The Interactive History of Frankenstein/The Interactive History of Frankenstein.iso/mac/1818 Novel

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               FRANKENSTEIN,
                    or
              The Modern Prometheus

                  VOLUME I

                   PREFACE

The event on which this fiction is founded has been sup-
posed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers
of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be
supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to
such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work
of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a se-
ries of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest
of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a
mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended
by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and, how-
ever impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to
the imagination for the delineating of human passions more
comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordi-
nary relations of existing events can yield.
   I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the ele-
mentary principles of human nature, while I have not scru-
pled to innovate upon their combinations. The lliad, the
tragic poetry of Greece, Shakespeare, in the Tempest and
Midsummer Night's Dream, and most especially Milton, in
Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble nov-
elist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his la-
bours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a li-
cence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many
exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the
highest specimens of poetry.
   The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested
in casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source
of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any
untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with
these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent
to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in
the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the
reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited
to the avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the pre-
sent day, and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domes-
tic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opin-
ions which naturally spring from the character and situation
of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing al
ways in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be
drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philo-
sophical doctrine of whatever kind.
  It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that
this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is
principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be re-
gretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Ge-
neva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we
crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally
amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which
happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a
playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the
pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the
public than any thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself
agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural
occurrence.
  The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my
two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in
the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of
their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which
has been completed.
            LETTER I.

        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 re-
garded 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 day dreams 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 for ever 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.l Its productions and features may be without example,
as the phaenomena 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 won-
drous power which attracts the needle;' and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage
to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I
shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the
world never before visited, and may tread a land never be-
fore imprinted by the foot of man. These are my entice-
ments, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger
or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voy-
age 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 con-
fer 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 ef-
fected 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 pur-
poses of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle
Thomas's library. My education was neglected, yet I was pas-
sionately 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 sea-faring 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 ob-
tain 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 un-
dertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I
dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by in-
uring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers
on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily en-
dured 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 medi-
cine, and those branches of physical science from which a na-
val adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage.
Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Green-
land 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 resolu-
tion is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often
depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difflcult voy-
age; the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I
am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but some-
times to sustain my own, when their's 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 stage coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are
wrapt 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 ambi-
tion 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 eas-
ily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to en-
gage 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 II.

                   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 enter-
prise. 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 daunt-
less 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 glow-
ing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to par-
ticipate 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 bit-
terly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle
yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capa-
cious 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 school-boys of fifteen. It is true that
I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more ex-
tended 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 bos-
oms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful cour-
age and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an
Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the no-
blest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted
with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unem-
ployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enter-
prise.
  The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is
remarkable in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of
his discipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he
will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement
here), because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, more-
over, heroically generous. 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 con-
sented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the des-
tined 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 in-
formed of the name of her lover instantly abandoned his pur-
suit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which
he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he be-
stowed 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 him-
self 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.2 "What a noble fellow!" you will exclaim. He is
so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and
has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.
   But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or be-
cause 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 con-
sidered 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 consid-
erateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my
care.
   I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near pros-
pect 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;"l
but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for
my safety.
   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 to write to me
by every opportunity: I may receive your letters (though the
chance is very doubtful) on some occasions when I need
them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Re-
member 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
merchant-man now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;
more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, per-
haps, 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 dis-
may 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 breaking of a
mast, are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely re-
member 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 your's, I will not rashly encounter danger. I
will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
   Remember me to all my English friends.

                    Most affectionately yours,
                                                     R.W.
            LETTER IV

        To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

                                           August 5th, 17-.

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot for-
bear 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 some-
what 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 anx-
ious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our at-
tention, 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 tele-
scopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the
  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 en-
counter 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 ap-
peared 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 de-
struction, and to whom I should have supposed that my ves-
sel would have been a resource which he would not have ex-
changed for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I
replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery to-
wards 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
shewed signs of life, we wrapped him up in blankets, and
placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove.l 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 recov-
ered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him
as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more inter-
esting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wild-
ness, 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 de-
spairing; 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 ques-
tions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle
curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evi-
dently 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 deep-
est 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 mul-
titude 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 inquiries."
   "Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhu-
man in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."
   "And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situ-
ation; you have benevolently restored me to life."
   Soon after this he inquired, 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 the stranger seemed very eager 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. But 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 occur-
rence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually im-
proved in health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy when
any one except myself enters his 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 com-
passion. 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 in-
tervals, 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 with-
out feeling the most poignant grieR 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 continu-
ally on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that pre-
ceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly oc-
cupied by his own misery, but that he interests himself deeply
in the employments of others. He has asked me many ques-
tions concerning my design; and I have related my little his-
tory frankly to him. He appeared pleased with the confi-
dence, and suggested several alterations in my plan, which I
shall find exceedingly useful. There is no pedantry in his
manner; but all he does appears to spring solely from the in-
terest he instinctively takes in the welfare of those who sur-
round him. He is often overcome by gloom, and then he sits
by himself, and tries to overcome all that is sullen or unsocial
in his humour. These paroxysms pass from him like a cloud
from before the sun, though his dejection never leaves him. I
have endeavoured to win his confidence; and I trust that I
have succeeded. One day I mentioned to him the desire I had
always felt of finding a friend who might sympathize with me,
and direct me by his counsel. I said, I did not belong to that
class of men who are offended by advice. "I am self-educated,
and perhaps I hardly rely sufficiently upon my own powers. I
wish therefore that my companion should be wiser and more
experienced than myself, to confirm and support me; nor
have I believed it impossible to find a true friend."
   "I agree with you," replied the stranger, "in believing that
friendship is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition. 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 laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this
divine wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost that
simplicity which was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if
you will, smile at the warmth of my expressions, while I find
every day new causes for repeating them.

                        August l9th, 17-.
Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily per-
ceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparal-
leled misfortunes. I had determined, once, that the memory
of these evils should die with me; but you have won me to al-
ter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom,
as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of
your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has
been. I do not know that the relation of my misfortunes will
be useful to you, yet, if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I
believe that the strange incidents connected with it will af-
ford a view of nature, which may enlarge your faculties and
understanding. You will hear of powers and occurrences,
such as you have been accustomed to believe impossible: but
I do not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal evi-
dence of the truth of the events of which it is composed."
   You may easily conceive that I was much gratified by the
offered communication; yet I could not endure that he
should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt
the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly
from curiosity, and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate
his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in
my answer.
   "I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is use-
less; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and
then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling," con-
tinued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; "but you
are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name
you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen to my history, and
you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."
   He then told me, that he would commence his narrative
the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew
from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night,
when I am not engaged, to record, as nearly as possible in his
own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be
engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will
doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who
know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what inter-
est and sympathy shall I read it in some future day!
                         CHAPTER 1.

I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for
many years counsellors and syndics;' and my father had filled
several public situations with honour and reputation. He was
respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefati-
gable attention to public business. He passed his younger
days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; and it
was not until the decline of life that he thought of marrying,
and bestowing on the state sons who might carry his virtues
and his name down to posterity.
   As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his charac-
ter, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most inti-
mate friends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing state,
fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,
whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending
disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and obliv-
ion in the same country where he had formerly been distin-
guished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his
debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he re-
treated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he
lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved
Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved
by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He grieved
also for the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out
and endeavour to persuade him to begin the world again
through his credit and assistance.
   Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself;
and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode.
Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which
was situated in a mean street, near the Reuss. But when he
entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of
his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with suste-
nance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to
procure some respectable employment in a merchant's
house. The interval was consequently spent in inaction; his
grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had lei-
sure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his
mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sick-
ness, incapable of any exertion.
   His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness;
but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly de-
creasing, and that there was no other prospect of support.
But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon
mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity.
She procured plain work;l she plaited straw; and by various
means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufflcient to sup-
port life.
   Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew
worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him;
her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month
her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beg-
gar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by Beaufort's
coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the cham-
ber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care, and after the interment of his
friend he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under
the protection of a relation. Two years after this event
Caroline became his wife.
   When my father became a husband and a parent, he
found his time so occupied by the duties of his new situation,
that he relinquished many of his public employments, and
devoted himself to the education of his children. Of these I
was the eldest, and the destined successor to all his labours
and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than
mine. My improvement and health were their constant care,
especially as I remained for several years their only child. But
before I continue my narrative, I must record an incident
which took place when I was four years of age.
   My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who
had married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her
marriage, she had accompanied her husband into his native
country, and for some years my father had very little commu-
nication with her. About the time I mentioned she died; and
a few months afterwards he received a letter from her hus-
band, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an Ital-
ian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of the in-
fant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. "It is my
wish," he said, "that you should consider her as your own
daughter, and educate her thus. Her mother's fortune is se-
cured to her, the documents of which I will commit to your
keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide whether
you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her being
brought up by a stepmother."
   My father did not hesitate, and immediately went to Italy,
that he might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future
home. I have often heard my mother say, that she was at that
time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and shewed
signs even then of a gentle and affectionate disposition.
These indications, and a desire to bind as closely as possible
the ties of domestic love, determined my mother to consider
Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found
reason to repent.
   From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow,
and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good
tempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although
she was lively and animated, her feelings were strong and
deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one
could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more
grace than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination
was luxuriant, yet her capability of application was great. Her
person was the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although
as lively as a bird's, possessed an attractive softness. Her fig-
ure was light and airy; and, though capable of enduring great
fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the world.
While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to
tend on her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never
saw so much grace both of person and mind united to so lit-
tle pretension.
   Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any re-
quest to make, it was always through her intercession. We
were strangers to any species of disunion and dispute; for al-
though there was a great dissimilitude in our characters,
there was an harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was more
calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper
was not so yielding. My application was of longer endurance;
but it was not so severe whilst it endured. I delighted in inves-
tigating the facts relative to the actual world; she busied her-
self in following the aerial creations of the poets. The world
was to me a secret, which I desired to discover; to her it was a
vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations of her
own.
   My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I
had a friend in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated
for this deficiency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant
of Geneva, an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of
singular talent and fancy. I remember, when he was nine
years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and
amazement of all his companions. His favourite study con-
sisted in books of chivalry and romance; and when very
young, I can remember, that we used to act plays composed
by him out of these favourite books, the principal characters
of which were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St.
George.
   No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My
parents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our
studies were never forced; and by some means we always had
an end placed in view, which excited us to ardour in the
prosecution of them. It was by this method, and not by emu-
lation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not
incited to apply herself to drawing, that her companions
might not outstrip her; but through the desire of pleasing her
aunt, by the representation of some favourite scene done by
her own hand. We learned Latin and English, that we might
read the writings in those languages; and so far from study
being made odious to us through punishment, we loved ap-
plication, and our amusements would have been the labours
of other children. Perhaps we did not read so many books, or
learn languages so quickly, as those who are disciplined ac-
cording to the ordinary methods; but what we learned was
impressed the more deeply on our memories.
   In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry
Clerval; for he was constantly with us. He went to school with
me, and generally passed the afternoon at our house; for be-
ing an only child, and destitute of companions at home, his
father was well pleased that he should find associates at our
house; and we were never completely happy when Clerval
was absent.
   I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of child-
hood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed
its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and nar-
row reflections upon self. But, in drawing the picture of my
early days, I must not omit to record those events which led,
by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for when I
would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which
afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain
river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swel-
ling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its
course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.
   Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my
fate; I desire therefore, in this narration, to state those facts
which led to my predilection for that science. When I was
thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the
baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us
to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced
to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I
opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to dem-
onstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates, soon
changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to
dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communi-
cated my discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking
here the many opportunities instructors possess of directing
the attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they
utterly neglect. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of
my book, and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor,
do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash."
   If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to
explain to me, that the principles of Agrippa had been en-
tirely exploded, and that a modern system of science had
been introduced, which possessed much greater powers than
the ancient, because the powers of the latter where chimeri-
cal, while those of the former were real and practical; under
such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa
aside, and, with my imagination warmed as it was, should
probably have applied myself to the more rational theory of
chemistry which has resulted from modern discoveries. It is
even possible, that the train of my ideas would never have re-
ceived the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory
glance my father had taken of my volume by no means as-
sured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I con-
tinued to read with the greatest avidity.
   When I returned home, my first care was to procure the
whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and
Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of
these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures
known to few beside myself; and although I often wished to
communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my father,
yet his indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always
withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, there-
fore, under a promise of strict secrecy; but she did not inter-
est herself in the subject, and I was left by her to pursue my
studies alone.
   It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus Mag-
nus should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family
was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lec-
tures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were there-
fore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest
diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the
elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided at-
tention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would
attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the hu-
man frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent
death!
   Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or
devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite
authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if
my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the
failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a
want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.
   The natural phaenomena that take place every day before
our eyes did not escape my examinations. Distillation, and
the wonderful effects of steam, processes of which my fa-
vourite authors were utterly ignorant, excited my
astonishment; but my utmost wonder was engaged by some
experiments on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gen-
tleman whom we were in the habit of visiting.
   The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and sev-
eral other points served to decrease their credit with me: but
I could not entirely throw them aside, before some other sys-
tem should occupy their place in my mind.
  When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our
house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and
terrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the moun-
tains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful
loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,
while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity
and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a
stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which
stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the
dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and noth-
ing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the
next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular man-
ner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced
to thin ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly
destroyed.
   The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme
astonishment; and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature
and origin of thunder and lightning. He replied, "Electricity;"
describing at the same time the various effects of that power.
He constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a
few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string,
which drew down that fluid from the clouds.
   This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long
reigned the lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I
did not feel inclined to commence the study of any modern
system; and this disinclination was influenced by the follow-
ing circumstance.
   My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of
lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully con-
sented. Some accident prevented my attending these lectures
until the course was nearly finished. The lecture, being there-
fore one of the last, was entirely incomprehensible to me.
The professor discoursed with the greatest fluency of potas-
sium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I
could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the science
of natural philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon
with delight, authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal inter-
est and utility.
   My occupations at this age were principally the mathemat-
ics, and most of the branches of study appertaining to that
science. I was busily employed in learning languages; Latin
was already familiar to me, and I began to read some of the
easiest Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I also
perfectly understood English and German. This is the list of
my accomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you may
conceive that my hours were fully employed in acquiring and
maintaining a knowledge of this various literature.
   Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the
instructor of my brothers. Ernest was six years younger than
myself, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted
with ill heath from his infancy, through which Elizabeth and I
had been his constant nurses: his disposition was gentle, but
he was incapable of any severe application. William, the
youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beau-
tiful little fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled
cheeks, and endearing manners, inspired the tenderest affec-
tion.
   Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain
seemed for ever banished. My father directed our studies,
and my mother partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us
possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the voice
of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual affec-
tion engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest de-
sire of each other.
            CHAPTER II.

