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    Frankenstein
    Frankenstein
    Frankenstein
    Ebook280 pages5 hours

    Frankenstein

    By Mary Shelley

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Few creatures of horror have seized readers' imaginations and held them for so long as the anguished monster of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. The story of Victor Frankenstein's terrible creation and the havoc it caused has enthralled generations of readers and inspired countless writers of horror and suspense. Considering the novel's enduring success, it is remarkable that it began merely as a whim of Lord Byron's.
    "We will each write a story," Byron announced to his next-door neighbors, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin and her lover Percy Bysshe Shelley. The friends were summering on the shores of Lake Geneva in Switzerland in 1816, Shelley still unknown as a poet and Byron writing the third canto of Childe Harold. When continued rains kept them confined indoors, all agreed to Byron's proposal.
    The illustrious poets failed to complete their ghost stories, but Mary Shelley rose supremely to the challenge. With Frankenstein, she succeeded admirably in the task she set for herself: to create a story that, in her own words, "would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature and awaken thrilling horror — one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateDec 3, 2013
    ISBN9780486784755
    Author

    Mary Shelley

    Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born in 1797, the daughter of two of the leading radical writers of the age. Her mother died just days after her birth and she was educated at home by her father and encouraged in literary pursuits. She eloped with and subsequently married the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, but their life together was full of hardship. The couple were ruined by disapproving parents and Mary lost three of her four children. Although its subject matter was extremely dark, her first novel Frankenstein (1818) was an instant sensation. Subsequent works such as Mathilda (1819), Valperga (1823) and The Last Man (1826) were less successful but are now finally receiving the critical acclaim that they deserve.

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    Reviews for Frankenstein

    4/5

    366 ratings334 reviews

    What our readers think

    Readers find this title a masterpiece, excellently written and supremely haunting. It is a timeless classic that should be read at least once."

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    • 5/5
      Considered by many to be the first science fiction novel.
    • 4/5
      A chilling tale! I read this in high school, which was a while ago, but even thinking about it now gives me the creeps.
    • 4/5
      Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.
      I have to admit, I was somewhat weary of this book. Despite its short page count, it is very wordy and has long, large paragraphs, and that made the prospect of reading this rather daunting. However, I swallowed my pride and did it, and was greatly rewarded.

      I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.
      Frankenstein and his creature are both so interesting and complex; they're also both so pitiful. So much of their anguish and sorrow could have been avoided if not for human pride. They are both agents of horror and destruction in both action and inaction, and that made for a really interesting story.

      Besides that, it's extremely quotable.

      Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
      I was amazed at how Hollywood has continuously gotten the story wrong, so much so that this book felt entirely unique and the twists were effective. I don't know whether I should scorn or love Hollywood for their utter failure to accurately adapt this book into a faithful film. On one hand, this book deserves a great movie. On the other, the plot integrity of a very old book was maintained. The television show Penny Dreadful had a Frankenstein story line that was remarkably close to the source material considering, and the few big changes it made were justified in the larger story.

      I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.
      The themes in this were amazing! I love complex characters and dark, ambiguous morality in my literature. To be completely honest, I sympathized with Frankenstein way more than the monster, which I hadn't thought I would going into it. I loved both characters though.

      Overall, it's a great book with an awesome story, and everyone should read it.
    • 5/5
      Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.
    • 4/5
      It has taken me decades, but I finally read this classic horror novel. I have no excuse for the procrastination, but it turned out to be a nice surprise because it is much different from the movies, we are so familiar with. The films and vampire lore surrounding Dracula, seem to have followed closely to that novel, but Shelley's Frankenstein is a much more philosophical exploration, asking big questions about nature, mankind and our different responsibilities to each. This is even more impressive if you consider that the author was only eighteen when she wrote it. If you are still perched on a fence, over this one, reconsider, and give it a try. It also worked very well as an audiobook.
    • 2/5
      I didn't finish this story, perhaps because I'd tired of Victorian/Gothic fiction by the time I'd started reading this novel. Perhaps, it was because I hadn't expected a frame story about how the hedonistic Dr. Frankenstein created a person on whim, abandoned him, and refused to take responsibility even as his creation showed an infantile inability to move on from his traumatic rebirth without guidance.

