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    Frankenstein
    Frankenstein
    Frankenstein
    Ebook260 pages4 hours

    Frankenstein

    By Mary Shelley

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    There is no greater novel in the monster genre than "Frankenstein" and no more well known monster than the one that is at the center of this novel. However, the monster of "Frankenstein" is more than the common lumbering moronic giant that is most often represented. "Frankenstein's" monster is in reality a thinking intelligent being who is tormented by world in which he does not belong. In this depiction Shelley draws upon the universal human themes of creation, the nature of existence, and the need for acceptance. For it is without this acceptance that the true monster, the violent nature of humanity, emerges.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9780975322222
    Author

    Mary Shelley

    Mary Shelley (1797–1851) was a novelist who is best known for writing the Gothic novel Frankenstein (1818). She edited and promoted the works of her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley. Her father was the political philosopher William Godwin and her mother was the philosopher and women's rights advocate Mary Wollstonecraft.

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    Reviews for Frankenstein

    4/5

    8,794 ratings329 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Amazing book. It's so much more than I thought it would be. Very interesting!
    • 2/5
      Seminal fantasy work, one of the early defining books of fantasy genre. Shame it isn't more readable though I suspect that's just my more modern tastes.
    • 2/5
      Disappointing, especially for such a highly regarded "classic". 5% action, 95% describing how everyone *feels* about what just happened.
    • 3/5
      This is another one I'd just never gotten around to reading. The story is far from what popular culture has made of it (I confess I was most familiar with the Young Frankenstein version) The monster is much more vocal and interesting. Victor is kind of a weenie and it's all a bit overwrought. I listened to the audiobook from the classic tales podcast and the narrator was pretty good, obviously enjoying all the "begone!s" and "wretchs"
    • 5/5
      This is the second or third time I've read this and it's just as marvelous as before. A tale within a tale within a tale by a literary mastermind at the height of her genius.
    • 5/5
      A classic isn't a called a classic because it's a run-of-the-mill type of book. It's a groundbreaking novel/movie/song that inspires people and stays with you forever, and it's likely that it won't be topped in one, two or sometimes three generations. A classic is a classic because it's unique, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is definitely a classic. The prose is beautiful, the story is gripping and the book itself is absolutely breathtaking. As far as horror is concerned, this is one of those must-have classics that you can revisit every couple of years.

      But we all know the story about Frankenstein and the monster he creates out of body parts. We all know who Igor is and what happens in the end, I mean, if you haven't read the book then you've probably watched one of the movies, right? So, instead of going on and on about the plot we all know about, I'm going to talk about the beautiful book. Seriously, this is one super pretty book. It's in Penguin Books' horror series, recently brought out for horror fans that includes five other fantastic titles (American Supernatural Tales was one of them). This is one pretty edition for one creepy tale ... in other words, you'll freaking love it if you have a thing for horror books. Also, I'm pretty sure it'll be a collectors edition in the not-so-distant future.


      If that doesn't appeal to you, and you need a little something extra, rest assured that I can sweeten the pot for those folks on the edge. Guillermo Del Toro is the series' editor and there's a nice little introduction by him. Yes, he's not all movies all the time, sometimes this horror director makes time for books too!


      So, yes it's pretty, yes it's a great edition and yes, the editing is great. As far as I'm concerned you can donate your other editions of Frankenstein to the less fortunate, because this one just looks so much better on a bookshelf.

    • 3/5
      I have thought, but this being a classic piece of literature, I'm not going to write them down for posterity. That never served me well in lit classes, and I don't foresee it going well on the internet.
    • 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
      As an eight year old child, I found myself in love with horror films. It was a Scholastic Press survey of horror cinema for children which appeared to crystallize this fascination. It was terrible time for a kid. We had moved twice in four years and my mom had left. My dad was traveling for work and a series of housekeepers and sitters were keeping the home fires burning. It is no surprise that I was reading all the time and staying up too late watching inappropriate films on television. That said, I was never drawn to Frankenstein.

      The father of some neighborhood friends used to proclaim the superiority of all the Universal films, especially to the hyper-gore films of the late 70s. I could agree with Bela Lugosi or Claude Rains (as the Invisible Man) but I wasn't moved by Lon Cheney Jr's Wolf Man or the lump of clay which was Frankenstein's monster. It remains elusive to distinguish.