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents re-
solved that I should become a student at the university of In-
golstadt.  I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but
my father thought it necessary, for the completion of my edu-
cation, that I should be made acquainted with other customs
than those of my native country. My departure was therefore
fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon
could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred an
omen, as it were, of my future misery.
   Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was
not severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confine-
ment, many arguments had been urged to persuade my
mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at first,
yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that her favour-
ite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from
her society, and entered her chamber long before the danger
of infection was past. The consequences of this imprudence
were fatal. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever
was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants prognos-
ticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and
benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She
joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: "My children," she
said, amy firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on
the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the
consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must sup-
ply my place to your younger cousins. Alas! I regret that I am
taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it
not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting
me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and
will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world."
   She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection
even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose
dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void
that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhib-
ited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can
persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose
very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed
for ever that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been
extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear
to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are
the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time
proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of
grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand
rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a
sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length
arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity;
and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be
deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead,
but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must
continue our course with the rest, and learn to think our-
selves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not
seized.
   My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by
these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained
from my father a respite of some weeks. This period was
spent sadly; my mother's death, and my speedy departure,
depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew
the spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death
of her aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour.
She determined to fulfil her duties with the greatest exact-
ness; and she felt that that most imperious duty, of rendering
her uncle and cousins happy, had devolved upon her. She
consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my brothers; and
I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she
was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness
of others, entirely forgetful of herself.
   The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken
leave of all my friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last
evening with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable to
accompany me; but his father could not be persuaded to part
with him, intending that he should become a partner with
him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory, that
learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life.
Henry had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and
was well pleased to become his father's partner, but he be-
lieved that a man might be a very good trader, and yet pos-
sess a cultivated understanding.
   We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many
little arrangements for the future. The next morning early I
departed. Tears gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they pro-
ceeded partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly be-
cause she reflected that the same journey was to have taken
place three months before, when a mother's blessing would
have accompanied me.
   I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away,
and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had
ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually
engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was
now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I must
form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had
hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this
had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I
loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were Uold fa-
miliar faces;" but I believed myself totally unfitted for the
company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I com-
menced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes
rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had
often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my
youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the
world, and take my station among other human beings. Now
my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have
been folly to repent.
   I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflec-
tions during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fa-
tiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my
eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary apartment,
to spend the evening as I pleased.
   The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction,
and paid a visit to some of the principle professors, and
among others to M. Krempe, professor of natural philoso-
phy. He received me with politeness, and asked me several
questions concerning my progress in the different branches
of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it
is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever
read upon those subjects. The professor stared: "Have you,"
he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?"
   I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M.
Krempe with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on
those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened
your memory with exploded systems, and useless names.
Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where no one
was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you
have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as
musty as they are ancient? I little expected in this enlightened
and scientific age to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and
Paracelsus. My dear Sir, you must begin your studies entirely
anew."
   So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several
books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to
procure, and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the be-
ginning of the following week he intended to commence a
course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general rela-
tions, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lec-
ture upon chemistry the alternate days that he missed.
   I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long consid-
ered those authors useless whom the professor had so
strongly reprobated; but I did not feel much inclined to study
the books which I procured at his recommendation. M.
Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and repul-
sive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess
me in favour of his doctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for
the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different,
when the masters of the science sought immortality and
power; such views, although futile, were grand: but now the
scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to
limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my
interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to ex-
change chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little
worth.
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days
spent almost in solitude. But as the ensuing week com-
menced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had
given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not
consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sen-
tences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.
Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been
out of town.
   Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into
the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared
about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the
greatest benevolence; a few gray hairs covered his temples,
but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His per-
son was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the sweet-
est I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation
of the history of chemistry and the various improvements
made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour
the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then
took a cursory view of the present state of the science, and
explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a
few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never for-
get:-
   "The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised
impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters
promise very little; they know that metals cannot be trans-
muted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these phi-
losophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt,
and their eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible, have
indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses
of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding places.
They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the
blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They
have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can
command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake
and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."
   I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lec-
ture, and paid him a visit the same evening. His manners in
private were even more mild and attractive than in public; for
there was a certain dignity in his mein during his lecture,
which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability
and kindness. He heard with attention my little narration
concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius
Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M.
Krempe had exhibited. He said, that "these were men to
whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted
for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left
to us, as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in
connected classifications, the facts which they in a great de-
gree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The la-
bours of men of genius, however erroneously directed,
scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage
of mankind." I listened to his statement, which was delivered
without any presumption or affectation; and then added, that
his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chem-
ists; and I, at the same time, requested his advice concerning
the books I ought to procure.
   "I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disci-
ple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no
doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural
philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been
and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it
my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not neglected
the other branches of science. A man would make but a very
sorry chemist, if he attended to that department of human
knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of
science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should ad-
vise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, in-
cluding mathematics."
   He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me
the uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what I
ought to procure, and promising me the use of his own,
when I should have advanced far enough in the science not
to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of
books which I had requested; and I took my leave.
   Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future
destiny.
            CHAPTER III.

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemis-
try, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became
nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so
full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers
have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and
cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the uni-
versity; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound
sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repul-
sive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the
less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gen-
tleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions
were given with an air of frankness and good nature, that
banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of
natural philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love
for the science itself. But this state of mind had place only in
the first steps towards knowledge: the more fully I entered
into the science, the more exclusively I pursued it for its own
sake. That application, which at first had been a matter of
duty and resolution, now became so ardent and eager, that
the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I
was yet engaged in my laboratory.
  As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I im-
proved rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of
the students; and my proficiency, that of the masters. Profes-
sor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius
Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most
heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was en-
gaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries,
which I hoped to make. None but those who have experi-
enced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In
other studies you go as far as others have gone before you,
and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of
moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must in-
fallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who
continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit,
and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at
the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the im-
provement of some chemical instruments, which procured
me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I
had arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted
with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as de-
pended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt,
my residence there being no longer conducive to my im-
provements, I thought of returning to my friends and my na-
tive town, when an incident happened that protracted my
stay.
   One of the phaenomena which had peculiarly attracted my
attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed,
any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself,
did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and
one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with
how many things are we upon the brink of becoming ac-
quainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our in-
quiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and de-
termined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to
those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiol-
ogy.  Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural
enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irk-
some, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life,
we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted
with the science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I
must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the
human body. In my education my father had taken the great-
est precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trem-
bled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the apparition
of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy; and a
church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies de-
prived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and
strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to
spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses.  My at-
tention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable
to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine
form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corrup-
tion of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw
how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I
paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causa-
tion, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and
death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden
light broke in upon me a light so brilliant and wondrous,
yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of
the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among
so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries to-
wards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to
discover so astonishing a secret.
   Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman.
The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than
that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have pro-
duced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and
probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fa-
tigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and
life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing anima-
tion upon lifeless matter.
   The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this
discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so
much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the
summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation
of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelm-
ing, that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to
it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had
been the study and desire of the wisest men since the crea-
tion of the world, was now within my grasp. Not that, like a
magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information
I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeav-
ours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my
search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and
found a passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and
seemingly ineffectual, light.
   I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which
your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed
of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be: lis-
ten patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily
perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead
you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruc-
tion and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my pre-
cepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquire-
ment of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who
believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires
to become greater than his nature will allow.
  When I found so astonishing a power placed within my
hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in
which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity
of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the recep-
tion of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins,
still remained a work of inconceivable difflculty and labour. I
doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a
being like myself or one of simpler organization; but my
imagination was too much exalted by my first success to per-
mit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as com-
plex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within
my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an un-
dertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed.
I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations
might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imper-
fect: yet, when I considered the improvement which every
day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged
to hope my present attempts would at least lay the founda-
tions of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude
and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impractica-
bility. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a
human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first inten-
tion, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say,
about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After
having formed this determination, and having spent some
months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials,
I began.
   No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me
onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success.
Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should
first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark
world. A new species would bless me as its creator and
source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child
so completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these re-
flections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon
lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now
found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently
devoted the body to corruption.
  These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my
undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown
pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with
confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I
failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the
next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed
was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon
gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and
breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places.
Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled
among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the
living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now trem-
ble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a re-
sistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward; I
seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pur-
suit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me
feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimu-
lus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I col-
lected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with pro-
fane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In
a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and
separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and stair-
case, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were
starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my
employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house
furnished many of my materials; and often did my human na-
ture turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still
urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I
brought my work near to a conclusion.
  The summer months passed while I was thus engaged,
heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season;
never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the
vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were insen-
sible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which
made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and
whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence
disquieted them; and I well remembered the words of my fa-
ther: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you
will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly
from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption
in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are
equally neglected."
   I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings;
but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment,
loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold
of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all
that related to my feelings of affection until the great object,
which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be com-
pleted.
   I then thought that my father would be unjust if he as-
cribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am
now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I
should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in
perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to dis-
turb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowl-
edge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you ap-
ply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to
destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no al
loy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful,
that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were
always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to
interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections,
Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his
country; America would have been discovered more gradu-
ally; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been de-
stroyed.
  But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting
part of my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.
   My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took
notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more
particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer, passed
away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or
the expanding leaves sights which before always yielded me
supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew
near to a close; and now every day shewed me more plainly
how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked
by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by
slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade,
than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every
night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous
to a most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more
because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and
had always boasted of the firmness of my nerves. But I be-
lieved that exercise and amusement would soon drive away
such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when
my creation should be complete.
            CHAPTER IV.

It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the ac-
complishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost
amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life
around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the life-
less thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morn-
ing; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my
candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the
half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the crea-
ture open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated
its limbs.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or
how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and
care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in propor-
tion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!-
Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of mus-
cles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and
flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances
only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that
seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in
which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight
black lips.
   The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the
feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two
years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate
body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had
desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but
now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished,
and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to
endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of
the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-
chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length las-
situde succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I
threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek
a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept in-
deed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I
saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets
of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but
as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with
the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I
thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my
arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-
worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my
sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth
chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the
dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through
the window-shutters, I beheld the wretch - the miserable
monster whom I had created.  He held up the curtain of the
bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on
me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate
sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spo-
ken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seem-
ingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I
took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I
inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night,
walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening atten-
tively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to an-
nounce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I
had so miserably given life.
   Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that counte-
nance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be
so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfin-
ished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints
were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as
even Dante could not have conceived.
   I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so
quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery;
at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and
extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitter-
ness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food and
pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to
me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!
   Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discov-
ered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingol-
stadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth
hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had
that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pac-
ing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch
whom I feared every turning of the street would present to
my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I in-
habited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the
rain, which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
   I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeav-
ouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed
upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear con-
ception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpi-
tated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular
steps, not daring to look about me:

   Like one who, on a lonely road,
      Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turn'd round, walks on,
   And turns no more his head;
   Because he knows a frightful fiend
      Doth close behind him tread.

   Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at
which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped.
Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes
with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me
from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I ob-
served that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I
was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived
Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. ~My
dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you!
how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of
my alighting!"
   Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his
presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth,
and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I
grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and
misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during
many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend,
therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked to-
wards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time
about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being
permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe,"
said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to un-
derstand any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I be-
lieve I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer
to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch
school-master in the Vicar of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand
florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.'
But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of
learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of
discovery to the land of knowledge."
   "It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me
how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."
   "Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they
hear from you so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you a
little upon their account myself. - But, my dear Franken-
stein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my
face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so
thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for sev-
eral nights."
   "You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply en-
gaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself suffi-
cient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all
these employments are now at an end, and that I am at
length free."
   I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and
far less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I
walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.
I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the
creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be
there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to behold this mon-
ster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. En-
treating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom
of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was
already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I
then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the
door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when
they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the
other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the
apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from
its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-
fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured
that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy,
and ran down to Clerval.
   We ascended into my room, and the servant presently
brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was
not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with ex-
cess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable
to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped
over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Cler-
val at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;
but when he obserwed me more attentively, he saw a wildness
in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud, un-
restrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him.
   "My dear Victor,~ cried he, awhat, for God's sake, is the
matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What
is the cause of all this?"
   "Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my
eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the
room; "he can tell. Oh, save me! save me!" I imagined that
the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in
a fit.
   Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meet-
ing, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned
to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was
lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.
   This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which
confined me for several months. During all that time Henry
was my only nurse~ I afterwards learned that, knowing my fa-
ther's advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and
how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared
them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He
knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he
did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the
kindest action that he could towards them.
   But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the un-
bounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have
restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had
bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved
incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised
Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my
disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I con-
tinually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my
disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and ter-
rible event.
   By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that
alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the
first time I became capable of observing outward objects with
any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had
disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth
from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring;
and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt
also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my
gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful
as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
   "Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, Uhow kind, how very good
you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in
study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my
sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest re-
morse for the disappointment of which I have been the occa-
sion; but you will forgive me."
   "You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose
yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear
in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I
not?"
   I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude
to an object on whom I dared not even think?
   "Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my
change of colour, "I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but
your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a
letter from you in your own hand-writing. They hardly know
how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence."
"Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that
my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear
friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love."
   "If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps
be glad to see a letter that has been Iying here some days for
you: it is from your cousin, I believe."
            CHAPTER V.

CLERVAL then put the following letter into my hands.


        To V. FRANKENSTEIN.

MY DEAR COUSIN,
   "I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt
concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your
friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is
now several months since we have seen your hand-writing;
and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters
to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill;
and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as af-
ter the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost per-
suaded that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could
hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to Ingol-
stadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting better; I
eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in
your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all
very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and
we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger
since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you
would hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has
lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago; he
is grown quite robust and active.
   ''My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about
what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness
when young has deprived him of the habits of application;
and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the
open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore
proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know,
Cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very
healthy happy life; and the least hurtful, or rather the most
beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of his be-
ing educated as an advocate, that through his interest he
might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all fitted
for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to culti-
vate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the con-
fidant, and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is
the profession of a lawyer. I said, that the employments of a
prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable, they
were at least a happier species of occupation than that of a
judge, whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the
dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said, that I
ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the con-
versation on that subject.
   "And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and
perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz?
Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a
few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with
four children, of whomJustine was the third. This girl had al-
ways been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the
death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed
this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on
her mother to allow her to live at her house. The republican
institutions of our country have produced simpler and hap-
pier manners than those which prevail in the great monar-
chies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between
the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders be-
ing neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more
refined and moral. A servant in Ceneva does not mean the
same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus
received in our family, learned the duties of a servant; a con-
dition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the
idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human
being.
   "After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the
heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of
your's; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in
an ill humour, one glance fromJustine could dissipate it, for
the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of
Angelica - she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt
conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was in-
duced to give her an education superior to that which she
had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine
was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not
mean that she made any professions, I never heard one pass
her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored
her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in
many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest atten-
tion to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model
of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology
and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.
   "When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much oc-
cupied in their own grief to notice poorJustine, who had at-
tended her during her illness with the most anxious affection.
Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for
her.
   "One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her
mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was
left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she
began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judg-
ment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman
Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after
your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her
repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our
house: she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief
had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners,
which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her
gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repen-
tance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkind-
ness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the
deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length
threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on
the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this
last winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love
her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely
pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions
continually remind me of my dear aunt.
   "I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of lit-
tle darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of
his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and
curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on
each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had
one or two little wives, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a
pretty little girl of five years of age.
   "Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a
little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The
pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory
visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman,
John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M.
Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes
since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has al-
ready recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point
of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tav-
ernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she
is very much admired, and a favourite with every body.
   "I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I
cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concern-
ing your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write
yourself, and make you father and all of us happy; or I
cannot bear to think of the other side of the question; my
tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.
                                           ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

"Geneva, March 18th, 17-."