      Half-way through the story, I was rooting for someone to shove the doctor off a cliff and help Frankenstein's monster to become a self-sufficient man. I doubt the end is that cheerful.

      There is a strong possibility that this story can be a trigger from adults who'd suffered neglect and abandonment in childhood. I appreciate that Shelley wrote a story that can elicit strong emotions through its plot, but it was too difficult to continue at times. I felt that too much of the story was told from Dr. Frankenstein's point of view (POV), making the section from the unnamed monster's POV more painful.

      One day, I'll try reading all the way through with different expectations.
    • 4/5
      I haven't read this since high school so it felt like I was reading it for the first time. There was so much more here than I remembered, both in plot and in ideas. Well worth a re-read.
    • 4/5
      I can understand all the love I hear for this book. It is writing is eloquent and you can fell the time period the author is from. Sadly, this extreme difference is noticed because of how many (terrible) writing styles there are in this day. I cant say much that is not already said about this book. If you are someone who enjoys very well written art, this is for you. Writing style is not what I judge highly, as long as I can feel what the characters are feeling and see what they have seen, I enjoy a book. As for the person who wrote that Hollywood got it terribly wrong, they did. I listened to this on audio book (amazing reader btw, George Guidall is brilliant -I loved his audio reading of The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm By: Nancy Farmer.
    • 5/5
      Read this in high school and loved it, I still love it, such a brilliant mine to come up with the characters and story.
    • 3/5
      I've had Frankenstein on my to read list for years. This summer, my 14 yr. old niece was telling me about how it's her favorite book, so I decided to bump it up the pile and read it. I will be very interested to talk to her about this book. I really didn't like it. It is a miserable story and it makes me wonder whether anything could have been different, if, for example, Frankenstein had been kind to his monster? Everyone dies, everyone is unhappy, and it's so pathetically sad that any creepy factor gets totally lost. Sigh. I never thought I'd say that I liked Dracula better, but I did. I liked Dracula better.
    • 4/5
       I had to read Frankenstein as required reading my senior year of high school and I loved it. It was just the right amount of suspense, creepiness, and some big questions of morality. Reading this one also clarified any misconceptions I had about who was who - Frankenstein is Frankenstein, not his monster, and he does some pretty insane things pushing the boundaries between life and death in his obsession to bring back the one he loves. I found this fascinating and couldn't put the book down. It, for the most part, is close to the level of my love for Dracula.
    • 4/5
      A fairly quick read, and enjoyable.
    • 5/5
      Quality!

      At one time this was my favorite classic novel--I've read it 4 times for 4 different classes and it's amazing how many different interpretations are out there regarding the nature of the monster! One professor believed he didn't exist at all--a figment of Victor's imagination or a manifestation of his oedipus complex. The fact that the men at the end witness the existence of the monster is an example of group hysteria. That's my favorite thesis and I wish I could remember the name of my professor that suggested it to give her credit!
      A chilling and complex tale that examines the relationship between man and his creator, feelings of isolation and rejection, and monstrosity. A psychological thriller as much as a horror story. Recommended to lit majors especially!
      By the way, this isn't my copy but one from a library book sale. Mine is so full of notes you can barely read the text anymore...
    • 4/5
      This book was excellently written and very philosophical, and way depressing. It's also very worth reading.
    • 3/5
      I wanted to like this book more than I did. The story of Frankenstein is in pop-culture enough that I knew pretty well what the book was about. What I didn't expect was how pathetic Frankenstein is, whining about everything and taking almost no responsibility for his own thoughts and actions. He gets awfully dramatic about his early education, as if he could really blame one conversation in his youth for his entire adult obsession over making his monster. Similarly, the monster seems incapable of taking responsibility for his choices and actions, even after he has become the articulate, intelligent creature he is when he starts killing people. I suppose if Frankenstein is a restrained sociopath, and Frankenstein is an expression of his repressed fantasies, maybe it makes some sense, but since Frankenstein narrates most of the story (in his whining style) I found this book to be a slow and not-so enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      I loved this book and can't believe how differently this story has been portrayed by American culture. Aside from the sheer disbelief that everyone who has not read the book has gotten the story so WRONG, I often found myself getting wrapped up in the eloquence of Shelley's words. The way she described some of the most mundane things was simply beautiful.

