volumes. 
 
 LAZARILLO DE TORMES. By Don Diego Mendoza. Trans- 
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 By Mateo Aleman. Translated by Brady. Illustrated with Eight 
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 ASMODEUS. By Le Sage. Translated from the French. Illus- 
 trated with Four Original Etchings by R. de Los Rios. 
 
 THE BACHELOR OF SALAMANCA. By Le Sage. Trans- 
 lated from the French by James Townsend. Illustrated with Four 
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 VANILLO GONZALES ; or. The Merry Bachelor. By Le Sage. 
 Translated from the French. Illustrated with Four Original Etchings 
 by R. de Los Rios. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS OF SANTILLANE. 
 
 Translated from the French of Le Sage by Tobias Smollett. 
 With Biographical and Critical Notice of Le Sage by George 
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 Etchings by Damman from Original Drawings by Harry Furniss. 
 
 THE OLD ENGLISH BARON : A Gothic Story. By Clara 
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 also 
 
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 Walpole. In One Vol. With Two Portraits and Four Original 
 Drawings by A. H. Tourrier, Etched by Damman. 
 
 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. In Four 
 Vols. Carefully Revised and Corrected from the Arabic by Jonathan 
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 THE HISTORY OF THE CALIPH VATHEK. By Wm. 
 
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 In One Vol. With Portrait of Beckford, and Four Original 
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SOME PEESS NOTICES. 
 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " These editions are noteworthy as containing original etchings by artists 
 of high repute. Thus nineteen exquisite plates by the French etcher, M. 
 Lalauze, gives especial attractiveness to the ' Thousand and One Nights ; ' 
 and the two fanciful histories of the Caliph Vathek and Prince Rasselas are 
 illustrated by designs of Mr. A. H. Tourrier, etched by M. Damman. It is 
 a pleasure to hold a ' Robinson Crusoe ' or the ' Tale of a Tub ' in one's 
 hands ; it is a positive luxury to read those masterpieces in a luxurious 
 shape, large print, on good paper, accompanied by exquisite illustrations." 
 
 The Scotsman, 
 
 " These volumes will take rank, for beauty of typography and general 
 excellence of appearance, with any books of the kind that have recently 
 been published ; while the etchings by M. Lalauze are among some of the 
 finest of his productions. They are full of vigour and striking originality, 
 and are what they profess to be — good illustrations of the story to which 
 they relate. There are not many men of wholesome minds who do not find 
 enjoyment in ' Robinson Crusoe ' whenever they can lay hands on it ; and 
 assuredly there is no one possessing anything in the shape'of a library who 
 would not desire to have a good edition of the work among his books ; in 
 short, nothing but praise can be given to this edition of these books. No 
 one can pretend to be acquainted with English literature who is ignorant 
 of any of the works here published. " 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " The merits of this new issue lie in exquisite clearness of type, complete- 
 ness ; notes and biographical notices, short and pithy, and a number of 
 very fine etchings and portraits. The illustrations of Gulliver are particu- 
 larly effective, such as the ' Academy of Laputa ' and the ' Visions of 
 Glubbdubdrib.'" 
 
 London Figaro. 
 
 " We congratulate the publishers upon the issue of a capital series of 
 Old English Romances. They will form a most delightful collection." 
 
 Magazine of Art. 
 
 "The text of the new four volume edition of the ' Thousand and One 
 Nights ' is that revised by Jonathan Scott from the French of Galland. It 
 is, in fact, the text in which the incomparable ' Arabian Nights ' became 
 in England the classic it is. The etchings are uncommonly skilful and 
 finished work ; they contain some charming figures ; they constitute a true 
 attraction. In another volume of this series Beckford's wild and gloomy 
 'Vathek' appears side by side with Johnson's admirable 'Rasselas.'" 
 
 The Literary World. 
 
 "A publishers' notice prefixed to each volume states that 'one thousand 
 copies of this edition have been printed and the type distributed. No more 
 will be published.' Although some of these works are now easily obtain- 
 able in a cheap form, good editions are rare and eagerly sought by those 
 who make any pretence of making a library. Here is an opportunity of 
 securing as choice an. edition as can be desired at a comparatively low 
 price, the value of which will be enhanced before long by its scarcity." 
 
The Times. 
 
 " Prettily printed and prettily illustrated, these attractive volumes de- 
 serve their welcome from all students of seventeenth century literature." 
 
 The Daily News. 
 
 "The merit for modern readers of these old stories lies partly in their 
 inexhaustible wit, their knowledge of human nature, which never grows 
 stale, and partly in their pictures of the old reckless life of Spain. A 
 typical example of these novels is the fictitious autobiography of Guzman 
 d'Alfarache, the Spanish rogue, written by Matthew Aleman at the begin- 
 ning of the seventeenth century." 
 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "A handy and beautiful edition, in twelve volumes, of the' works of 
 the Spanish masters of romance calls for a word of acknowledgment from 
 all who desire to see the lights of foreign literature fitly presented to the 
 notice of English readers. We may say of this edition of the immortal 
 work of Cervantes, that it is most tastefully and admirably executed, and 
 that it is embellished with a series of striking etchings from the pen of the 
 Spanish artist, De Los Rios. . . . Those who have already made acquaint- 
 ance with these masterpieces of exotic humour will need no encouragement 
 to send them once again to a fountain from which such pure enjoyment is 
 to be derived, and in so acceptable a shape as Messrs. Nimmo & Bain 
 have provided." 
 
 The Scotsman. 
 
 "What man of middle age is there, who has been a reader of books, 
 who does not look back with pleasure to his first acquaintance with ' Don 
 Quixote ' or the ' Adventures of Gil Bias ' ? If he has been a wise man 
 of equal mind, he has gone further afield in these romances, and has made 
 acquaintance with 'Asmodeus,' ' The Bachelor of Salamanca,' and other 
 works of a like kind. They have been read by many thousands of British 
 readers, and they will be read by many thousands more. . . . What the 
 reading public have reason to congratulate themselves upon is, that so 
 neat, compact, and well-arranged an edition of romances that can never 
 die is put within their reach. The publishers have spared no pains with 
 them. It has already been said that Mr. Saintsbury has written a 
 prefatorial notice of Le Sage ; a similar work has been done by other 
 hands in the case of Cervantes. It is satisfactory to find publishers turn- 
 ing their attention to the reproduction, in worthy form, of classic fiction ; 
 and the hope may be entertained that in this case the enterprise will meet 
 with merited reward." 
 
 Westminster Review. 
 
 ' ' We notice with warm welcome a new and very handsome illustrated 
 edition of the original ' Arabian Nights Entertainment,' the ' real Simon 
 pure,' and never have we seen the fascinating companion of our youth 
 more ' daintily dight.' Type and paper are both of the finest quality, 
 while M. Lalauze's graceful and delicate etchings lend an additional charm 
 to the text. ' The Thousand and One Nights of Scheherezade ' occupy 
 four goodly volumes, and uniform with them is Beckford's ' Vathek ' and 
 Dr. Johnson's ' Rasselas ' in one volume. 
 
 J. C. NIMMO & BAIN, 
 14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 3658.R504 1883 
 
 The old English baron; a Gothic story .Al 
 
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