   "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her
letter, "I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxi-
ety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued
me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded
regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my cham-
ber.
   One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce
Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing
this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the
wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal
night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my mis-
fortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the
name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite re-
stored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would re-
new all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this,
and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had
also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had ac-
quired a dislike for the room which had previously been my
laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail
when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture
when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing
progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I
disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he at-
tributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject
from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as I
evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He
meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had
placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and
cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit
the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always
quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the sub-
ject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversa-
tion took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my
heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised,
but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and al-
though I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence
that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to
confide to him that event which was so often present to my
recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would
only impress more deeply.
   M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at
that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh
blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevo-
lent approbation of M. Waldman. "D - n the fellow!" cried he;
"why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Aye,
stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as
firmly as the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the
university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be
out of countenance. - Aye, aye," continued he, observing my
face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an
excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffi-
dent of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when
young: but that wears out in a very short time."
   M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself,
which happily turned the conversation from a subject that
was so annoying to me.
   Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was
too vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his
principle study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements,
to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva.
Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he
had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For
my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me; and now
that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former
studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my
friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the
works of the orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and
their joy elevating to a degree I never experienced in study-
ing the authors of any other country. When you read their
writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and garden of
roses, in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire
that consumes your own heart. How different from the
manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome.
  Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return
to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being
delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the
roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded
until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I
longed to see my native town, and my beloved friends. My re-
turn had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to
leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become ac-
quainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however,
was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncom-
monly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for its dila-
toriness.
   The month of May had already commenced, and I ex-
pected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my depar-
ture, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs
of Ingolstadt that I might bid a personal farewell to the coun-
try I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this
proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always
been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
   We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health
and spirits had long been restored, and they gained addi-
tional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural
incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend.
Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fel-
low-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called
forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to
love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeav-
our to elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own.
A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your
gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I be-
came the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loving
and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, in-
animate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most
delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled
me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the
flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of sum-
mer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by thoughts
which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, not-
withstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invin-
cible burden.
   Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in
my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he ex-
pressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of
his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conver-
sation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of
the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonder-
ful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favour-
ite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he sup-
ported with great ingenuity.
   We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the
peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay
and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along
with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.
            CHAPTER VI

  On my return, I found the following letter from my father: -

                     "To V. FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAR VICTOR,
   "You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix
the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to
write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I
should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I
dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when
you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I re-
late our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you cal-
lous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an
absent child? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I
know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page,
to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tid-
ings.
   "William is dead!  - that sweet child, whose smiles de-
lighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay!
Victor, he is murdered!
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate
the circumstances of the transaction.
   "Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two broth-
ers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and
serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was
already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we
discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before,
were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we
had seen his brother: he said, that they had been playing to-
gether, that William had run away to hide himself, and that
he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a
long time, but that he did not return.
   "This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to
search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured
that he might have returned to the house. He was not there.
We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I
thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed
to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered ex-
treme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my
lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and
active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless:
the print of the murderer's finger was on his neck.
   "He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible
in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was
very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent
her; but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay,
hastily examined the neck of the victim, and dasping her
hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my darling in-
fant!'
   "She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.
When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told
me, that that same evening William had teazed her to let him
wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your
mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the tempta-
tion which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no
trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover
him are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved Wil-
liam.
  "Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.
She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the
cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all un-
happy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my
son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother!
Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness
the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
   "Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance
against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentle-
ness, that will heal, instead of festering the wounds of our
minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with
kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with
hatred for your enemies.
                          "Your affectionate and afflicted father,

                                 ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.

"Geneva, May 12th, 17-."

   Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this
letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to
the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends.
I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my
hands.
   "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he per-
ceived me weep with bitterness, "are you always to be un-
happy? My dear friend, what has happened?"
   I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up
and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also
gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of
my misfortune.
   "I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your
disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?~
   "To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to or-
der the horses."
   During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits.
He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by
exhibiting the truest sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "that
dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother. His friends
mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does not now feel the
murderer's grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he knows
no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survi-
vors are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only
consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no
evil, and that the mind of man ought to be superior to de-
spair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, ought not to
be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother."
   Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the
words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered
them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses
arrived, I hurried into a cabriole, and bade farewell to my
friend.
   My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry
on, for I longed to console and sympathize with my loved
and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town,
I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude
of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through
scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during
that time? One sudden and desolating change had taken
place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by de-
grees worked other alterations, which, although they were
done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear
overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand
nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable
to define them.
   I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of
mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all
around was calm, and the snowy mountains, athe palaces of
nature," were not changed. By degrees the calm and heav-
enly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards
Geneva.
  The road ran by the side of the lake, which became nar-
rower as I approached my native town. I discovered more dis-
tinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont
Blanc; I wept like a child: "Dear mountains! my own beautiful
lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are
clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognos-
ticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"
   I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by
dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were
days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with
pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native
can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy
mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake.
   Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame
me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see
the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture ap-
peared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely
that I was destined to become the most wretched of human
beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I
did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was des-
tined to endure.
   It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of
Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was
obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village half a league
to the east of the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was un-
able to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor Wil-
liam had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at
Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings play-
ing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful fig-
ures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly; and, on land-
ing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It
advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly in-
creased.
   I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness
and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst
with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Saleve,
the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning
dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like
a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of
a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the pre-
ceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,
appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part
of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and
the village of Copet. Another storm enlighted Jura with faint
flashes; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the
Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
   While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wan-
dered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated
my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "Wil-
liam, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said
these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole
from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing
intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illumi-
nated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hide-
ous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it
was the wretch, the filthy daemon to whom I had given life.
What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the concep-
tion) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea
cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth;
my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for
support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the
gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that
fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The
mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been
in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging
among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont
Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon
reached the summit, and disappeared.
  I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain
still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetra-
ble darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had
until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress to-
wards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own
hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had now
nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life;
and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the
world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and
misery; had he not murdered my brother?
   No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the re-
mainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the
open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather;
my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I con-
sidered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and en-
dowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror,
such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave,
and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.
   Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town.
The gates were open; and I hastened to my father's house.
My first thought was to discover what I knew of the mur-
derer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused
when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom
I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I
remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been
seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which
would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly im-
probable. I well knew that if any other had communicated
such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal
would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to
persuade my relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use
would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of
scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve? These reflec-
tions determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.
   It was about five in the morning when I entered my fa-
ther's house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and
went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.
   Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indel
ible trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last em-
braced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Be-
loved and respectable parent! He still remained to me. I
gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my fa-
ther's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony
of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her
garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of
dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of
pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus en-
gaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened
to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me:
"Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had
come three months ago, and then you would have found us
all joyous and delighted. But we are now unhappy; and, I am
afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our fa-
ther looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have re-
vived in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor
Eli~abeth also is quite inconsolable." Ernest began to weep as
he said these words.
   "Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm,
that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter
my father's house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how
does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my poor
Elizabeth?"
   "She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of
having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered "
  "The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be?
who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might
as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-
stream with a straw."
   "I do not know what you mean; but we were all very un-
happy when she was discovered. No one would believe it at
first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwith
standing all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that
Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the fam-
ily, could all at once become so extremely wicked?"
   "Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it
is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely,
Ernest?"
   "No one did at first; but several circumstances came out,
that have almost forced conviction upon us: and her own be-
haviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of
facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she
will be tried to day, and you will then hear all."
   He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor
William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and
confined to her bed; and, after several days, one of the ser-
vants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on
the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the
picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temp-
tation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it to
one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the
family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the
poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her
extreme confusion of manner.
   This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I
replied earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the mur-
derer.Justine, poor, goodJustine, is innocent."
   At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness
deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to
welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our
mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic
than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good
God, Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer
of poor William."
   "We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for in-
deed I had rather have been forever ignorant than have dis-
covered so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so
highly."
   "My dear father, you are mistaken;Justine is innocent."
   "If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She
is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will
be acquitted."
   This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own
mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guilt-
less of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circum-
stantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to
convict her; and, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting
the trial with eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil
result.
   We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great
alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years
before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl, whom
every one loved and caressed. She was now a woman in stat-
ure and expression of countenance, which was uncommonly
lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a
good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition.
Her eyes were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now
through recent affliction allied to sadness. Her hair was of a
rich dark auburn, her complexion fair, and her figure slight
and graceful. She welcomed me with the greatest affection.
"Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me with hope.
You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless
Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely
on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our mis-
fortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely
darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be
torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never
shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not;
and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of
my little William."
  "She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be
proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the
assurance of her acquittal."
   "How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched; for I knew that it was impossi-
ble: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a man-
ner, rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.
   "Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as
you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and
the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality."
                CHAPTER Vll.

We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the
trial was to commence. My father and the rest of the family
being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to
the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of jus-
tice, I suffered living torture. It was to be decided, whether
the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the
death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of
innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered,
with every aggravation of infamy that could make the murder
memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit, and
possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy:
now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave; and I
the cause! A thousand times rather would I have confessed
myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was ab-
sent when it was committed, and such a declaration would
have been considered as the ravings of a madman, and would
not have exculpated her who suffered through me.
  The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in
mourning; and her countenance, always engaging, was ren-
dered, by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful.
Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did not trem-
ble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands; for all
the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have excited,
was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the imagina-
tion of the enormity she was supposed to have committed.
She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently con-
strained; and as her confusion had before been adduced as a
proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance
of courage. When she entered the court, she threw her eyes
round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly
recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed
to attest her utter guiltlessness.
   The trial began; and after the advocate against her had
stated the charge, several witnesses were called. Several
strange facts combined against her, which might have stag-
gered any one who had not such proof of her innocence as I
had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the
murder had been committed, and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where
the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found.
The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked
very strangely, and only returned a confused and unin(telligi-
ble answer. She returned to the house about eight o',clock;
and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied, that she had been looking for the child, and de-
manded earnestly, if any thing had been heard conc~rning
him. When shewn the body, she fell into violent hysterics,
and kept her bed for several days. The picture was the)n pro-
duced, which the servant had found in her pocket; and when
Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, shle had
placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indigmation
filled the court.
   Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial haid pro-
ceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and
misery, were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled
with her tears; but when she was desired to plead, she col-
lected her powers, and spoke in an audible although variable
voice:-
   "God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent.. But I
do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me: I rest
my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts
which have been adduced against me; and I hope the charac-
ter I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable
interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or
suspicious."
   She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she
had passed the evening of the night on which the murder
had been committed, at the house of an aunt at Chene, a vil-
lage situated at about a league from Ceneva. On her return,
at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked her if she
had seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was
alarmed by this account, and passed several hours in looking
for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was
forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belong
ing to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to
whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep, she quit-
ted her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find
my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,
it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered
when questioned by the market-woman, was not surprising,
since she had passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor
William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could
give no account.
   "I know," continued the unhappy victim, Uhow heavily and
fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no
power of explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter
ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the prob-
abilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket.
But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy
on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I
know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or if I
had, why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again
so soon?
   "I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see
no room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses
examined concerning my character; and if their testimony
shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be con-
demned, although I would pledge my salvation on my inno-
cence."
   Several witnesses were called, who had known her for
many years, and they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred
of the crime of which they supposed her guilty, rendered
them timorous, and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw
even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and irre-
proachable conduct, about to fail the accused, when, al
though violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.
   "I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was
murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have
lived with his parents ever since and even long before his
birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come for-
ward on this occasion; but when I see a fellow-creature about
to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I
wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of
her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have
lived in the same house with her, at one time for five, and at
another for nearly two years. During all that period she ap-
peared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human
creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her
last illness with the greatest affection and care; and after-
wards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a
manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her. Af-
ter which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was
beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the
child who is now dead, and acted towards him like a most af-
fectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say,
that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I
believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temp-
tation for such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief
proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have will-
ingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value her."
   Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard;
but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in fa-
vour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was
turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest
ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did
not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme dur-
ing the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it.
Could the daemon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt)
murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed
the innocent to death and ignominy. I could not sustain the
horror of my situation; and when I perceived that the popu-
lar voice, and the countenances of the judges, had already
condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in
agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she
was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my
bosom, and would not forego their hold.
   I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morn-
ing I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I
dared not ask the fatal question; but I was known, and the of-
ficer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been
thrown; they were all black, andJustine was condemned.
   I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before
experienced sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to
bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot
convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then en-
dured. The person to whom I addressed myself added, that
Justine had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he
observed, "was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am
glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a
criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."
   When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the
result.
   "My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have ex-
pected; all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer,
than that one guilty should escape. But she has confessed."
   This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied
with firmness upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she,
"how shall I ever again believe in human benevolence?
Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could
she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray; her mild
eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet
she has committed a murder."
   Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a
wish to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go; but
said, that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to de-
cide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although she is guilty;
and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go alone." The
idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse.
   We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld
Justine sitting on some straw at the further end; her hands
were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose
on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone with her, she
threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My
cousin wept also.
   "Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last
consolation. I relied on your innocence; and although I was
then very wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now."
   "And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked?
Do you also join with my enemies to crush me?" Her voice
was suffocated with sobs.
   "Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if
you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed
you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard
that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you
say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can
shake my confidence in you for a moment, but your own con-
fession."
   "I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I
might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier
at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive
me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged
me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to
think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threat-
ened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I
continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all
looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdi-
tion. What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie;
and now only am I truly miserable."
   She paused, weeping, and then continued-"I thought
with horror, my sweet lady, that you should believe your
Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured,
and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which
none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear Wil-
liam! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in
heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me,
going as I am to suffer ignominy and death."
  "Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment dis-
trusted you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, my
dear girl; I will every where proclaim your innocence, and
force belief. Yet you must die; you, my playfellow, my com-
panion, my more than sister. I never can survive so horrible a
misfortune."
   "Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise
me with thoughts of a better life, and elevate me from the
petty cares of this world of injustice and strife. Do not you,
excellent friend, drive me to despair."
   "I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too
deep and poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no
hope. Yet heaven bless thee, my dearestJustine, with resigna-
tion, and a confidence elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I
hate its shews and mockeries! when one creature is mur-
dered, another is immediately deprived of life in a slow tor-
turing manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reek-
ing with the blood of innocence, believe that they have done
a great deed. They call this retrioution. Hateful name! When
that word is pronounced, I know greater and more horrid
punishments are going to be inflicted than the gloomiest ty-
rant has ever invented to satiate his utmost revenge.' Yet this
is not consolation for you, myJustine, unless indeed that you
may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I would
I were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped
from a world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men
which I abhor."
   Justine smiled languidly. "This, dear lady, is despair, and
not resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would
teach me. Talk of something else, something that will bring
peace, and not increase of misery."
   During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the
prison-room, where I could conceal the horrid anguish that
possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor vic-
tim, who on the morrow was to pass the dreary boundary be-
tween life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter
agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, utter-
ing a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started.
When she saw who it was, she approached me, and said,
"Dear Sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not
believe that I am guilty."
   I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is
more convinced of your innocence than I was; for even when
he heard that you had confessed, he did not credit it.n
   "I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincer-
est gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness.
How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am!
It removes more than half my misfortune; and I feel as if I
could die in peace, now that my innocence is acknowledged
by you, dear lady, and your cousin."
   Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.
She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true
murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom,'
which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also
wept, and was unhappy; but her's also was the misery of inno-
cence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for
a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a
hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. We staid
several hours withJustine; and it was with great difficulty that
Elizabeth could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she, "that I
were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery."
   Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with diffi-
culty repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and
said, in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet
lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may
heaven in its bounty bless and preserve you; may this be the
last misfortune that you will ever suffer. Live, and be happy,
and make others so."
  As we returned, Elizabeth said, ~You know not, my dear
Victor, how much I am relieved, now that I trust in the inno-
cence of this unfortunate girl. I never could again have
known peace, if I had been deceived in my reliance on her.
For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an anguish
that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is light-
ened. The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable
and good has not betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I
am consoled."
   Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle
as your own dear eyes and voice. But I - I was a wretch, and
none ever conceived of the misery that I then endured.


            END OF VOLUME I.
                          VOLUME II



                         CHAPTER 1.

Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after
the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of
events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which fol-
lows, and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine
died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in
my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes;
I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of
mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more,
(I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed
with kindness, and the love of virtue. I had begun life with
benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment when I
should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. NOW all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past
with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of
new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt,
which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as
no language can describe.
   This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had en-
tirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I
shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacenq
was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation-deep,
dark, death-like solitude.
   My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in
my disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with
me on the folly of giving way to immoderate grief. "Do you
think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one
could love a child more than I loved your brother;" (tears
came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a duty to the
survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their un-
happiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a
duty owed to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improve-
ment or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness,
without which no man is fit for society."
   This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my
case; I should have been the first to hide my grief, and con-
sole my friends, if remorse had not mingled its bitterness
with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father
with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his
view.
   About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This
change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the
gates regularly at ten o'clock, and the impossibility of remain-
ing on the lake after that hour, had rendered our residence
within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now
free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the
night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the
water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the
wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the
lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave way to
my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all
was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that
wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I ex-
cept some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted
croaking was heard only when I approached the shore-
often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that
the waters might close over me and my calamities for ever.
But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffer-
ing Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence
was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and sur-
viving brother: should I by my base desertion leave them ex-
posed and unprotected to.the malice of the fiend whom I
had let loose among them?
   At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace
would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consola-
tion and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extin-
guished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable
evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I had
created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an ob-
scure feeling that all was not over, and that he would still
commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should al-
most efface the recollection of the past. There was always
scope for fear, so long as any thing I loved remained behind.
My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I
thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became in-
flamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I
had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his
crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds
of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the high-
est peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated
him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge
the deaths of William and Justine.
   Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health
was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Eliza-
beth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in
her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacri-
lege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought
was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted
and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who
in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake,
and talked with ecstacy of our future prospects. She had be-
come grave, and often conversed of the inconstancy of for-
tune, and the instability of human life.
   "When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miser-
able death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its
works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon
the accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books or
heard from others, as tales of ancient days, or imaginary
evils; at least they were remote, and more familiar to reason
than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and
men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's
blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that
poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the
crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been
the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few
jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and
friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and ap-
peared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent
to the death of any human being; but certainly I should have
thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of
men. Yet she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent;
you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Vic-
tor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can as-
sure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walk-
ing on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss.
William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer es-
capes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected.
But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for
the same crimes, I would not change places with such a
wretch."
   I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not
in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read
my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand
said, "My dearest cousin, you must calm yourself. These
events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am
not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes
me tremble. Be calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my
life to your peace. We surely shall be happy: quiet in our na-
tive country, and not mingling in the world, what can disturb
our tranquillity?"
   She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace
that she gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might
chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who
saw in the unhappiness that was painted in my face only an
exaggeration of that sorrow which I might naturally feel,
thought than an amusement suited to my taste would be the
best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was
from this cause that he had removed to the country; and, in-
duced by the same motive, he now proposed that we should
all make an excursion to the valley of Chamounix. I had been
there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest never had; and both
had often expressed an earnest desire to see the scenery of
this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this
tour about the middle of the month of August, nearly two
months after the death of Justine.
   The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been
a sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this
excursion would certainly have had the effect intended by my
father. As it was, I was somewhat interested in the scene; it
sometimes lulled, although it could not extinguish my grief.
During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In the morn-
ing we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which
we gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through
which we wound, and which was formed by the river Arve,
whose course we followed, closed in upon us by degrees; and
when the sun had set, we beheld immense mountains and
precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the sound
of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of waterfalls
around.
   The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as
we ascended still higher, the valley assumed a more magnifi-
cent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on
the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and
cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the
trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was aug-
mented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose
white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as
belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race
of beings.
   We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which
the river forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend
the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after we entered the
valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sub-
lime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox,
through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no
more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers ap-
proached the road; we heard the rumbling thunder of the
falling avelanche, and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont
Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself
from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome
overlooked the valley.
   During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and ex-
erted myself to point out to her the various beauties of the
scene. I often suffered my mule to lag behind, and indulged
in the misery of reflection. At other times I spurred on the
animal before my companions, that I might forget them, the
world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by
horror and despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at
Chamounix. My father and Elizabeth were very much fa-
tigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was delighted, and in
high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted from his
pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to prom-
ise for the next day.
   We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at
least I did not. I remained many hours at the window, watch
ing the pallid lightning that played above Mont Blanc, and lis-
tening to the rushing of the Arve, which ran below my window.
            CHAPTER II.

The next day, contrary to the prognostications of our
guides, was fine, although clouded. We visited the source of
the Arveiron, and rode about the valley until evening. These
sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest
consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me
from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not re-
move my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it. In some de-
gree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over
which it had brooded for the last month. I returned in the
evening, fatigued, but less unhappy, and conversed with my
family with more cheerfulness than had been my custom for
some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth overjoyed.
"My dear cousin," said she, "you see what happiness you dif-
fuse when you are happy; do not relapse again!"
   The following morning the rain poured down in torrents,
and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. I rose
early, but felt unusually melancholy. The rain depressed me;
my old feelings recurred, and I was miserable. I knew how
disappointed my father would be at this sudden change, and
I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as
to be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me.
I knew that they would remain that day at the inn; and as I
had ever inured myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved
to go alone to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the
effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving gla-
cier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had
then filled me with a sublime ecstacy that gave wings to the
soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light
and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had in-
deed always the effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing
me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go
alone, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the pres-
ence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the
scene.
   The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual
and short windings, which enable you to surmount the per-
pendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically deso-
late. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avelanche
may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the
ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon
the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ra-
vines of snow, down which stones continually roll from
above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest
sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a con-
cussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of
the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are
sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on
the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the
opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform
clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky, and added to
the melancholy impression I received from the objects
around me. Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities superior
to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them more
necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are
moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene
that that word may convey to us.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.
   We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
   It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!

   It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent.
For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of
ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding moun-
tains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descend-
ed upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like
the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed
by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in
width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The oppo-
site mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side
where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the
distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful
majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this
wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast
river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering
peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which
was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I
exclaimed-"Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do
not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness,
or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life."
   As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at
some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman
speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which
I had walked with caution; his stature also, as he approached,
seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came
over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly
restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as
the shape came nearer, (sight tremendous and abhorred!)
that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with
rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and then
close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his counte-
nance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and
malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too
horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; anger
and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recov-
ered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious
detestation and contempt.
   "Devil!" I exclaimed, ado you dare approach me? and do
not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on
your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! or rather stay, that
I may trample you to dust! and, oh, that I could, with the ex-
tinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims
whom you have so diabolically murdered!"
   "I expected this reception,n said the daemon. "All men
hate the wretched; how then must I be hated, who am miser-
able beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and
spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only
dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to
kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty to-
wards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of
mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave
them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw
of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining
friends."
   "Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of
hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil!
you reproach me with your creation; come on then, that I
may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed."
My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by
all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence
of another.
   He easily eluded me, and said,
   "Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to
your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered
enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although
it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and
I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more power-
ful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints
more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in oppo-
sition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and
docile to my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perforrn
thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not
equitable to every other, and trample upon me alone, to
whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is
most due. Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be
thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou
drivest from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss,
from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevo-
lent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and
I shall again be virtuous."
   "Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community
between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try
our strength in a fight, in which one must fall."
   "How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to
turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy
goodness and compassion. Believe me, Frankenstein: I was
benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity: but am I
not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what
hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me
nothing? they spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and
dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many
days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling
to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These
bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow-
beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence,
they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruc-
tion. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no
terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share
my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me,
and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you
to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thou-
sands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its
rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me.
Listen to my tale: when you have heard that, abandon or
commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear
me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they
may be, to speak in their own defence before they are con-
demned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of mur-
der; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy
your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet
I ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can,
and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."
   "Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable ori-
gin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which
you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the
hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond
expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I
am just to you, or not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight of
your detested form."
   "Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his
hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with vio-
lence; "thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still
thou canst listen to me, and grant me thy compassion. By the
virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear
my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of this
place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut
upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; be-
fore it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy precipices,
and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story,
and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the
neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or become
the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your
own speedy ruin."
   As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed.
My heart was full, and I did not answer him; but, as I pro-
ceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used,
and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly
urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution.
I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this
opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a
creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render
him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These
motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed
the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air
was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we entered
the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy
heart, and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and,
seating myself by the fire which my odious companion had
lighted, he thus began his tale.
            CHAPTER III.

" I t is with considerable difficulty that I remember the origi-
nal aera of my being: all the events of that period appear con-
fused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations
seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time;
and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish
between the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I
remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me,
and troubled me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening
my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in upon me
again. I walked, and, I believe, descended; but I presently
found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and
opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty,
with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid.
The light became more and more oppressive to me; and, the
heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where I could
receive shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here I
lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt
tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my
nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found
hanging on the trees, or Iying on the ground. I slaked my
thirst at the brook; and then Iying down, was overcome by
sleep.
   "It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-fright-
ened as it were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Be-
fore I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I
had covered myself with some clothes; but these were insuffi-
cient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, help-
less, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, noth
ing; but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and
wept.
   "Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a
sensation of pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form
rise from among the trees. I gazed with a kind of wonder. It
moved slowly, but it enlightened my path; and I again went
out in search of berries. I was still cold, when under one of
the trees I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself,
and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied
my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst,
and darkness; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on
all sides various scents saluted me: the only object that I
could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes
on that with pleasure.
   "Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of
night had greatly lessened when I began to distinguish my
sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear
stream that supplied me with drink, and the trees that shaded
me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered
that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, pro-
ceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to ob-
serve, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me,
and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light
which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant
songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to ex-
press my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and
inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.
   "The moon had disappeared from the night, and again,
with a lessened form, shewed itself, while I still remained in
the forest. My sensations had, by this time, become distinct,
and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes be-
came accustomed to the light, and to perceive objects in their
right forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and, by
degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow ut-
tered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.
   "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! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to
be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches; but
they were wet, and would not burn. I was pained at this, and
sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood
which I had placed near the heat dried, and itself became in-
flamed. I reflected on this; and, by touching the various
branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in collect-
ing a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought
sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be
extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves,
and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my
cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk into sleep.
   "It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to
visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly
fanned it into a flame. I observed this also, and contrived a
fan of branches, which roused the embers when they were
nearly extinguished. When night came again, I found, with
pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that the
discovery of this element was useful to me in my food; for I
found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been
roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I
gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food
in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found
that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts
and roots much improved.
   "Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the
whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the
pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the
place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the
few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In
this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire
which I had obtained through accident, and knew not how to
re-produce it. I gave several hours to the serious considera-
tion of this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all at-
tempt to supply it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I
struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three
days in these rambles, and at length discovered the open
country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night be-
fore, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appear-
ance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the
cold damp substance that covered the ground.
   "It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain
food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising
ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience
of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; and I exam-
ined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door
open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which
he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a
noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the
hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated
form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different
from any I had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat
surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the
hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground
was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a
retreat as Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured
the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of
bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not
like. Then overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some
straw, and fell asleep.
   "It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of
the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I deter-
mined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the re-
mains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I pro-
ceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I
arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the huts,
the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admira-
tion by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and
cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cot-
tages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered;
but I had hardly placed my foot within the door, before the
children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole
village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until, griev-
ously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile
weapons, I escaped to the open country, and fearfully took
refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched ap-
pearance after the palaces I had beheld in the village. This
hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant ap-
pearance; but, after my late dearly-bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of
wood, but so low, that I could with difficulty sit upright in it.
No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed
the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by
innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the
snow and rain.
   "Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found
a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the sea-
son, and still more from the barbarity of man.
   "As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that
I might view the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could re-
main in the habitation I had found. It was situated against the
back of the cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were
exposed by a pig-stye and a clear pool of water. One part was
open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every
crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and wood,
yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to
pass out: all the light I enjoyed came through the stye, and
that was sufficient for me.
   "Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with
clean straw, I retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a dis-
tance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night be-
fore, to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, pro-
vided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse
bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink,
more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water
which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so
that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chim-
ney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
   "Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, un-
til something should occur which might alter my determina-
tion. It was indeed a paradise, compared to the bleak forest,
my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank
earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure, and was about to re-
move a plank to procure myself a little water, when I heard a
step, and, looking through a small chink, I beheld a young
creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel.
The girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I
have since found cottagers and farm-house servants to be.
Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a
linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but
not adorned; she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight of her;
and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing the
pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked
along, seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man
met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despon-
dence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he
took the pail from her head, and bore it to the cottage him-
self. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the
young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes
in the house, and sometimes in the yard.
   "On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the win-
dows of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but
the panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a
small and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye
could just penetrate. Through this crevice, a small room was
visible, white-washed and clean, but very bare of furniture. In
one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his
head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl
was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took
something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and
she sat down beside the old man, who, taking up an instru-
ment, began to play, and to produce sounds, sweeter than
the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely
sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance
of the aged cottager, won my reverence; while the gentle
manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet
mournful air, which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of
his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice,
until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,
and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He
raised her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that
I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature: they
were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never be-
fore experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or
food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these
emotions.
   "Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his
shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door,
helped to relieve him of his burden, and, taking some of the
fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the
youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he shewed
her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased;
and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which
she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards
continued her work, whilst the young man went into the gar-
den, and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up
roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour, the
young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage to-
gether.
   "The old man had, in the mean time, been pensive; but,
on the appearance of his companions, he assumed a more
cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly
dispatched. The young woman was again occupied in arrang-
ing the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the
sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Noth-
ing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two ex-
cellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a counte-
nance beaming with benevolence and love: the younger was
slight and graceful in his figure, and his features were
moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and attitude
expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man
returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different
from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps
across the fields.
   "Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I
found that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light, by
the use of tapers, and was delighted to find, that the setting
of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced
in watching my human neighbours. In the evening, the young
girl and her companion were employed in various occupa-
tions which I did not understand; and the old man again took
up the instrument, which produced the divine sounds that
had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had fin-
ished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that
were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of
the old man's instrument or the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of
the science of words or letters.
"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short
time, extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured,
to rest.
            CHAPTER IV.