      I loved the story within a story within a story. I felt it allowed us to not only see the characters as they saw themselves, but also as the respective narrator saw them. Though there were portions that I felt weren't necessary (Chapter 19 read like the most boring travel brochure ever) I appreciated most of it. Frankenstein's overall struggle and loss as a result of his "playing god" was heartbreaking.
    • 5/5
      total classic book, one of the best books i have ever read and one of my favourite. when i read this i got goosebumps and shivers down my spine it terrified me but i could not put it down. brilliant book. must read for any horror lover.
    • 4/5
      It was good:)
    • 5/5
      This is primarily a novel that sets out to create an atmosphere of fear, horror and despair and succeeds admirably in so doing. Mary Shelley must have had an appalling dream but she brought it to life in wonderful, evocative language and at such a young age (only 19 when she wrote the book). The monster is so different from the monster of the films. Here he is no lumbering, stupid brute, but an agile, resourceful and calculating creature who can and does conduct a deep and thoughtful dialogue with his creator when explaining his background story. But at the same time the monster carries out horrible murders of Frankenstein's nearest and dearest and these deaths are shocking when they happen. The science is almost non-existent and we never find out how Frankenstein creates the monster nor indeed what the monster really looks like other than being repulsively hideous. But that is not the purpose of the book, which is to set a mood and raise philosophical questions about the purpose of scientific discovery. And Mary Shelley does this brilliantly.
    • 4/5
      A scientist creates a creature who then terrorizes the nearby town. The monster learns about the town and the people in it to where he can understand and communicate. This teaches kids no matter ones appearance, we should learn to accept them for who they are and not judge them by what they look like.
    • 3/5
      This was my second time reading Frankenstein and each time I have struggled with the same issues. I find it very hard to get into the story and once I'm there the narrator is so unreliable I am constantly frustrated by him. I love that the actual story of Frankenstein is so different than what is known in pop culture. I only wish I loved the book more.
    • 5/5
      (Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted illegally.)The CCLaP 100: In which I read for the first time a hundred so-called "classics," then write reports on whether or not they deserve the labelEssay #36: Frankenstein (1818), by Mary ShelleyThe story in a nutshell:To truly understand why Mary Shelley's 1818 Frankenstein first had the impact that it did, it's of crucial importance to understand the times in which it was written -- namely, the transitional years between the end of the Enlightenment and the beginning of Romanticism (also known as the "Victorian Age," in that its span largely matches the long reign of England's Queen Victoria), a period in which for the first time, huge amounts of people were starting to question the validity of trying to live one's life through the long-held tenets of rationality, scientific distance and atheism, especially after the disaster known as the French Revolution that had just occurred two decades previous. Certainly this is the main idea driving Shelley's story, the tale of a young aspiring medical student in rural Switzerland, who for lack of knowing better grows up studying and believing in the ideas of the "natural philosophers" and "alchemists" of the 1600s, back when it was sincerely believed that man would eventually figure out a way to turn lead into gold and bring the dead back to life. Even after he gets into a decent university, then, young Victor Frankenstein still can't give up on his dreams of one day creating artificial life out of a collection of spare parts; and indeed, by his twenties he actually succeeds at such a thing, although having to build his particular human much larger than the norm so that he's able to grip all the tiny little pieces involved.But watching his creature move and speak for the first time, Frankenstein becomes horrified by the monstrous abomination against God he's made; and so in typical undergraduate fashion, he simply runs away and tries to pretend that the whole thing never happened, leaving the creature in the woods to fend for itself and just assuming that it'll soon be dead. But surprisingly, the creature ends up thriving as a survivalist, first learning how to speak by loitering on the edges of a rural village, then eavesdropping on the villagers' conversations to realize just how different he is than them. Despondent, the creature eventually tracks Frankenstein down and demands that he build a similarly oversized companion for him, which at first Frankenstein agrees to but then destroys halfway through, queasy at the thought of what kind of damage two such creatures could wreak; and it's at this point that the creature declares a lifelong program of vengeance against Frankenstein for so coldly abandoning him, eventually not only killing half a dozen of the student's acquaintances (including his brother, his father and his wife), but even framing Frankenstein for one of the murders. Incensed, Frankenstein decides to hunt down the creature for his own revenge; this then leads them on a globetrotting chase culminating in a final showdown near the north pole, witnessed by a crew of exploratory sailors which is why it is that we supposedly know of the tale today.The argument for it being a classic:Well, to begin with, there's the simple argument of what a huge influence this has had on popular culture at large, with there now existing thousands of projects that in one way or another riff on either Frankenstein's monster itself or Shelley's general concept of the "mad scientist." (Of course, let's not forget that the vast majority of these are actually riffs on James Whale's infamous 1931 film adaptation, which