CHAPTER II.
Early Favourites—The Castle of Otranto—Rollin's Ancient History.
The references made by Thackeray to the romances which thrilled the sympathies of novel-readers in his youth are spread throughout his writings. In the 'Roundabout Paper' devoted to reminiscences of fictions which delighted his schooldays, he whimsically deplores that Time, among other insatiable propensities, should devour the glories of novels, and especially of those which have befriended his youth; that no friendly hand should take the volumes down from their long rest on the library shelves; that the profits of the forlorn novelists should dwindle infinitesimally as the popularity of their bantlings fades, until limbo finally takes them into indefinite keeping.
In another paper, 'De Juventate,' he makes an earlier record of his partiality for the imaginary companions of his boyhood. After alluding to the games of his time, which he finds little changed, Mr. Roundabout reverts to his favourite old novels, and challenges the present day to rival their attractions, as far as his boyish imagination was concerned. 'O "Scottish Chiefs," didn't we weep over you? O "Mysteries of Udolpho," didn't I and Briggs minor draw pictures out of you, as I have said?'
On the title-page of one of his old class-books, 'The Eton Latin Grammar,' we find fanciful scribblings, in the manner of Skelt's once famous theatrical characters, of schoolboy versions of Sir William Wallace triumphing over the fallen Sir Aymer de Valence, while Thaddeus of Warsaw, attired in a square Polish cap, laced jacket, tights, and Hessian boots, his belt stuck round with pistols, is gallantly flourishing a curly sabre.
Sketches of this picturesque nature seem to have held a certain charm over the novelist's fancy through life; the impressions of his boyhood are jotted down in all sorts of melodramatic fragments.
Similar reminiscences, applying to different stages of our writer's career, and forming portions of the illustrations to 'Thackerayana,' will be recognised throughout this work.
We endeavour to trace sufficient of the thread of the once familiar story of 'The Castle of Otranto' (published in 1782, the fourth edition), enlivened with highly droll marginal pencillings, to assist our readers in a ready appreciation of the point and character of the little designs, as it is more than probable that, by this time, the interest and incidents of the original fiction are somewhat obscured in the memories of our readers. We follow the words of the author as closely as possible.
'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 only fifteen, and of a sickly constitution; he was the hope of his father, who had contracted a marriage for him with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella. The bride elect had been delivered by the guardians into Manfred's hands, that the marriage might take place as soon as Conrad's infirm health would permit it. The impatience of the prince for the completion of this ceremonial was attributed to his dread of seeing an ancient prophecy accomplished, which 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."
'Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for the marriage; the company were assembled in the chapel of the castle, everything ready,—but the bridegroom was missing! The prince, in alarm, went in search of his son. The first object that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes. "What are ye doing?" he cried, wrathfully; "where is my son?" A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my lord! the prince! the helmet! the helmet!" Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading 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 enormous helmet, a hundred times larger than any casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.
'The consternation produced by this murderous apparition did not diminish. Isabella was, however, relieved at her escape from an ill-assorted union. Manfred continued to gaze at the terrible casque. No one could explain its presence. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet was like that on the figure in black marble, in the church of St. Nicholas, of Alonzo the Good (the original Prince of Otranto, who died without leaving an ascertained heir, and whose steward, Manfred's grandfather, had illegally contrived to obtain possession of the castle, estates, and title). "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 peasant was secured, and confined, as a necromancer, under the gigantic helmet, there to be starved to death. Manfred retired to his chamber to meditate in solitude over the blow which had descended on his house. His gentle daughter, Matilda, heard his disordered footsteps. She was 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. His dejected daughter returned to her mother, the pious Hippolita, who was being comforted by Isabella. A servant, on the part of Manfred, informed the latter that Manfred demanded to speak with her. "With me!" cried Isabella. "Go," said Hippolita, "console him, and tell him that 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. The iniquitous Manfred then proposed, that as his son was dead, Isabella should espouse him instead, and he would divorce the virtuous Hippolita. Manfred, on her refusal, resorted to violence, when the plumes of the fatal helmet suddenly waved to and fro tempestuously in the moonlight. Manfred, disregarding the portent, cried—"Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs," and advanced 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. Manfred was distracted between his pursuit of Isabella and the aspect of the picture, which quitted its panel and stepped on the floor with a grave and melancholy air. The vision sighed and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. "Lead on!" cried Manfred; "I will follow thee to the gulph of perdition." The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery. Manfred followed, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. The spectre retired. Isabella had fled to a subterranean passage leading from the Castle to the Sanctuary of St. Nicholas. In this vault she encountered the young peasant who had provoked the animosity of Manfred. He lifted up a secret trap-door, and Isabella made her escape; but Manfred and his followers prevented the flight of the daring stranger. The prince, who expected to secure Isabella, was considerably startled to discover this youth in her stead. The weight of the helmet had broken the pavement above, and he had thus alighted in time to assist Isabella, whose disappearance he denied. A noise of voices startled Manfred, who was alarmed by fresh indications of hostile evidences. Jacques and Diego, two of his retainers, detailed the fresh cause of alarm. It was thus: they had heard a noise—they opened a door and ran back, their hair standing on end with terror.