" I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the
occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle
manners of these people; and I longed to join them, but
dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suf-
fered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and re-
solved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it
right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in
my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the mo-
tives which influenced their actions.
   "The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun.
The young woman arranged the cottage, and prepared the
food; and the youth departed after the first meal.
   "This day was passed in the same routine as that which
preceded it. The young man was constantly employed out of
doors, and the girl in various laborious occupations within.
The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed
his leisure hours on his instrument, or in contemplation.
Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the
younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable compan-
ion. They performed towards him every little office of affec-
tion and duty with gentleness; and he rewarded them by his
benevolent smiles.
   "They were not entirely happy. The young man and his
companion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no
cause for their unhappiness; but I was deeply affected by it. If
such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that
I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet
why were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a de-
lightful house (for such it was in my eyes), and every luxury;
they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still
more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, inter-
changing each day looks of affection and kindness. What did
their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first
unable to solve these questions; but perpetual attention, and
time, explained to me many appearances which were at first
enigmatic.
   "A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of
the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family; it was pov-
erty: and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.
Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of
their garden, and the milk of one cow, who gave very little
during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure
food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs
of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottag-
ers; for several times they placed food before the old man,
when they reserved none for themselves.
   "This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been ac-
customed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for
my own consumption; but when I found that in doing this I
inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied my-
self with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a
neighbouring wood.
   "I discovered also another means through which I was en-
abled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a
great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire;
and, during the night, I often took his tools, the use of which
I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for
the consumption of several days.
   "I remember, the first time that I did this, the young
woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared
greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the out-
side. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth
joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with
pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent
it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.
   "By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I
found that these people possessed a method of communicat-
ing their experience and feelings to one another by articulate
sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes
produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds
and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike
science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it.
But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose.
Their pronunciation was quick; and the words they uttered,
not having any apparent connexion with visible objects, I was
unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mys-
tery of their reference. By great application, however, and af-
ter having remained during the space of several revolutions
of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were
given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse: I
learned and applied the words fire, milk bread, and wood. I
learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The
youth and his companion had each of them several names,
but the old man had only one, which was father. The girl was
called sister, or Agatha; and the youth Felix, brother, or son. I
cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas ap-
propriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pro-
nounce them. I distinguished several other words, without
being able as yet to understand or apply them; such as good,
dearest, unhappy.
   "I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners
and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me:
when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they re-
joiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human beings
beside them; and if any other happened to enter the cottage,
their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I
could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children,
as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their
melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an ex-
pression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me.
Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with
tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but
I generally found that her countenance and tone were more
cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her fa-
ther. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of
the groupe; and, even to my unpractised senses, he appeared
to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his
countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheer
ful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the
old man.
   "I could mention innumerable instances, which, although
slight, marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In
the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to
his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from be-
neath the snowy ground. Early in the morning before she
had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path
to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the
wood from the out-house, where, to his perpetual
astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an in-
visible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for
a neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth, and did
not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At
other times he worked in the garden; but, as there was little
to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and
Agatha.
   "This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by
degrees, I discovered that he uttered many of the same
sounds when he read as when he talked. I conjectured, there-
fore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he
understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these also;
but how was that possible, when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, how-
ever, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up
any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind
to the endeavour: for I easily perceived that, although I
eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought
not to make the attempt until I had first become master of
their language; which knowledge might enable me to make
them overlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also
the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me
acquainted.
"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers their
grace, beauty, and delicate complexions: but how was I terri-
fied, when I viewed myself in a transparent pool! At first I
started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was
reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced
that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with
the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.
Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miser-
able deformity.
   "As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer,
the snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black
earth. From this time Felix was more employed; and the
heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared.
Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was
wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it. Several new
kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which they dressed;
and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season ad-
vanced.
   "The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at
noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the
heavens poured forth its waters. This frequently took place;
but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season be-
came far more pleasant than it had been.
   "My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the
morning I attended the motions of the cottagers; and when
they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept: the re-
mainder of the day was spent in observing my friends. When
they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the night
was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected my own
food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it
was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow, and per-
formed those offices that I had seen done by Felix. I after-
wards found that these labours, performed by an invisible
hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard
them, on these occasions, utter the words good spirit, wonder-
ful; but I did not then understand the signification of these
terms.
   "My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to
discover the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I
was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable, and
Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in
my power to restore happiness to these deserving people.
When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the venerable blind
father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix, flitted be-
fore me. I looked upon them as superior beings, who would
be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagina-
tion a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and
their reception of me. I imagined that they would be dis-
gusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating
words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards their
love.
   "These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with
fresh ardour to the acquiring the art of language. My organs
were indeed harsh, but supple; and although my voice was
very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced
such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as the
ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass, whose inten-
tions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, de-
served better treatment than blows and execration.
   "The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly
altered the aspect of the earth. Men, who before this change
seemed to have been hid in caves, dispersed themselves, and
were employed in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang
in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on
the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for gods, which,
so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome.
My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of na-
ture; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was
tranquil, and the filture gilded by bright rays of hope, and an-
ticipations of joy.
            CHAPTER V.

" I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall
relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from
what I was, have made me what I am.
   "Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and
the skies cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was de-
sert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful
flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed
by a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of
beauty.
   "It was on one of these days, when my cottagers peri-
odically rested from labour the old man played on his gui-
tar, and the children listened to him I observed that the
countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression: he
sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his music,
and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause
of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the
old man was recommencing his music, when some one
tapped at the door.
   "It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-
man as a guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit, and cov-
ered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question; to
which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet
accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but unlike
that of either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came
up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her
veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and ex-
pression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously
braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated;
her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion
wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.
   "Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her,
every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly
expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly
have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek
flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as
beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by different
feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out
her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called her,
as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not
appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dis-
mount, and, dismissing her guide, conducted her into the
cottage. Some conversation took place between him and his
father; and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet,
and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and em-
braced her affectionately.
   "l soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered ar-
ticulate sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own,
she was neither understood by, or herself understood, the
cottagers. They made many signs which I did not compre-
hend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through
the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with
smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gen-
tle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger; and, point-
ing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to
mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours
passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy,
the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found,
by the frequent recurrence of one sound which the stranger
repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their
language; and the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should
make use of the same instructions to the same end. The
stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson, most
of them indeed were those which I had before understood,
but I profited by the others.
   "As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.
When they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger,
and said, 'Good night, sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer,
conversing with his father; and, by the frequent repetition of
her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was the sub-
ject of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand
them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.
   "The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after
the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian
sat at the feet of the old man, and, taking his guitar, played
some airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at once drew
tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her
voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away, like a
nightingale of the woods.
   "When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha,
who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice
accomyanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous
strain of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured,
and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to explain
to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that
she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.
   "The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole
alteration, that joy had taken place of sadness in the counte-
nances of my friends. Safie was always gay and happy; she
and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language, so that
in two months I began to comprehend most of the words ut-
tered by my protectors.
   "In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with
herbage, and the green banks interspersed with innumerable
flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance
among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the
nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an
extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I
never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting
with the same treatment as I had formerly endured in the
first village which I entered.
   "My days were spent in close attention, that I might more
speedily master the language; and I may boast that I im-
proved more rapidly than the Arabian, who understood very
little, and conversed in broken accents, whilst I compre-
hended and could imitate almost every word that was spoken.
   "While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of
letters, as it was taught to the stranger; and this opened be-
fore me a wide field for wonder and delight.
   "The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's
Ruins of Empires. I should not have understood the purport of
this book, had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute ex-
planations. He had chosen this work, he said, because the de-
clamatory style was framed in imitation of the eastern
authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge
of history, and a view of the several empires at present exist-
ing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners, gov-
ernments, and religions of the different nations of the earth.
I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and
mental activity of the Grecians; of the wars and wonderful
virtue of the early Romans of their subsequent degenera-
tion of the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry,
christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the Ameri-
can hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of
its original inhabitants.
   "These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feel-
ings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and
magnificent, yet so vicious and base?  He appeared at one
time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another as all
that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great
and virtuous man appeared the highest honour than can be-
fall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on re-
cord have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condi-
tion more abject that of the blind mole or harmless worm.
For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go
forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and
governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed,
my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loath-
ing.
   "Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new
wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions which Fe-
lix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human
society was explained to me. I heard of the division of prop-
erty, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank, de-
scent, and noble blood.
  "The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned
that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures
were, high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man
might be respected with only one of these acquisitions; but
without either he was considered, except in very rare in-
stances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his pow-
ers for the profit of the chosen few. And what was I? Of my
creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew
that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I
was, besides, endowed with a figure hideously deformed and
loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was
more agile than they, and could subsist upon coarser diet; I
bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my
frame; my stature far exceeded their's. When I looked
around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a mon-
ster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and
whom all men disowned?
   "I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections
inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only in-
creased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in
my native wood, nor known or felt beyond the sensations of
hunger, thirst, and heat!
   "Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the
mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock.
I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I
learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensa-
tion of pain, and that was death a state which I feared yet
did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and
loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottag-
ers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except
through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was un-
seen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied
the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The
gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the
charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations
of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix,
were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
   "Other lessons were impressed upon me even more
deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes; of the birth and
growth of children; how the father doated on the smiles of
the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child; how all the
life and cares of the mother were wrapt up in the precious
charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowl-
edge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships
which bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.
   "But where were my friends and relations? No father had
watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with
smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a
blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From
my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height
and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me,
or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The
question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.
   "I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but al-
low me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in
me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder,
but which all terminated in additional love and reverence for
my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful
self-deceit, to call them).
            CHAPTER Vl.

"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my
friends. It was one which could not fail to impress itself
deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did a number of circum-
stances each interesting and wonderful to one so utterly inex-
perienced as I was.
"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descend-
ed from a good family in France, where he had lived for
many years in affluence, respected by his superiors, and be-
loved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his
country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest
distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in
a large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by
friends, and possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, re-
finement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate
fortune, could afford.
   "The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He
was a Turkish merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many
years, when, for some reason which I could not learn, he be-
came obnoxious to the government. He was seized and cast
into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Constanti-
nople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death.
The injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was
indignant; and it was judged that his religion and wealth,
rather than the crime alleged against him, had been the cause
of his condemnation.
   "Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indig-
nation were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of
the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver
him, and then looked around for the means. After many
fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he found
a strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the build-
ing, which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Ma-
hometan; who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the exe-
cution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at
night, and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his
favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kin-
dle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and
wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he
saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and
who, by her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the
youth could not help owning to his own mind, that the cap-
tive possessed a treasure which would fully reward his toil
and hazard.
   "The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his
daughter had made on the heart of Felix, and endeavoured
to secure him more entirely in his interests by the promise of
her hand in marriage, so soon as he should be conveyed to a
place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer; yet
he looked forward to the probability of that event as to the
consummation of his happiness.
   "During the ensuing days, while the preparations were go-
ing forward for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix
was warmed by several letters that he received from this
lovely girl, who found means to express her thoughts in the
language of her lover by the aid of an old man, a servant of
her father's, who understood French. She thanked him in the
most ardent terms for his intended services towards her fa-
ther; and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.
   "I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during
my residence in the hovel, to procure the implements of writ-
ing; and the letters were often in the hands of Felix or
Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them to you, they will
prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is al-
ready far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the sub-
stance of them to you.
   "Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab,
seized and made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her
beauty, she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who
married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic
terms of her mother, who, born in freedom spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed hler
daughter in the tenets of her religion, and taught her to as-
pire to higher powers of intellect, and an independence of
spirit, forbidden to the female followers of Mahomet.This
lady died; but her lessons were indelibly impressed on the
mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again return-
ing to Asia, and the being immured within the walls of a
harem, allowed only to occupy herself with puerile amuse-
ments, ill suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed
to grand ideas and a noble emulation for virtue. The pros-
pect of marrying a Christian, and remaining in a country
where women were allowed to take a rank in society, was en-
chanting to her.
   "The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on
the night previous to it, he had quitted prison, and before
morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had pro-
cured passports in the name of his father, sister, and himself.
He had previously communicated his plan to the former,
who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the pre-
tence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his daughter,
in an obscure part of Paris.
   "Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons,
and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had
decided to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into
some part of the Turkish dominions.
   "Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment
of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his
promise that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix
remained with them in expectation of that event; and in the
mean time he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhib-
ited towards him the simplest and tenderest affection. They
conversed with one another through the means of an inter-
preter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and
Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.
   "The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encour-
aged the hopes of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he
had formed far other plans. He loathed the idea that his
daughter should be united to a Christian; but he feared the
resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm; for he
knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer, if he
should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they in-
habited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be
enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer nec-
essary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when he
departed. His plans were greatly facilitated by the news which
arrived from Paris.
   "The government of France were greatly enraged at the es-
cape of their victim, and spared no pains to detect and pun-
ish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered,
and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news
reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of pleasure.
His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a noi-
some dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society
of her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He
quickly arranged with the Turk, that if the latter should find
a favourable opportunity for escape before Felix could return
to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at Leg-
horn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened to
Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law,
hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.
   "He did not succeed. They remained confined for five
months before the trial took place; the result of which de-
prived them of their fortune, and condemned them to a per-
petual exile from their native country.
   "They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Ger-
many, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the
treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such
unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was
thus reduced to poverty and impotence, became a traitor to
good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his
daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid
him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.
   "Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix,
and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable
of his family. He could have endured poverty, and when this
distress had been the meed of his virtue, he would have glo-
ried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his
beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable.
The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.
   "When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived
of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daugh
ter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return
with him to her native country. The generous nature of Safie
was outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate
with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyranni-
cal mandate.
   "A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apart-
ment, and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that
his residence at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he
should speedily be delivered up to the French government;
he had, consequently, hired a vessel to convey him to Con-
stantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confiden-
tial servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of
his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.
   "When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of
conduct that it would become her to pursue in this emer-
gency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her relig-
ion and feelings were alike adverse to it. By some papers of
her father's, which fell into her hands, she heard of the exile
of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then
resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed
her determination. Taking with her some jewels that be-
longed to her, and a small sum of money, she quitted Italy,
with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who understood
the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany.
   "She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from
the cottage of De Lacey" when her attendant fell dangerously
ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection; but the
poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted
with the language of the country, and utterly ignorant of the
customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands.
The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which
they were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the
house in which they had lived took care that Safie should ar-
rive in safety at the cottage of her lover.
            CHAPTER VII.

" Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed
me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it de-
veloped, to admire their virtues, and to deprecate the vices of
mankind.