in reality has very little to do with the book itself -- for example, just look at the differing ways the book and movie deal with one of the story's most famous scenes... BOOK: "One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects." MOVIE: "Fire bad! FIRE BAD!!!") Perhaps the more compelling argument, then, is that it's a perfect record of a very important time in history, a story that very cleverly references not only the events that led to the era before it but also the reasons why that era was eventually rejected; because for those who don't know, the Great Age of Reason initially started with these so-called natural philosophers of the 1600s, who did nothing but observe and replicate the way God worked out in nature, but by the 1800s had evolved into "scientists" who were actively attempting to manipulate and change this natural environment, which more and more people began to see as a mockery of God instead of an exaltation of Him. Although trashed by Enlightenment-trained critics when first coming out, Frankenstein was eagerly eaten up by the gothic-obsessed public at large, making it as powerful a reflection of its time as The DaVinci Code is of ours.The argument against:Not much these days, although for a long time it was argued that Frankenstein is nothing more than a simple piece of lurid entertainment designed for overly dramatic housewives, and not fit for being debated as a piece of literature to begin with. (In fact, I think it telling that when the book was first published anonymously, criticism tended to focus on its actual quality, while after the author's identity became known it was roundly dismissed altogether as "the work of a girl.") But of course, as with all literature, time has a way of profoundly changing our opinion of what constitutes artistic "worth," making this not much of a valid argument anymore.My verdict:As you can imagine, today I quite solidly fall on the side of Frankenstein's fans, although I should give fair warning that this book is very much a product of its early-1800s times, and has a tendency during huge sections to ramble on and on in a kind of flowery prose style that modern ears are not used to. In fact, for those trying to learn more these days about artistic history, I think it's no coincidence that this book was published just a year after the death of Jane Austen, who many consider the last great Enlightenment author; in this respect, then, you can see Shelley as the first of the great Romantic authors, and the 1810s and '20s as the grand changing of the guard among mainstream society between the former age and the latter. The fact is that Romanticism was always as much about one's attitude and lifestyle as it was about the finished works themselves, the age that first posited the idea of the artist as a passionate, tortured soul, traits which Shelley possessed in spades; because for those who don't know, she was not only married to scandalous poet Percy Shelley and kept company with such infamous libertines as Lord Byron (inspiration for the Victorian Age's "Byronic hero"), but even the story itself was apparently inspired by a nightmare after a raucous evening of drugs and medieval German fairytales*, about as Romantic as Romanticism gets. (And let's not even get started on the the autobiographical elements this book supposedly contains, including the argument that the whole thing is a scathing criticism of the way Percy dealt with the miscarriage of their first child.) Creepy, supernatural, concerned mostly with the pouty emotions of moody geniuses, Frankenstein is literally a textbook example of the finest early Romanticism has to offer, and its passionate embrace by the general public was a sign of the sea-change society was to start experiencing just twenty years later.Is it a classic? Yes*And by the way, for a creepily fantastic look at what that night of drugs and fairytales might've looked like, do make sure to check out Ken Russell's 1986 Gothic, one of my absolutely favorite movies when I was a teen.
    • 5/5
      Reading online on my Wattpad app on Iphone. Already read it once before but I am re-reading it. Great fluid language.
    • 5/5
      Horribly mistreated by critics and analysts who won't allow the work to stand on it's own and insist on dissecting it until it's beauty can no longer be seen. Beautifully written, certainly a classic, and among my favorite books. But I wish people would stop trying to chop it up.
    • 3/5
      The story is good and addresses some interesting moral and philosophical topics, although the writing style is a bit verbose. It's worth a read if for no other reason than to dispel the myths created by the movie versions of the story. I found it entertaining and, in some respects, had much more compassion for the monster than for Victor Frankenstein.
    • 5/5
      My researches revealed Mary Shelley wrote this gothic masterpiece when still only 22 years old. Beautiful descriptive prose, inventive central ideas combining new scientfic ideas with Man's vaunting ambition. Often poignant. Mary's original narrative is far superior to the modern parodies available.
    • 4/5
      If you haven't read this book, you should! Movies about the Frankenstein monster don't do him justice. When you read this book you will definitely understand a lot of the monster's actions and sympathize with him.
    • 5/5
      The critical edition includes the 1818 edition of Frankenstein, plus annotations and critical articles (primary sources and secondary sources). In general, it is aimed at undergraduate students of English and Literature. Also, it is highly useful for writing essais and for writing thematic index cards.
    • 4/5
      Yeah I know, its dated, the language is excessive and sometimes so elevated as to be faintly absurd, the frame is probably not necessary, and the women are mostly useless. And yet, somehow it still captures my imagination.
    • 4/5
      Take the challenge and read Frankenstein and look for contemporary issues, i.e., cloning. As you discover the real monster in the book could that also correlate to the world of today?

