



Produced by Jack Voller








THE OLD ENGLISH BARON


By Clara Reeve




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.

This 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 distinguished 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 civilized ones; and although some persons
of wit and learning have condemned them indiscriminately, I would
venture to affirm, that even those 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 shews 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 beg leave to conduct my
reader back again, till he comes within view of The Castle of Otranto;
a work which, as already has been observed, is an attempt to unite the
various merits and graces of the ancient Romance and modern Novel.
To attain this end, there is required a sufficient degree of the
marvellous, to excite the attention; enough of the manners of real life,
to give an air of probability to the work; and enough of the pathetic,
to engage the heart in its behalf.

The book we have mentioned is excellent in the two last points, but
has a redundancy in the first; the opening excites the attention
very strongly; the conduct of the story is artful and judicious; the
characters are admirably drawn and supported; the diction polished and
elegant; yet, with all these brilliant advantages, it palls upon the
mind (though it does not upon the ear); and the reason is obvious, the
machinery is so violent, that it destroys the effect it is intended to
excite. Had the story been kept within the utmost verge of probability,
the effect had been preserved, without losing the least circumstance
that excites or detains the attention.

For instance; we can conceive, and allow of, the appearance of a ghost;
we can even dispense with an enchanted sword and helmet; but then they
must keep within certain limits of credibility: A sword so large as
to require an hundred men to lift it; a helmet that by its own weight
forces a passage through a court-yard 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
dissolved, 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 compose 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: A GOTHIC STORY.


In the minority of Henry the Sixth, King of England, when the renowned
John, Duke of Bedford was Regent of France, and Humphrey, 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 honourable fame, and was no less
esteemed for Christian virtues than for deeds of chivalry. After the
death of his prince, he entered into the service of the Greek emperor,
and distinguished his courage against the encroachments of the Saracens.
In a battle there, he took prisoner a certain gentleman, by name M.
Zadisky, of Greek extraction, but brought up by a Saracen officer; this
man he converted to the Christian faith; after which he bound him to
himself by the ties of friendship and gratitude, and he resolved to
continue with his benefactor. After thirty years travel and warlike
service, he determined to return to his native land, and to spend the
remainder of 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, contracted a strict
friendship with the only son of the Lord Lovel, a gentleman of eminent
virtues and accomplishments. During Sir Philip's residence in foreign
countries, he had frequently written to his friend, and had for a time
received answers; the last informed him of the death of old Lord Lovel,
and the marriage of the young one; but from that time he had heard no
more from him. Sir Philip imputed it not to neglect or forgetfulness,
but to the difficulties of intercourse, common at that time to all
travellers and adventurers. When he was returning home, he resolved,
after looking into his family affairs, to visit the Castle of Lovel, and
enquire 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 every thing was
restored to him. He took possession of his own house, established 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, attended by only
one of his old servants, he set out 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
further; 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 enquire of every
one he met, whether the Lord Lovel resided at the seat of his ancestors?
He was answered by one, he did not know; by another, he could not tell;
by a third, that he never heard of such a person. Sir Philip thought it
strange that a man of Lord Lovel's consequence should be unknown in
his own neighbourhood, and where his ancestors had usually resided. He
ruminated on the uncertainty 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 is 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 farther enquiry 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 enquire 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 survived his father but a
short time."

"Dead! say you? how long since?"

"About fifteen years, to the best of my remembrance."

Sir Philip sighed deeply.

"Alas!" said he, "what do we, by living long, but survive all our
friends! But pray tell me how he died?"

"I will, sir, to the best of my knowledge. An't please your honour,
I heard say, that he attended the King when he went against the Welch
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 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
unfortunate lady, what became of her?"

"Why, a'nt please your honour, they said she died of grief for the loss
of her husband; but her death was kept private for a time, and we did
not know it for certain till some weeks afterwards."

"The will of Heaven be obeyed!" said Sir Philip; "but who succeeded to
the title and estate?"

"The next heir," said the peasant, "a kinsman of the deceased, Sir
Walter Lovel by name."

"I have seen him," said Sir Philip, "formerly; but where was he when
these events happened?"

"At the Castle of Lovel, sir; he came there on a visit to the lady, and
waited there to receive my Lord, at his return from Wales; when the news
of his death arrived, Sir Walter did every thing 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?"

"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 every thing 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 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 satisfied 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 conscious 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 speed?"

"Shall I tell all that passed?" said John.

"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 had 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 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