   "As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence
and generosity were ever present before me, inciting within
me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so
many admirable qualities were called forth and displayed.
But, in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I
must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the begin-
ning of the month of August of the same year.
   "One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbour-
ing wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home
firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern
portmanteau, containing several articles of dress and some
books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my
hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language the
elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they con-
sisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives, and the
Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me
extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my
mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed
in their ordinary occupations.
   "I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.
They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings,
that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently
sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter, be-
sides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many
opinions are canvassed, and so many lights thrown upon
what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects, that I found
in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment.
The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined
with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object
something out of self, accorded well with my experience
among my protectors, and with the wants which were for
ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a
more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his
character contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The dis-
quisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me
with wonder. I did not pretend to enter into the merits of
the case, yet I inclined towards the opiniolns of the hero,
whose extinction I wept, without precisely un~derstanding it.
   "As I read, however, I applied much perSo~nally to my own
feelings and condition. I found myself similar, yet at the same
time strangely unlike the beings concerninlg whom I read,
and to whose conversation I was a listener-- I sympathized
with, and partly understood them, but I was unformed in
mind; I was dependent on none, and relateid to none. 'The
path of my departure was free;' and there was none to la-
ment my annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stat-
ure gigantic: what did this mean? Who was I? What was I?
Whence did I come? What was my destinatiion? These ques-
tions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.
   "The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed, con-
tained the histories of the first founders of the ancient repub-
lics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the
Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter's jimaginations de-
spondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me high thoughts;
he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflec-
tions, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many
things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I
had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of
country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was per-
fectly unacquainted with towns, and large assemblages of
men. The cottage of my protectors had beenl the only school
in which I had studied human nature; but this book devel
oped new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men con-
cerned in public affairs governing or massacring their spe-
cies. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and
abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification
of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to
pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of
course led to admire peaceable law-givers, Numa, Solon, and
Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patri-
archal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take
a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to
humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for
glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with differ-
ent sensations.
   "But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emo-
tions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had
fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling
of wonder and awe, that the pictulre of an omnipotent God
warlfing with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often re-
ferred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to
my own. Like Adam, I was created apparently united by no
link to any other being in existenc,e; but his state was far dif-
ferent from mine in every other respect. He had come forth
from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and pros-
perous, guarded by the special care of his Creator; he was al-
lowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from beings
of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my
condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my
protectors the bitter gall of envy rose within me.
   "Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these
feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some
papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from
your laboratory. At first I had neglected them; but now that I
was; able to decypher the characters in which they were writ-
ten, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal
of the four months that preceded rny creation. You minutely
desclribed in these papers every step you took in the progress
of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of do-
mestic occurrences. You, doubtless, recollect these papers.
Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears ref-
erence to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series
of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view;
the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person
is given, in language which painted your own horrors, and
rendered mine ineffaceable. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day
when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Cursed creator!
Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you
turned from me in disgust? God in pity made man beautiful
and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type
of your's, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had
his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him;
but I am solitary and detested.'
   "These were the reflections of my hours of despondency
and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cot-
tagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I per-
suaded myself that when they should become acquainted
with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassion-
ate me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn
from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their
compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to de-
spair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with
them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt
for some months longer; for the importance attached to its
success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I
found that my understanding improved so much with every
day's experience, that I was unwilling to commence this un-
dertaking until a few more months should have added to my
wisdom.
   "Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the cot-
tage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its in-
habitants; and I also found that a greater degree of plenty
reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amuse-
ment and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by
servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented
and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while
mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowl
edge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched
outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished,
when I beheld my person reflected in water, or my shadow in
the moon-shine, even as that frail image and that inconstant
shade.
   "I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself
for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo;
and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason,
to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy ami-
able and lovely creatures sympathizing with my feelings and
cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed
my sorrows, or shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remem-
bered Adam's supplication to his Creator; but where was
mine? he had abandoned me, and, in the bitterness of my
heart, I cursed him.
   "Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the
leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren
and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the
woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness
of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the
endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the
sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of sum-
mer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention
towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by
the absence of summer. They loved, and sympathized with
one another; and their joys, depending on each other, were
not interrupted by the casualties that took place around
them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire
to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to
be known and loved by these amiable creatures: to see their
sweet looks turned towards me with affection, was the utmost
limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn
them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that
stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is
true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest; I required
kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly
unworthy of it.
   "The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the sea-
sons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention, at
this time, was solely directed towards my plan of introducing
myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many
projects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter the
dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sa-
gacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of
my person was the chief object of horror with those who had
formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing
terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if, in the absence of
his children, I could gain the good-will and mediation of the
old De Lacey, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors.
   "One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that
strewed the ground, and diffused cheerfulness, although it
denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix, departed on a long
country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left
alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he
took up his guitar, and played several mournful, but sweet
airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him
play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with
pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness
succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat ab-
sorbed in reflection.
   "My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of
trial, which would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The
servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in
and around the cottage: it was an excellent opportunity; yet,
when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me,
and I sunk to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting all the
firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I
had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh
air revived me, and, with renewed determination, I ap-
proached the door of their cottage.
   "I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man 'Come in.'
   "I entered; 'Pardon this intrusion,' said I, 'I am a traveller
in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you
would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.'
   "'Enter,' said De Lacey; 'and I will try in what manner I
can relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are
from home, and, as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it diffl-
cult to procure food for you.'
   "'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is
warmth and rest only that I need.'
  "I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every min-
ute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what
manner to commence the interview; when the old man ad-
dressed me
   "'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my coun-
tryman; are you French?'
   "'No; but I was educated by a French family, and under-
stand that language only. I am now going to claim the protec-
tion of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose fa-
vour I have some hopes.'
   "'Are these Germans?'
   "'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am
an unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and I
have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people
to whom I go have never seen me, and know little of me. I
am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the
world for ever.'
   "'Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortu-
nate; but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvi-
ous self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely,
therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and
amiable, do not despair.'
   "'They are kind - they are the most excellent creatures in
the world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me.
I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless,
and, in some degree, beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds
their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind
friend, they behold only a detestable monster.'
   "'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blame-
less, cannot you undeceive them?'
   "'I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that ac-
count that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly
love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many
months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they
believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice
which I wish to overcome.'
   "'Where do these friends reside?'
   "'Near this spot.'
   "The old man paused, and then continued, 'If you will un-
reservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I per-
haps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind, and can-
not judge of your countenance, but there is something in
your words which persuades me that you are sincere. I am
poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to be in
any way serviceable to a human creature.'
   "'Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous of-
fer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust
that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and
sympathy of your fellow-creatures.'
   "'Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that
can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to
virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been
condemned, although innocent: judge, therefore, if I do not
feel for your misfortunes.'
   "'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? from
your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed to-
wards me; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present hu-
manity assures me of success with those friends whom I am
on the point of meeting.'
   "'May I know the names and residence of those friends?'
   "I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision,
which was to rob me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever.
I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but
the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the
chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of
my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose; but, seiz-
ing the hand of the old man, I cried, 'Now is the time! - save
and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I
seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'
   "'Great God!' exclaimed the old man, 'who are you?'
   "At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix,
Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror
and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted; and
Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cot-
tage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore
me from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of
fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently
with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion
rends the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with bit-
ter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of re-
peating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I
quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unper-
ceived to my hovel.
            CHAPTER Vlll.

"Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that in-
stant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you
had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet
taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and
revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage
and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks
and misery.
   "When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in
the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear of dis-
covery, I gave- vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was
like a wild beast that had broken the toils; destroying the ob-
jects that obstructed me, and ranging through the wood with
a stag-like swiftness. Oh! what a miserable night I passed! the
cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their
branches above me: now and then the sweet voice of a bird
burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at
rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch fiend, bore a hell within
me;l and, finding myself unsympathized with, wished to tear
up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and
then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
   "But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I
became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on
the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was
none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity
or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies?
No: from that moment I declared everlasting war against the
species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me,
and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.
   "The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it
was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Ac-
cordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining
to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation.
   "The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored
me to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered
what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing
that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly
acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had
interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having
exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to
have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees
have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they
should have been prepared for my approach. But I did not
believe my errors to be irretrievable; and, after much consid-
eration, I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man,
and by my representations win him to my party.
   "These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank
into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not al-
low me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene
of the preceding day was for ever acting before my eyes; the
females were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me from
his father's feet. I awoke exhausted; and, finding that it was
already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.
   "When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps to-
wards the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All
there was at peace. I crept into my hovel, and remained in si-
lent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family
arose. That hour past, the sun mounted high in the heavens,
but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, appre-
hending some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage
was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the agony
of this suspence.
   "Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near
the cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent ges-
ticulations; but I did not understand what they said, as they
spoke the language of the country, which differed from that
of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix approached with
another man: I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quit-
ted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to dis-
cover, from his discourse, the meaning of these unusual ap-
pearances.
   "'Do you consider,' said his companion to him, 'that you
will be obliged to pay three months' rent, and to lose the pro-
duce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advan-
tage, and I beg therefore that you will take some days to con-
sider of your determination.'
   "'It is utterly useless,' replied Felix, 'we can never again in-
habit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest
danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have re-
lated. My wife and my sister will never recover their horror. I
entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take possession
of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.'
   "Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his com-
panion entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few
minutes, and then departed. I never saw any of the family of
De Lacey more.
   ''I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a
state of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had de-
parted, and had broken the only link that held me to the
world. For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred
filled my bosom, and I did not strive to controul them; but,
allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my
mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my
friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of
Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these
thoughts vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat soothed
me. But again, when I reflected that they had spurned and
deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger; and, unable to
injure any thing human, I turned my fury towards inanimate
objects. As night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles
around the cottage; and, after having destroyed every vestige
of cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience
until the moon had sunk to commence my operations.
   "As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the
woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in
the heavens: the blast tore along like a mighty avelanche, and
produced a kind of insanity in my spirits, that burst all
bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a
tree, and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my
eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the
moon nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid,
and I waved my brand; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I
fired the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected.
The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly envel-
oped by the flames, which clung to it, and licked it with their
forked and destroying tongues.
   "As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save
any part of the habitation, I quitted the scene, and sought for
refuge in the woods.
   "And now, with the world before me, whither should I
bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the scene of my mis-
fortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country must
be equally horrible. At length the thought of you crossed my
mind. I learned from your papers that you were my father,
my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness
than to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that
Felix had bestowed upon Safie geography had not been omit-
ted: I had learned from these the relative situations of the dif-
ferent countries of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva as
the name of your native town; and towards this place I re-
solved to proceed.
   "But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel
in a south-westerly direction to reach my destination; but the
sun was my only guide. I did not know the names of the
towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information
from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you
only could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no
sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator!
you had endowed me with perceptions and passions, and
then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of
mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and re-
dress, and from you I determined to seek that justice which I
vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the
human form.
   "My travels were long, and the sufferings I endured in-
tense. It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where
I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of en-
countering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed
around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow
poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of
the earth was hard, and chill, and bare, and I found no shel-
ter. Oh, earth! how often did I imprecate curses on the cause
of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all
within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I ap-
proached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel the
spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the
waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents now
and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country;
but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my
feelings allowed me no respite: no incident occurred from
which my rage and misery could not extract its food; but a
circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines
of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth, and
the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial
manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.
   "I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when
I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning,
however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I
ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the
day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by
the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I
felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long ap-
peared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty
of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by
them; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be
happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised e~
my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun
which bestowed such joy upon me.
   "I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I
came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid
river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now
budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly
knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of
voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of
a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when a young girl came running
towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing as if she
ran from some one in sport. She continued her course along
the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot
slipt, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my
hiding place, and, with extreme labour from the force of the
current, saved her, and dragged her to shore. She was sense-
less; and I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to re-
store animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the ap-
proach of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom
she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me,
and, tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the
deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew
why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,
which he carried, at my body, and fired. I sunk to the
ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped
into the wood.
   "This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved
a human being from destruction, and, as a recompence, I
now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound, which
shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and
gentleness, which I had entertained but a few moments be-
fore, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. In-
flamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all
mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my
pulses paused, and I fainted.
   "For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, en-
deavouring to cure the wound which I had received. The ball
had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had re-
mained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means
of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the
oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their in-
fliction. My daily vows rose for revenge a deep and deadly
revenge, such as would alone compensate for the outrages
and anguish I had endured.
   "After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my
journey. The labours I endured were no longer to be alle~i-
ated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was
but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made
me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment
of pleasure.
   "But my toils now drew near a close; and, two months
from this time, I reached the environs of Geneva.
   "It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-
place among the fields that surround it, to meditate in what
manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and
hunger, and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of
evening, or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupen-
dous mountains of Jura.
   "At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of re-
flection, which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful
child, who came running into the recess I had chosen with all
the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an
idea seized me, that this little creature was unprejudiced, and
had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of de-
formity. If, therefore, I could seize him, and educate him as
my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in this
peopled earth.
   "Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed,
and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, Ihe
placed his hands before his eyes, and uttered a shrill scream:
I drew his hand forcibly from his face, and said, 'Child, what
is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to
me.'
   "He struggled violently; 'Let me go,' he cried; 'monster!
ugly wretch! you wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces - You
are an ogre - Let me go, or I will tell my papa.'
   "'Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come
with me.'
"'Hideous monster! let me go; My papa is a Syndic - he is
M. Frankenstein - he would punish you. You dare not keep
me.'
   "'Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy - to him to-
wards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my
first victim.'
   "The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets
which carried despair to my heart: I grasped his throat to si-
lence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.
   "I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exulta-
tion and hellish triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed, 'I,
too, can create desolation; my enemy is not impregnable; this
death will carry despair to him, and a thousand other miser-
ies shall torment and destroy him.'
   "As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering
on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely
woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted
me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,
fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my
rage returned: I remembered that I was for ever deprived of
the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow; and
that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regard-
ing me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one ex-
pressive of disgust and affright.
   "Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with
rage? I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting
my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush
among mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them.
   "While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot
where I had committed the murder, and was seeking a more
secluded hiding-place, when I perceived a woman passing
near me. She was young, not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect, and bloom-
ing in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is
one of those whose smiles are bestowed on all but me; she
shall not escape: thanks to the lessons of Felix, and the san-
guinary laws of man, I have learned how to work mischief. I
approached her unperceived, and placed the portrait se-
curely in one of the folds of her dress.
   "For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had
taken place; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes re-
solved to quit the world and its miseries for ever. At length I
wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged
through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning pas-
sion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you
have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone,
and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as de-
formed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me.
My companion must be of the same species, and have the
same defects. This being you must create."
            CHAPTER IX.

The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me
in expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed,
and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the
full extent of his proposition. He continued
   "You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in
the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.
This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right
which you must not refuse."
   The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the an-
ger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life
among the cottagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer
suppress the rage that burned within me.
   "I do refuse it," I replied; Uand no torture shall ever extort
a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable
of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes.
Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness
might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you
may torture me, but I will never consent.~
   "You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; Uand, instead of
threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious
because I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by all
mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and tri-
umph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man
more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you
could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy
my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man,
when he contemns me? Let him live with me in the inter-
change of kindness, and, instead of injury, I would bestow
every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his accep-
tance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmount-
able barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submis-
sion of ayect slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot
inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my
arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable
hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor fin-
ish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of
your birth."
   A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was
wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to be-
hold; but presently he calmed himself, and proceeded -
   "I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me;
for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If
any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should
return them an hundred and an hundred fold; for that one
creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind!
But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized.
What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratifi-
cation is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall con-
tent me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the
world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one
another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harm-
less, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! my creator,
make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some exist-
ing thing; do not deny me my request!"
   I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible
consequences of my consent; but I felt that there was some
justice in his argument. His tale, and the feelings he now ex-
pressed, proved him to be a creature of fine sensations; and
did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness
that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feel-
ing, and continued -
   "If you consent, neither you nor any other human being
shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South
America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the
lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite; acorns and berries af-
ford me sufficient nourishment.' My companion will be of
the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same
fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will
shine on us as on man, and will ripen our food. The picture I
present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that
you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cru-
elty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compas-
sion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment, and
persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."
   "You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of
man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will
be your only companions. How can you, who long for the
love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will
return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with
their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you
will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruc-
tion. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot
consent."
   "How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you
were moved by my representations, and why do you again
harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the
earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with
the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of
man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of
places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with
sympathy; my life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying mo-
ments, I shall not curse my maker."
   His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated
him, and sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I
looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and
talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to
those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I
thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I had no
right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness
which was yet in my power to bestow.
   "You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not al-
ready shewn a degree of malice that should reasonably make
me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will in-
crease your triumph by affording a wider scope for your re-
venge?"
   "How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and
yet you still refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can
soften my heart, and render me harmless. If I have no ties
and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the
love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I
shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be ig-
norant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I
abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in
communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sen-
sitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence and
events, from which I am now excluded."
   I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and
the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of
the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the open-
ing of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all kindly
feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had
manifested towards him. His power and threats were not
omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the
ice caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit
among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being pos-
sessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long
pause of reflection, I concluded, that the justice due both to
him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should
comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said
   "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit
Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighbourhood
of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female
who will accompany you in your exile."
   "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of
heaven, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall
never behold me again. Depart to your home, and com-
mence your labours: I shall watch their progress with unutter-
able anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall
appear."
   Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of
any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the moun-
tain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and
quickly lost him among the undulations of the sea of ice.
   His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was
upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that
I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should
soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy,
and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little
paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I ad-
vanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions
which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was
far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-place, and
seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at inter-
vals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay
on the ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and
stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasp-
ing my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! stars, and clouds,
and winds, ye are all about to mock me: if ye really pity me,
crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but
if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness."
   These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot de-
scribe to you how the eternal twinlcling of the stars weighed
upon me, and how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it
were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.
   Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of
Chamounix; but my presence, so haggard and strange, hardly
calmed the fears of my family, who had waited the whole
night in anxious expectation of my return.
   The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention
of my father in coming had been to divert my mind, and to
restore me to my lost tranquillity; but the medicine had been
fatal. And, unable to account for the excess of misery I ap-
peared to suffer, he hastened to return home, hoping the
quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees alle-
viate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring
   For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the
gentle affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to
draw me from the depth of my despair. The promise I had
made to the daemon weighed upon my mind, like Dante's
iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All pleas-
ures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that
thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder,
that sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw
continually about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting
on me incessant torture, that often extorted screams and bit-
ter groans?
   By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I en-
tered again into the every-day scene of life, if not with inter-
est, at least with some degree of tranquillity.
            END OF VOLUME II.
                          VOLUME III.

                          CHAPTER I.



Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to
Geneva; and I could not collect the courage to recommence
my work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend,
yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task
which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a
female without again devoting several months to profound
study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discov-
eries having been made by an English philosopher, the
knowledge of which was material to my success, and I some-
times thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit Eng-
land for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay,
and could not resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity.
My health, which had hitherto declined, was now much re-
stored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my
unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this
change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the
best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
which every now and then would return by fits, and with a
devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At
these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I
passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching
the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent
and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to
restore me to some degree of composure; and, on my return,
I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a
more cheerful heart.
   It was after my return from one of these rambles that my
father, calling me aside, thus addressed me:-
   "I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have re-
sumed your former pleasures, and seem to be returning to
yourself. And yet you are still unhappy, and still avoid our so-
ciety. For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause
of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well
founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point
would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us
all."
   I trembled violently at this exordium, and my father con-
tinued -
   "I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to
your marriage with your cousin as the tie of our domestic
comfort, and the stay of my declining years. You were at-
tached to each other from your earliest infancy; you studied
together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes, entirely
suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man,
that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may
have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your
sister, without any wish that she might become your wife.
Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love;
and, considering yourself as bound in honour to your cousin,
this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you ap-
pear to feel."
   "My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin ten-
derly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as
Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affection. My fu-
ture hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the expec-
tation of our union."
   "The expression of your sentiments on this subject, my
dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some
time experienced. If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be
happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us. But
it is this gloom, which appears to have taken so strong a hold
of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore,
whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have
drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years
and infirmities. You are younger; yet I do not suppose, pos-
sessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early mar-
riage would at all interfere with any future plans of honour
and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose, how-
ever, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay
on your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Inter-
pret my words with candour, and answer me, I conjure you,
with confidence and sincerity."
   I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some
time incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my
mind a multitude of thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at
some conclusion. Alas! to me the idea of an immediate union
with my cousin was one of horror and dismay. I was bound
by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared
not break; or, if I did, what manifold miseries might not im-
pend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a
festival with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck,
and bowing me to the ground. I must perform my engage-
ment, and let the monster depart with his mate, before I al-
lowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from which I
expected peace.
   I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of
either journeying to England, or entering into a long corre-
spondence with those philosophers of that country, whose
knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable use to me
in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining
the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: be-
sides, any variation was agreeable to me, and I was delighted
with the idea of spending a year or two in change of scene
and variety of occupation, in absence from my family; during
which period some event might happen which would restore
me to them in peace and happiness: my promise might be
fulfilled, and the monster have departed; or some accident
might occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for
ever.
   These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I ex-
pressed a wish to visit England; but, concealing the true rea-
sons of this request, I clothed my desires under the guise of
wishing to travel and see the world before I sat down for life
within the walls of my native town.
   I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father was
easily induced to comply; for a more indulgent and less dicta-
torial parent did not exist upon earth. Our plan was soon ar-
ranged. I should travel to Strasburgh, where Clerval would
join me. Some short time would be spent in the towns of Hol-
land, and our principal stay would be in England. We should
return by France; and it was agreed that the tour should oc-
cupy the space of two years.
   My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my un-
ion with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my re-
turn to Geneva. UThese two years," said he, "will pass swiftly,
and it will be the last delay that will oppose itself to your hap-
piness. And, indeed, I earnestly desire that period to arrive,
when we shall all be united, and neither hopes or fears arise
to disturb our domestic calm."
   "I am content," I replied, "with your arrangement. By that
time we shall both have become wiser, and I hope happier,
than we at present are." I sighed; but my father kindly for-
bore to question me further concerning the cause of my de-
jection. He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement of
travelling, would restore my tranquillity.
   I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling
haunted me, which filled me with fear and agitation. During
my absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the ex-
istence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks, ex-
asperated as he might be by my departure. But he had prom-
ised to follow me wherever I might go; and would he not
accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my
friends. I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that
the reverse of this might happen. But through the whole pe-
riod during which I was the slave of my creature, I allowed
myself to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and
my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of
his machinations.
   It was in the latter end of August that I departed, to pass
two years of exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my
departure, and only regretted that she had not the same op-
portunities of enlarging her experience, and cultivating her
understanding.  She wept, however, as she bade me farewell,
and entreated me to return happy and tranquil. "We all,"
said she, "depend upon you; and if you are miserable, what
must be our feelings?"
   I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me
away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of
what was passing around. I remembered only, and it was with
a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that my chemi-
cal instruments should be packed to go with me: for I re-
solved to fulfil my promise while abroad, and return, if possi-
ble, a free man. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed
through many beautiful and majestic scenes; but my eyes
were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the bourne
of my travels, and the work which was to occupy me whilst
they endured.
   After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I
traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I
waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the
contrast between us! He was alive to every new scene; joyful
when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy
when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day. He
pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape, and
the appearances of the sky. "This is what it is to live;" he
cried, "now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein,
wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful?" In truth, I
was occupied by gloomy thoughts, and neither saw the de-
scent of the evening star, nor the golden sun-rise reflected in
the Rhine.-And you, my friend, would be far more amused
with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an
eye of feeling and delight, than to listen to my reflections. I, a
miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every ave-
nue to enjoyment.
   We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Stras-
burgh to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for Lon-
don. During this voyage, we passed by many willowy islands,
and saw several beautiful towns. We staid a day at Manheim,
and, on the fifth from our departure from Strasburgh, ar-
rived at Mayence.  The course of the Rhine below Mayence
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly,
and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful
forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of
precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible.
This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly vari-
egated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined
castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark
Rhine rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a prom-
ontory, flourishing vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a
meandering river, and populous towns, occupy the scene.
   We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song
of the labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, de-
pressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by
gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the
boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to
drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger.
And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of
Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairy-land,
and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man. "I have
seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country;
I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy
mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, cast-
ing black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a
gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for the most
verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I
have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore
up whirlwinds of water, and gave you an idea of what the
water-spout must be on the great ocean, and the waves dash
with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his
mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their
dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the
nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and
the Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor, pleases me more
than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are
more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the banks
of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at
that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on
the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those
lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from
among their vines; and that village half-hid in the recess of
the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits and guards
this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than those
who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country."
   Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record
your words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so
eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the "very po-
etry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was
chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed
with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted
and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to
look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies
were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of
external nature, which others regard only with admiration,
he loved with ardour:


         "The sounding cataract
   Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
   The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
   Their colours and their forms, were then to him
   An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
   That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye."

   And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely be-
ing lost for ever? Has this mind so replete with ideas, imagi-
nations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world,
whose existence depended on the life of its creator; has this
mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it
is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with
beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles
your unhappy friend.
   Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are
but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but
they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his
remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.
   Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland;
and we resolved to post the remainder of our way; for the
wind was contrary, and the stream of the river was too gentle
to aid us.
   Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful
scenery; but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence
we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning,
in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs
of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;
they were flat, but fertile, and almost every town was marked
by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and
remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and
Greenwich, places which I had heard of even in my country.
   At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St.
Paul's towering above all, and the Tower famed in English
history.
            CHAPTER II.

London was our present point of rest; we determined to
remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city.
Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and tal-
ent who flourished at this time; but this was with me a secon-
dary object; I was principally occupied with the means of
obtaining the information necessary for the completion of
my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of intro-
duction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most
distinguished natural philosophers.
   If this journey had taken place during my days of study
and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleas-
ure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only vis-
ited these people for the sake of the information they might
give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly
profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could
fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of
Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a tran-
sitory peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces brought
back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier
placed between me and my fellow-men; this barrier was
sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to reflect
on the events connected with those names filled my soul with
anguish.
   But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was in-
quisitive, and anxious to gain experience and instruction.
The difference of manners which he observed was to him an
inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was
for ever busy; and the only check to his enjoyments was my
sorrowful and dejected mien. I tried to conceal this as much
as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, un-
disturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to
accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might
remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials neces-
sary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture
of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every
thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and
every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to
quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
   After passing some months in London, we received a let-
ter from a person in Scotland, who had formerly been our
visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native
country, and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements
to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,
where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invita-
tion; and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again
mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with
which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
   We had arrived in England at the beginning of October,
and it was now February. We accordingly determined to com-
mence our journey towards the north at the expiration of an:
other month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow
the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford,
Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the
completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed my
chemical instruments, and the materials I had collected, re-
solving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the
northern Highlands of Scotland.
   We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a
few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was
a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quan-
tity of game, and the herds of stately deer, were all novelties
to us.
   From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this
city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of the
events that had been transacted there more than a century
and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected his
forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole
nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of parlia-
ment and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and
his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring,
his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of
the city, which they might be supposed to have inhabited.
The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we de-
lighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found
an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet
in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The col-
leges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost mag-
nificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through
meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid
expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of
towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged
trees.
   I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered
both by the memory of the past, and the anticipation of the
future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my
youthful days discontent never visited my mind; and if I was
ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in na-
ture, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the pro-
ductions of man, could always interest my heart, and commu-
nicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt
has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to
exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be-a miserable spectacle
of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and abhorrent to
myself.
   We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling
among its environs, and endeavouring to identify every spot
which might relate to the most animating epoch of English
history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged
by the successive objects that presented themselves. We vis-
ited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on
which that patriot fell.  For a moment my soul was elevated
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the di-
vine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights
were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant
I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a
free and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and
I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.
   We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock,
which was our next place of rest. The country in the neigh-
bourhood of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the
scenery of Switzerland; but every thing is on a lower scale,
and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps,
which always attend on the piny mountains of my native
country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets
of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the
same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.
The latter name made me tremble, when pronounced by
Henry; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terri-
ble scene was thus associated.
   From Derby still journeying northward, we passed two
months in Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now al-
most fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little
patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of
the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky
streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we
made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me
into happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably
greater than mine; his mind expanded in the company of
men of talent,  and he found in his own nature greater ca-
pacities and resources than he could have imagined himself
to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. "I
could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these
mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the
Rhine."
   But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes
much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on
the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds
himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for
something new, which again engages his attention, and which
also he forsakes for other novelties.
   We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland
and Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of
the inhabitants, when the period of our appointment with
our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on.
For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my
promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the
daemon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland,
and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued
me, and tormented me at every moment from which I might
otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my
letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed, I was
miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they
arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my fa-
ther, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes
I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my
remissness by murdering my companion. When these
thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a mo-
ment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from
the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed
some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I
was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse
upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
   I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet
that city might have interested the most unfortunate being.
Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford; for the antiquity of
the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and
regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle,
and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's
Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated
him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and ad-
miration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of
my journey.
   We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St.
Andrews, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where
our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and
talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with
the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I
told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone.
"Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendez-
vous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere
with my motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and soli-
tude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be
with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper."
   Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this
plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often.
"I had rather be with you," he said, ~in your solitary rambles,
than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know: hasten
then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself
somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence."
   Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some
remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did
not doubt but that the monster followed me, and would dis-
cover himself to me when I should have finished, that he
might receive his companion.
   With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands,
and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene
of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being
hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually
beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely af-
fording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its
inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and
scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables
and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even
fresh water, was to be procured from the main land, which
was about five miles distant.
   On the whole island there were but three miserable huts,
and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It
contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalid-
ness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in,
the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I
ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took
possession; an incident which would, doubtless, have occa-
sioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers
been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I
lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pit-
tance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does suffer-
ing blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
   In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the
evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony
beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared, and
dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous, yet ever-changing
scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this
desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with
vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its
fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled by
the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant,
when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
   In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first
arrived; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every
day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not
prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days; and
at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my
work. It was indeed a filthy process in which I was engaged.
During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had
blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was
intently fixed on the sequel of my labour, and my eyes were
shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my
hands.
   Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupa-
tion, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an in-
stant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was
engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nerv-
ous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Some-
times I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise
them lest they should encounter the object which I so much
dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my
fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim his
companion.
   In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already
considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with
a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself
to question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebod-
ings of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.
            CHAPTER III.

I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and
the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufflcient
light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of
consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the
night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to
it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me
to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years
before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a
fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart,
and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now
about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was
alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more
malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in
murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neigh-
bourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had
not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking
and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a com-
pact made before her creation. They might even hate each
other; the creature who already lived loathed his own de-
formity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorence for it
when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also
might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of
man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated
by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own
species.
   Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts
of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympa-
thies for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a
race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who
might make the very existence of the species of man a condi-
tion precarious and full of terror. Had I a right, for my own
benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations?  I
had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had
created; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats:
but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise
burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might
curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to
buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the existence of the
whole human race.
   I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on look-
ing up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the
casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me,
where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me.
Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in for-
ests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert
heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.
   As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost
extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of
madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and,
trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I
was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on
whose future existence he depended for happiness, and, with
a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
   I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow
in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with
trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone;
none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me
from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries.
   Several hours past, and I remained near my window gazing
on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were
hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet
moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and
now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices,
as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, al-
though I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until
my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near
the shore, and a person landed close to my house.
   In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as
if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from
head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished
to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far
from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helpless-
ness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain en-
deavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to
the spot.
   Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage;
the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared.
Shutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smoth-
ered voice-
   "You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it
that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have
endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept
along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and
over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the
heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have
endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you
dare destroy my hopes?"
   "Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create an-
other like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness."
   "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved
yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I
have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make
you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you.
You are my creator, but I am your master;-obey!"
   "The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your
power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act
of wickedness; but they confirm me in a resolution of not cre-
ating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set
loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and
wretchedness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will only
exasperate my rage."
   The monster saw my determination in my face, and
gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each
man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast
have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and
they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may
hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery,
and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your
happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the
intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other pas-
sions; but revenge remains - revenge, henceforth dearer
than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and tor-
mentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Be-
ware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch
with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom.
Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict."
   ~Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds
of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no
coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable."
   "It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night."
   I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign
my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe."
   I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted
the house with precipitation: in a few moments I saw him in
his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swift-
ness, and was soon lost amidst the waves.
   All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I
burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace, and
precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my
room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured
up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I
not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I
had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course
towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might be
the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I
thought again of his words-"I will be with you on your wed-
ding-night." That then was the period fixed for the fulfilment
of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy
and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to
fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,-of her
tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so
barbarously snatched from her,-tears, the first I had shed
for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not
to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
   The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean;
my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness,
when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I
left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention,
and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded
as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-crea-
tures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across
me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock,
wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of
misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those
whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I
had myself created.
   I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated
from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it be-
came noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass,
and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the
whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and
my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into
which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again
felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself,
and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater
composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears
like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet distinct
and oppressive as a reality.
   The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, sat-
isfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an
oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and
one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters
from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join
him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quit-
ted Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated
me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at
Perth, in a week from that time, when we might arrange the
plan of our future proceedings. This letter in a degree re-
called me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the
expiration of two days.
   Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on
which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack my chemical instru-
ments; and for that purpose I must enter the room which
had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle
those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The
next morning, at day-break, I summoned sufficient courage,
and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the
half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered
on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living
flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then
entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the in-
struments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought not to
leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion
of the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket,
with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, deter-
mined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the
mean time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and
arranging my chemical apparatus.
   Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that
had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appear-
ance of the daemon. I had before regarded my promise with
a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever conse-
quences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been
taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw
clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one in-
stant occur to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my
thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine
could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create
another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the
basest and most atrocious selfishness; and I banished from
my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclu-
sion.
   Between two and three in the morning the moon rose;
and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out
about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly soli-
tary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed
away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a
dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any en-
counter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon,
which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a
thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness,
and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling
sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky
became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the
north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me,
and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved
to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a
direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat.
Clouds hid the moon, every thing was obscure, and I heard
only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves;
the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly.
   I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but
when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted con-
siderably. The wind was high, and the waves continually
threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind
was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast
from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my
course, but quickly found that if I again made the attempt
the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated,
my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that
I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me,
and was so little acquainted with the geography of this part of
the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be
driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of star-
vation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that
roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many
hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to
my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were cov-
ered by clouds that flew before the wind only to be replaced
by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave.
"Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already fulfilled!" I
thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; and sunk
into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now,
when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever,
I shudder to reflect on it.
   Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun de-
clined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle
breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these
gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick, and hardly able to hold
the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards
the south.
   Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful sus-
pense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of
life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears
gushed from my eyes.
   How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that
clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!  I
constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly
steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky
appearance; but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived
the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbour-
hood of civilized man. I eagerly traced the windings of the
land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from
behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme de-
bility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town as a place
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I
had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my
heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.
   As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the
sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed
very much surprised at my appearance; but, instead of offer-
ing me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that
at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensa-
tion of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke
English; and I therefore addressed them in that language:
"My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me
the name of this town, and inform me where I am?"
   "You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a
gruff voice. "May be you are come to a place that will not
prove much to your taste; but you will not be consulted as to
your quarters, I promise you."
   I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an an-
swer from a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiv-
ing the frowning and angry countenances of his companions.
"Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied: "surely it is
not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospi-
tably."
   "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the
English may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate vil-
lains."
   While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the
crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of cu-
riosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree
alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn; but no one re-
plied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose
from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when
an illlooking man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder,
and said, "Come, Sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to
give an account of yourself."
   "Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of my-
self? Is not this a free country?"
   "Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a
magistrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a
gentleman who was found murdered here last night."
   This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself.
I was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I fol
lowed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best
houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hun-
ger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to
rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be con-
strued into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then
expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm
me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy
or death.
   I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall
the memory of the frightful events which I am about to re-
late, in proper detail, to my recollection.
            CHAPTER IV.

