STRAWBERRY HILL, _March_ 9, 1765.
Dear Sir,--I had time to write but a short note with the "Castle of
Otranto," as your messenger called on me at four o'clock, as I was going
to dine abroad. Your partiality to me and Strawberry have, I hope,
inclined you to excuse the wildness of the story. You will even have
found some traits to put you in mind of this place. When you read of
the picture quitting its panel, did not you recollect the portrait of
Lord Falkland, all in white, in my Gallery? Shall I even confess to you,
what was the origin of this romance! I waked one morning, in the
beginning of last June, from a dream, of which, all I could recover was,
that I had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for
a head filled like mine with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost
banister 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 completed
in less than two months, that one evening, I wrote from the time I had
drunk my tea, about six o'clock, till half an hour after one in the
morning, when my hand 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. You will laugh at my earnestness; but if I
have amused you, by retracing with any fidelity the manners of ancient
days, I am content, and give you leave to think me idle as you
please....
Lord Essex's trial is printed with the State Trials. In return for your
obliging offer, I can acquaint you with a delightful publication of this
winter, "A Collection of Old Ballads and Poetry," in three volumes, many
from Pepys's Collection at Cambridge. There were three such published
between thirty and forty years ago, but very carelessly, and wanting
many in this set: indeed, there were others, of a looser sort, which the
present editor [Dr. Percy[1]], who is a clergyman, thought it decent to
omit....
[Footnote 1: Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore, in Ireland, was the heir male
of the ancient Earls of Northumberland, and the title of his collection
was "Reliques of English Poetry." He was also himself the author of more
than one imitation of the old ballads, one of which is mentioned by
Johnson in a letter to Mr. Langton: "Dr. Percy has written a long ballad
in many _fits_ [fyttes]. It is pretty enough: he has printed and will
soon publish it" (Boswell, iii., ann. 1771).]
My bower is determined, but not at all what it is to be. Though I write
romances, I cannot tell how to build all that belongs to them. Madame
Danois, in the Fairy Tales, used to _tapestry_ them with _jonquils_; but
as that furniture will not last above a fortnight in the year, I shall
prefer something more huckaback. I have decided that the outside shall
be of _treillage_, which, however, I shall not commence, till I have
again seen some of old Louis's old-fashioned _Galanteries_ at
Versailles. Rosamond's bower, you, and I, and Tom Hearne know, was a
labyrinth: but as my territory will admit of a very short clew, I lay
aside all thoughts of a mazy habitation: though a bower is very
different from an arbour, and must have more chambers than one. In
short, I both know, and don't know what it should be. I am almost afraid
I must go and read Spenser, and wade through his allegories, and
drawling stanzas, to get at a picture. But, good night! you see how one
gossips, when one is alone, and at quiet on one's own dunghill!--Well!
it may be trifling; yet it is such trifling as Ambition never is happy
enough to know! Ambition orders palaces, but it is Content that chats
for a page or two over a bower.
_ILLNESS OF THE KING--FRENCH AND ENGLISH ACTORS AND ACTRESSES: CLAIRON,
GARRICK, QUIN, MRS. CLIVE._