      It was with muted hopes that I finally read Frankenstein this past week. I was pleasantly surprised by the rigid plot which slowly shifts, allowing the Madness of the Fallen to Reap Vengeance on the Creator (and vice versa). Sure, it is laden with symbols and encoded thoughts on Reason, Science and Class. Frankenstein remains an engaging novel by a teenager, one doomed by fate. It is prescient and foreboding. Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      My sympathies are with the monster. Victor von Frankenstein was a responsibility-avoiding, self-absorbed jerk!
    • 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
      Despite its 19th century style and vocabulary this story still horrifies, partly because the gruesome details are left to the imagination. Victor Frankenstein does not reveal how he reanimates the creature. Stephen King would have spent several bloody chapters arranging the guts and brains and eyeballs. The motion picture image of the creature is only supported by Shelley’s description of the watery yellow eyes and the straight black lips. The pearly white teeth, lustrous flowing black hair, limbs in proportion, and beautiful features give a more godlike aspect to the monster. The violence is barely described. A dead body with finger prints on its throat. An execution. Some screams and sticks and stones to drive the creature out of a cottage. Even the death of Victor’s fiancee is but a muffled scream in a distant bedroom and a body on the bed. The true horror is symbolic, mythical, ethical, and metaphysical. Mary Shelley describes the consequences of hubris in prose while her husband gives a similar image poetically in Ozymandias. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
    • 5/5
      Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.
    • 5/5
      Oh Victor. You are surely one of the first and best unreliable narrators, self-centered to the max, and a terrible, terrible parent/god. But I very much enjoyed reading your story, especially when you let your poor creation speak. Delicious, over-the-top language and situations for the win.

      But seriously. I enjoyed this very much and found it much, much more satisfying than any pop-culture references to Frankenstein ever led me to believe I would. I read it aloud with the healing angel--you know, I think I should start a shelf for books that I've read aloud, because there's something special about that form of reading; it adds something to the experience, for sure: an intensity.

      In any case, if you were not (as I was not) required to read this in school, and have never picked it up of your own accord, I recommend it!
    • 5/5
      Knowing the real story of the writer, Mary Shelley, you can relate to the dilemma of whether to bring back a loved one back from the dead or not. The consequences of knowing it may not be someone you recognize.
    • 3/5
      Fascinating. Having finally read this classic novel for the first time, I found it interesting how the actual novel differs significantly from the popular culture renditions of it. Frankenstein's monster is a much more complex figure than the typical portrayal allows him to be. I certainly sympathize with the monster's feelings - driven by the horror others felt when seeing his appearance - but many of his actions were also horrifying as well. Frankenstein I felt much less sympathy for, mostly because he created a new being and then left the creature to fend for himself in an unfamiliar world. He fails to take full responsibility for his actions until his own friends and family begin to suffer consequences. Overall, a good read and very different from the modern films and TV shows on Frankenstein.
    • 5/5
      If you haven't taken the time to read this book, do yourself a favor: take time to read this book.
    • 2/5
      OK, so I seem to have really known nothing about the original Frankenstein story. Turns out, there is no Igor and the monster ends up with a wonderful command of language. There is also a tremendous lack of action, so I am very glad I listened to this instead of reading it or I never would have finished. I will say, though, I now understand the beginning of the movie I, Frankenstein much better.
    • 3/5
      I actually read this in e-book format, and I've only read the unedited version; the version with Shelley's edits is included. My initial reaction is surprise at how much the 1930s movie got right, and disappointment at how much Branagh's version got wrong. This was the perfect winter for reading this book with the final chase in the arctic. I am left wondering if MWS was inspired by period explorations to include that. I was surprised by the framing epistolary narration, and by the first person narration, and there are many layers: the creature narrates his own story to Frankenstein, who then narrates this to Walton, who records it all in letters. There are also inset stories, like the story of the cottagers, which is contained within the creature's narration. I am unsympathetic to Frankenstein: it is all his fault. (And how stupid could he be to leave his wife alone on the wedding night. Idgit.) This is a story of abandonment and rejection. He abandons the monster immediately and the monster is rejected by society. I find this interesting given the context of MWS's personal history at the time. One of my favorite sections is when the creature learns to speak by emulating the cottagers and then teaches himself to read. I love the choice of the 3 books he learns from: Plutarch's "Lives", "Paradise Lost," and "Sorrows of Werter." There are, of course, echoes of Milton's Paradise Lost at times.
    • 5/5
      This book is about a man who becomes a monster, and a monster who becomes a man. The book details a large part of Victor Frankenstein's life and how he came to create "the creature." I have a new respect and profound sympathy for "the creature" who was abandoned and forgotten. There is so much truth about human nature in this book, about how people aren't inherently evil but many circumstances can contribute to someone's hate. It is really a beautiful and short book about love, compassion, hate, and obsession. I think everyone should read this book at least once.
    • 4/5
      I liked the monster better than Frankenstein. Frankenstein was such a whiny, solipsistic dork. All he does he go on and on about himself and how put upon he is by everything. Well jerk, maybe you shouldn't have created life and then ran away! Or next time make one that's prettier. Idiot.
    • 5/5
      The classic version of this story is much different from the traditional retellings and what I had heard before. In this version, the monster is gone for a long time, and when he and Dr. Frankenstein meet again, the monster tells him a long story of his travails. The monster is sophisticated, well-spoken, and has complex emotions. The ending is mildly depressing.
    • 5/5
      It's rightfully called the first modern horror novel, but I think it's more than that. The subtitle, "The Modern Prometheus", hints at the story's enormous tragedy. A tragedy for Dr. Frankenstein, but mostly for his creation. I just love this book and have read it several times.
    • 4/5
      I do not think everyone knows the true story of Frankenstein, and it should be read since this is a classic.
    • 2/5
      I had high hopes for this book. It had some good ideas but they all ended up being underdeveloped, mixed up and shallow. I also found the monster's knowledge and self-teaching to be somewhat improbable and convenient. Finally, I did not appreciate the narrator's worship of Frankenstein. I wanted to strangle the lot of them by the end.
    • 4/5
      Every now and then I realize how bound I am by my historical moment. Often it's when I read theories written by enlightenment types. In this case it's when I realized that this book, about 220 pages long, would be about 25 pages long if all the adjectives, adverbs and longueurs had been removed. On the one hand, I would have preferred it that way. Descriptions of weather and landscape, of tumultuous feelings, of love and despair, are all insufferable, even if they add 'atmosphere.'