'"It is a giant, I believe," said Diego; "he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet below in the court. We heard a violent motion, and the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising. Before we could get to the end of the gallery we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us; but for Heaven's sake, good my lord, send for the chaplain and have the place exorcised, for it is certainly haunted." The attendants searched for Isabella in vain. The next morning father Jerome arrived, announcing that she had taken refuge at the altar of St. Nicholas. He came to inform Hippolita of the perfidy of her husband. Manfred prevented him, saying, "I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the 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 and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I forgive your highness's uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier Prince than Manfred. Hearken to Him who speaks through my organs." The good father—to divert Manfred by a subterfuge from his unhallowed designs—suggested that there might, perhaps, be an attachment between the peasant and his recluse. Manfred was so enraged that he ordered the youth who defied him to be executed forthwith. The removal of the peasant's doublet disclosed the mark of a bloody arrow. "Gracious Heaven!" cried the priest, starting, "what do I see? it is my child! my Theodore!" Manfred was deaf to the prayers of the father and friar, and ordered the tragedy to proceed. "A saint's bastard may be no saint himself," said the prince sternly. The friar exclaimed, "His blood is noble; he is my lawful son, and I am the Count of Falconara!" At this critical juncture the tramp of horses was heard, the sable plumes of the enchanted helmet were again agitated, and a brazen trumpet was sounded without. "Father," said Manfred, "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 the prince. The new arrival was a herald from the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre, who requested to speak with the Usurper of Otranto.
'Manfred was enraged at this message; he ordered Jerome to be thrust out, and to reconduct Isabella to the castle, and commanded Theodore to be confined in the black tower. He then directed 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 treacherously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians during his absence; 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 Alonzo the Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he defies thee to single combat to the last extremity." And so saying, the herald cast down his warder. Manfred knew how well founded this claim was; indeed, his object in seeking an alliance with Isabella had been to unite the claimants in one interest.
'The herald was despatched to bid the champions welcome, and the prince ordered the gates to be flung open for the reception of the stranger knight and his retinue. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers with wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets. Then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as many horse. After them fifty foot-men 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 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 foot-men 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. A hundred gentlemen bearing 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 trumpets, closed the procession. Manfred invited the train to enter the great hall of his castle. He proposed to the stranger to disarm, but the knight shook his head in token of refusal. "Rest here," said Manfred; "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 conducted to an adjacent hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception of pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the ground opposite the helmet, remained immovable.
'Manfred, almost hardened to supernatural 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 at ease was his heart, 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 sparingly. During the parley Father Jerome hurried in to report the disappearance of Isabella. The knights and their retinue dispersed to search the neighbourhood, and Manfred, with his vassals, quitted the castle to confuse their movements. Theodore was still confined in the black tower, but his guards were gone. The gentle Matilda came to his assistance; she carried him to her father's armoury, and having equipped him with a complete suit, conducted him to the postern-gate. "Avoid the town," said the princess, "but hie thee to the opposite quarter; yonder is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns that lead to the sea-coast. 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 suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get himself knighted, and fervently intreated her permission to swear himself eternally her champion. He then 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.'
We must now crowd the sequel of this remarkable story into the smallest possible space. In the caverns Theodore recovered the distracted Isabella; but a knight arrived at the moment of his happy discovery, and mistrusting her deliverer, while Theodore deceived himself as to the intentions of the stranger, a desperate combat ensued, and the younger champion gained the victory. The stranger knight explained his mistake, and revealed himself as the missing Marquis of Vicenza, father to Isabella, and nearest heir to Alonzo. He anticipated his wounds were fatal, but he recovered at the castle. Manfred artfully pursued his unholy designs for a union with Isabella. He gave a great feast, with this object, but Theodore withdrew from the revelry to pray with Matilda at the tomb of Alonzo. Manfred followed him to the chapel, believing his companion was Isabella, and struck his dagger through the heart of his daughter. He was overwhelmed with remorse for his error, on discovering that he had murdered his child. Theodore revealed to Frederic that he was the real and rightful successor to Alonzo. This declaration was confirmed by the apparition of Alonzo. Thunder and a clank of more than mortal armour was heard. The walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alonzo, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins. 'Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alonzo!' said the vision, and, ascending solemnly towards heaven, the clouds parted asunder, and the form of St. Nicholas received Alonzo's shade. Manfred confessed, in his terror, that Alonzo had been poisoned by his grandfather, and a fictitious will had accomplished his treacherous end. Jerome further revealed that Alonzo had secretly espoused Victoria, a Sicilian virgin. After the good knight's decease a daughter was born. Her hand had been bestowed on him, the disguised Count of Falconara. Theodore was the fruit of their marriage, thus establishing his direct right to the principality. Manfred and his virtuous wife, Hippolita, retired to neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new prince, but 'it was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of dear Matilda that he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul,' with which cheerful prospect the 'Castle of Otranto' is brought to an appropriate conclusion.
On the fly-leaf at the end of this worthy novel follows a sketch suggestive of the out-of-door sports alluded to earlier.
An instance of the felicitous parodies to which the works of grave historians are liable at the hands of a budding satirist is supplied by 'Rollin's Ancient History,' one of the books of which we feel bound to give more than a passing notice; we therefore select the more tempting passages of the eight volumes forming the particular edition in question, to which a fresh interest is contributed by certain slight but pertinent pencillings probably referable to a somewhat later period.