library of an old Catholic family in the north of England.  In the preface to his second edition Walpole described the work as “an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, the ancient and the modern”:  declared that, in introducing humorous dialogues among the servants of the castle, he had taken nature and Shakspere for his models; and fell foul of Voltaire for censuring the mixture of buffoonery and solemnity in Shakspere’s tragedies.  Walpole’s claim to having created a new species of romance has been generally allowed.  “His initiative in literature,” says Mr. Stephen, “has been as fruitful as his initiative in art.  ‘The Castle of Otranto,’ and the ‘Mysterious Mother,’ were the progenitors of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances, and probably had a strong influence upon the author of ‘Ivanhoe.’  Frowning castles and gloomy monasteries, knights in armor and ladies in distress, and monks, and nuns, and hermits; all the scenery and characters that have peopled the imagination of the romantic school, may be said to have had their origin on the night when Walpole lay down to sleep, his head crammed full of Wardour Street curiosities, and dreamed that he saw a gigantic hand in armor resting on the banisters of his staircase.”

It is impossible at this day to take “The Castle of Otranto” seriously, and hard to explain the respect with which it was once mentioned by writers of authority.  Warburton called it “a master-piece in the Fable, and a new species likewise. . .  The scene is laid in Gothic chivalry; where a beautiful imagination, supported by strength of judgment, has enabled the reader to go beyond his subject and effect the full purpose of the ancient tragedy; i.e., to purge the passions by pity and terror, in coloring as great and harmonious as in any of the best dramatic writers.”  Byron called Walpole the author of the last tragedy[13] and the first romance in the language.  Scott wrote of “The Castle of Otranto”:  “This romance has been justly considered, not only as the original and model of a peculiar species of composition attempted and successfully executed by a man of great genius, but as one of the standard works of our lighter literature.”  Gray in a letter to Walpole (December 30, 1764), acknowledging the receipt of his copy, says:  “It makes some of us cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed o’ nights.”  Walpole’s masterpiece can no longer make anyone cry even a little; and instead of keeping us out of bed, it sends us there—­or would, if it were a trifle longer.  For the only thing that is tolerable about the book is its brevity, and a certain rapidity in the action.  Macaulay, who confesses its absurdity and insipidity, says that no reader, probably, ever thought it dull.  “The story, whatever its value may be, never flags for a single moment.  There are no digressions, or unreasonable descriptions, or long speeches.  Every sentence carries the action forward.  The excitement is constantly renewed.”  Excitement is too strong a word to describe any emotion which “The Castle of Otranto” is now capable of arousing.  But the same cleverness which makes Walpole’s correspondence always readable saves his romance from the unpardonable sin—­in literature—­of tediousness.  It does go along and may still be read without a too painful effort.