      On the other hand, it's all somehow fittingly over the top. The monster of the novel learns language thanks to a French history book which is chosen because it is in the 'declamatory style of the east;' I have no idea what that's meant to mean, but if you lop off the 'of the east' bit, it suits Shelley's style nicely. The book would surely seem better if read aloud by someone with a posh accent than it is read silently by me, if it were intoned majestically with suitable and expansive emphasis on the elocutionary powers of character, narrator and monster; if the clashing and clanging of superlative verbiage were to be reveled in rather than modernistically scorned; if I'd grown up reading Werther, Miltonic prose and the Classical Authors of Antinquity rather than T. S. Eliot and Hemingway and Kafka...

      The actual subject of the book remains thrilling though: Shelley basically invented part of modern mythology. As a *twenty year old woman in the nineteenth century.* Today she'd probably have won the Nobel prize by the time she was forty.
    • 3/5
      So i've heard a lot about Frankenstein, we all know the moaning green monstrous man that has bolts in his neck and the top of his head sewed on right? Wrong! This book is nothing like the film, i was completely surprised to find that firstly the monster isn't even called Frankenstein, that was his creator but the monster him self is never referred to by that name, secondly he isn't green and neither is he described as the figure we are all familiar with. Very surprising! Despite the 3/5 i did really enjoy this book, the problem i found was probably more so the time of year that i've read it. Its a very depressing read, all throughout the character is mostly in a state of devastation, regret and in an ill state of mind. His depression got a tiny bit tedious to read when its nearly christmas and supposed to be a happy festive time, because it was pretty much relentless. There wasnt exactly a happy ending either. I read a 1900's version of the book and have to say i really love the elaborate style of writing, whilst it took longer to read i do occasionally enjoy a book that has some age about it. All in all a good read but not one for such a festive time of year
    • 4/5
      On Nov 17, 1946, I read this and said: "This is a good book, well-written, even though it sounded 1816'ish, which it is."
    • 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.

    Book preview

    Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

    FRANKENSTEIN

    BY MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

    A Digireads.com Book

    Digireads.com Publishing

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-2255-4

    Ebook ISBN 13: 978-0-9753222-2-2

    This edition copyright © 2011

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    LETTER 1

    LETTER 2

    LETTER 3

    LETTER 4

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    CHAPTER 4

    CHAPTER 5

    CHAPTER 6

    CHAPTER 7

    CHAPTER 8

    CHAPTER 9

    CHAPTER 10

    CHAPTER 11

    CHAPTER 12

    CHAPTER 13

    CHAPTER 14

    CHAPTER 15

    CHAPTER 16

    CHAPTER 17

    CHAPTER 18

    CHAPTER 19

    CHAPTER 20

    CHAPTER 21

    CHAPTER 22

    CHAPTER 23

    CHAPTER 24

    LETTER 1

    To Mrs. Saville, England

    St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17-

    You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

    I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

    These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

    These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

    Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

    This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

    Your affectionate brother, R. Walton

    LETTER 2

    To Mrs. Saville, England

    Archangel, 28th March, 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 sympathize 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' 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 daydreams 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, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same 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 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—painstaking, 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 3

    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 must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

    R.W.

    LETTER 4

    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 situation. 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, and before night the ice broke and freed our 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 someone 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 a 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 anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him 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

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