    Book preview

    Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

    Letter II

    To Mrs Saville, England.

    Archangel, March 28th, 17—.

    HOW SLOWLY the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged, appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

    But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

    Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory: or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

    The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune; and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, intreated him to spare her, confessing at the time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. What a noble fellow! you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

    Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season; so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

    I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions to the land of mist and snow; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety, or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the Ancient Mariner. You will smile at my allusion; but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of the ocean, to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically industrious—pains-taking;—a workman to execute with perseverance and labour:—but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

    But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

    Your affectionate brother,

    Robert Walton.

    Letter III

    To Mrs Saville, England.

    July 7th, 17—.

    My dear Sister,

    I WRITE a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

    No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

    Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering and prudent.

    But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas: the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?

    My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

    R.W.

    Letter IV

    To Mrs Saville, England.

    August 5th, 17—.

    SO STRANGE an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

    Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

    About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situations. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.

    This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.

    About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea;¹ and before night the ice broke, and freed out ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

    In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but an European. When I appeared on deck, the master said, Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.

    On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. Before I come on board your vessel, said he, will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?

    You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

    Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life, we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup which restored him wonderfully.

    Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature; his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if any one performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth; as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

    When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle?

    His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he replied, To seek one who fled from me.

    And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?

    Yes.

    Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.

    This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the daemon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to make enquiries.

    Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.

    And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation: you have benevolently restored me to life.

    Soon after this he enquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.

    From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that some one should watch for him and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

    Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters the cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

    I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart.

    I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.

    August 13th, 17—.

    My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery, without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

    He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success, and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced, to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul; and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers,—a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused;—at length he spoke, in broken accents:—Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me,—let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!

    Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.

    Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told: but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend—of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness, who did not enjoy this blessing.

    I agree with you, replied the stranger; we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I—I have lost every thing and cannot begin life anew.

    As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently retired to his cabin.

    Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

    Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not, if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses, that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing

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