I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate,
an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He
looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity; and
then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who ap-
peared as witnesses on this occasion.
   About half a dozen men came forward; and one being se-
lected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out
fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law,
Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a
strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for
port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accus-
tomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first,
carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions fol-
lowed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the
sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell all his
length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him;
and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had
fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead.
Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some
person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by
the waves; but, upon examination, they found that the
clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then
cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman
near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to
life. He appeared to be a handsome young man, about five
and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled;
for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark
of fingers on his neck.
   The first part of this deposition did not in the least inter-
est me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I re-
membered the murder of my brother, and felt myself ex-
tremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over
my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course
drew an unfavourable augury from my manner.
   The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel
Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the
fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it,
at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could
judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which
I hadjust landed.
   A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was
standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of
the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discov-
ery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in
it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was
afterwards found.
   Another woman confirmed the account of the fisherman
having brought the body into her house; it was not cold.
They put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the
town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone.
   Several other men were examined concerning my landing;
and they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that had
arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had
beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to re-
turn nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Be-
sides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the
body from another place, and it was likely, that as I did not
appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour
ignorant of the distance of the town of from the place
where I had deposited the corpse.
   Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should
be taken into the room where the body lay for interment,
that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would
produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the
extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the mur-
der had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the
magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not
help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken
place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been
conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited
about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly
tranquil as to the consequences of the affair.
   I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up
to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding
it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that ter-
rible moment without shuddering and agony, that faintly re-
minds me of the anguish of the recognition. The trial, the
presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream
from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Cler-
val stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing
myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machi-
nations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I
have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but
you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor"-
   The human frame could no longer support the agoni~ing
suffering that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in
strong convulsions.
   A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the
point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were fright-
ful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and
of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me
in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented;
and, at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasp-
ing my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. For-
tunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone un-
derstood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient
to affright the other witnesses.
   Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was be-
fore, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death
snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of
their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers
have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the
next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what
materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks,
which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the
torture.
   But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found my-
self as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a
wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all
the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I re-
member, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgot-
ten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if
some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but
when I looked around, and saw the barred windows, and the
squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my
memory, and I groaned bitterly.
   This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a
chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the
turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad quali-
ties which often characterize that class. The lines of her face
were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see
without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed
her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the
voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:
   "Are you better now, Sir?" said she.
   I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I be-
lieve I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am
sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror."
   "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean
about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were bet-
ter for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with
you; but you will be hung when the next sessions come on.
However, that's none of my business, I am sent to nurse you,
and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience, it were
well if every body did the same."
   I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so
unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of
death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that had
passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a
dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it
never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
   As the images that floated before me became more dis-
tinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one
was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love;
no dear hand supported me. The physician came and pre-
scribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for
me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the ex-
pression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the
second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer,
but the hangman who would gain his fee?
   These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that
Mr. Kirwin had shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused
the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched
indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physi-
cian and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, al-
though he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies
and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore,
sometimes to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were
short, and at long intervals.
   One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in
a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in
death, I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often re-
flected I had better seek death than remain miserably pent
up only to be let loose in a world replete with wretchedness.
At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself
guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the
door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered.
His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he
drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French-
   "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any
thing to make you more comfortable?"

   "I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on
the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of re-
ceiving."
   "I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little
relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfor-
tune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode;
for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you
from the criminal charge."
   "That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange
events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted
and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to
me?"
   "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agoniz-
ing than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You
were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, re-
nowned for its hospitality; seized immediately, and charged
with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes
was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your
path."
   As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I en-
dured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt consider-
able surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concern-
ing me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my
countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say-
   "It was not until a day or two after your illness that I
thought of examining your dress, that I might discover some
trace by which I could send to your relations an account of
your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and,
among others, one which I discovered from its commence-
ment to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my
letter.-But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit
for agitation of any kind."
   "This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most
horrible event: tell me what new scene of death has been
acted, and whose murder I am now to lament."
   "Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gen-
tleness; "and some one, a friend, is come to visit you."
   I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented it-
self, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer
had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death
of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his
hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out
in agony-
   "Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do
not let him enter!"
   Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He
could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption
of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone-
   "I should have thought, young man, that the presence of
your father would have been welcome, instead of inspiring
such violent repugnance."
   "My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle
was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. ~Is my father, indeed,
come? How kind, how very kind. But where is he, why does
he not hasten to me?"
   My change of manner surprised and pleased the magis-
trate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a
momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed
his former benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with
my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
   Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater
pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my
hand to him, and cried-
   "Are you then safe-and Elizabeth-and Ernest?"
   My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and
endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to
my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that
a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place
is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully
at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of the
room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems
to pursue you. And poor Clerval-"
   The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an
agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed
   "Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most
horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or
surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry."
   We were not allowed to converse for any length of time,
for the precarious state of my health rendered every precau-
tion necessary that could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came
in, and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by
too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to
me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my
health.
   As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy
and black melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The im-
age of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered.
More than once the agitation into which these reflections
threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas!
why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was
surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to
a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these
throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of an-
guish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award
of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of
death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my
thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speech-
less, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me
and my destroyer in its ruins.
   The season of the assizes approached. I had already been
three months in prison; and although I was still weak, and in
continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a
hundred miles to the county-town, where the court was held.
Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting wit-
nesses, and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace
of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death. The
grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on
the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was
found, and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from
pnson.
   My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the
vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to
breathe the fresh atmosphere, and allowed to return to my
native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to
me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The
cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone
upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around
me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me.
Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry,-languish-
ing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the
long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the wa-
tery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my
chamber at Ingolstadt.
   My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit-of Eliza-
beth, and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans
from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and
thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or
longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me
in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was a tor-
por, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the di-
vinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom inter-
rupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these
moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence
I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of vio-
lence.
   I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the
men say, "He may be innocent of the murder, but he has cer-
tainly a bad conscience." These words struck me. A bad con-
science! yes, surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval,
had died through my infernal machinations; "And whose
death," cried I, "is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do
not remain in this wretched country; take me where I may
forget myself, my existence, and all the world."
   My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having
taken leave of Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I
was relieved from a heavy weight, when the packet sailed with
a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the coun-
try which had been to me the scene of so much misery.
   It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on
the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of
the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my
sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy, when I reflected
that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in
the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was,
the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,
and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I
was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and
dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the mon-
ster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life;
my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva,
the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I
remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried
me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to
mind the night during which he first lived. I was unable to
pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed
upon me, and I wept bitterly.
   Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the
custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum;
for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to
gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed
by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now took a
double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not af-
ford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams pre-
sented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I
was possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp
in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and
cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me,
perceiving my restlessness, awoke me, and pointed to the
port of Holyhead, which we were now entering.
            CHAPTER V.

We had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the coun-
try to Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I pre-
ferred this plan principally because I dreaded to see again
those places in which I had enjoyed a few moments of tran-
quillity with my beloved Clerval. I thought with horror of see-
ing again those persons whom we had been accustomed to
visit together, and who might make inquiries concerning an
event, the very remembrance of which made me again feel
the pang I endured when I gazed on his lifeless form in the
inn at-.
   As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded
to the again seeing me restored to health and peace of mind.
His tenderness and attentions were unremitting; my grief
and gloom was obstinate, but he would not despair. Some-
times he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being
obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured
to prove to me the futility of pride.
   "Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me. Hu-
man beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be de-
graded, if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same
charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this-I mur-
dered her. William, Justine, and Henry-they all died by my
hands."
   My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me
make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he
sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he
appeared to consider it as caused by delirium, and that, dur-
ing my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to
my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in
my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a
continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had
a feeling that I should be supposed mad, and this for ever
chained my tongue, when I would have given the whole
world to have confided the fatal secret.
   Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of
unbounded wonder, UWhat do you mean, Victor? are you
mad? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an asser-
tion again."
   "I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the
heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of
my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims;
they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I
have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their
lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice
the whole human race."
   The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my
ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of
our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course of my
thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the
memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and
never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my misfor-
tunes.
   As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her
dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same inco-
herent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the
consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, I curbed
the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes de-
sired to declare itself to the whole world; and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been
since myjourney to the sea of ice.
   We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly pro-
ceeded to Paris, where my father had some business which
detained us a few weeks. In this city, I received the following
letter from Elizabeth:-

        TO VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.

 MY DEAREST FRIEND,
   "It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from
my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable
distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight.
My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect
to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Ge-
neva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally
devoid of comfort and tranquillity.
   "Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you
so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I
would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfor-
tunes weigh upon you; but a conversation that I had with my
uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation
necessary before we meet.
   "Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth
have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are an-
swered, and I have no more to do than to sign myself your af-
fectionate cousin. But you are distant from me, and it is pos-
sible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this
explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I
dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your ab-
sence, I have often wished to express to you, but have never
had the courage to begin.
   "You well know, Victor, that our union had been the fa-
vourite plan of your parents even since our infancy. We were
told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an
event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate
playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued
friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and
sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other,
without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be
our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you,
by our mutual happiness, with simple truth-do you not love
another?
   "You have travelled; you have spent several years of your
life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I
saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the
society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you
might regret our connexion, and believe yourself bound in
honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they op-
posed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reason-
ing. I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you, and that in
my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend
and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as
my own, when I declare to you, that our marriage would ren-
der me eternally miserable, unless it were the dictate of your
own free choice. Even now I weep to think, that, borne down
as you are by the cruelest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the
word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would
alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so interested an af-
fection for you, may increase your miseries ten-fold, by being
an obstacle to your wishes. Ah, Victor, be assured that your
cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be
made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend;
and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that
nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tran-
quillity.
   "Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer it to-mor-
row, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give
you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I
see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by
this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other hap-
piness.
                                     "ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

   "Geneva, May 18th, 17-."

  This letter revived in my memory what I had before for-
gotten, the threat of the fiend - ~I willbe withyou onyour wed-
ding-night.r Such was my sentence, and on that night would
the daemon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me
from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to con-
sole my sufferings. On that night he had determined to con-
summate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly
struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he was
victorious, I should be at peace, and his power over me be at
an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas!
what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys when his family
have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his
lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, pennyless,
and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in
my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those
horrors of remorse and guilt, which would pursue me until
death.
   Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter,
and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to
whisper paradisaical dreams of love and joy; but the apple
was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me
from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the
monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again,
I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if
my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by
his menaces, he would surely find other, and perhaps more
dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed to be with me on my
wedding-night, yet he did not consider that threat as binding
him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to shew me that he
was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval im-
mediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved,
therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would
conduce either to her's or my father's happiness, my adver-
sary's designs against my life should not retard it a single
hour.
   In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was
calm and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little
happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day
enjoy is concentered in you. Chase away your idle fears; to
you alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for
contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;
when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror,
and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will
only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide
this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our mar-
riage shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be
perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you,
do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat,
and I know you will comply."
   In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we
returned to Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm af-
fection; yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld my emaci-
ated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also.
She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity
that had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and soft
looks of compassion, made her a more fit companion for one
blasted and miserable as I was.
   The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure.
Memory brought madness with it; and when I thought on
what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I
was furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despon-
dent. I neither spoke or looked, but sat motionless, bewil-
dered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.
   Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits;
her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by pas-
sion, and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in tor-
por. She wept with me, and for me. When reason returned,
she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned,
but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse
poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in in-
dulging the excess of grief.
   Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate
marriage with my cousin. I remained silent.
   "Have you, then, some other attachment?"
   "None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I
will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of
my cousin."
   "My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes
have befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains,
and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those
who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the
ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall
have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will
be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly de-
prived."
  Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remem-
brance of the threat returned: nor can you wonder, that, om-
nipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I
should almost regard him as invincible; and that when he had
pronounced the words, "I shall be with you on your wed~ling-
night," I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable.
But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were bal-
anced with it; and I therefore, with a contented and even
cheerful countenance, agreed with my father, that if my
cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten
days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
   Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be
the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather
have banished myself for ever from my native country, and
wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have con-
sented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of
magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real inten-
tions; and when I thought that I prepared only my own
death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim.
   As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether
from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink
within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of
hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of
my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid
contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past mis-
fortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and
tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy dream,
and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
   Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory vis-
its were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut
up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that
preyed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the
plans of my father, although they might only serve as the
decorations of my tragedy. A house was purchased for us
near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the
country, and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every
day; who would still reside within the walls, for the benefit of
Ernest, that he might follow his studies at the schools.
   In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my
person, in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried
pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on
the watch to prevent artifice; and by these means gained a
greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period ap-
proached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness
I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of cer-
tainty, as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer, and
I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no
accident could possibly prevent.
   Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contrib-
uted greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to ful-
fil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a pre-
sentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought
of the dreadful secret, which I had promised to reveal to her
the following day. My father was in the mean time overjoyed,
and, in the bustle of preparation, only observed in the melan-
choly of his niece the diffldence of a bride.
   After the ceremony was performed, a large party assem-
bled at my father's; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I
should pass the afternoon and night at Evian, and return to
Cologny the next morning. As the day was fair, and the wind
favourable, we resolved to go by water.
   Those were the last moments of my life during which I en-
joyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the
sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of
canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes
on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleas-
ant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all,
the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes
coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura oppos-
ing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native
country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader
who should wish to enslave it.
   I took the hand of Elizabeth: "You are sorrowful, my love.
Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet en-
dure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet, and
freedom from despair, that this one day at least permits me
to enjoy."
   "Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I
hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively
joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Some-
thing whispers to me not to depend too much on the pros-
pect that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such a
sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the
clouds which sometimes obscure, and sometimes rise above
the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still
more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are
swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every
pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! how happy
and serene all nature appears!"
   Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and
mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her
temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her
eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
   The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river
Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the
higher, and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come
closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of
mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of
Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the
range of mountain above mountain by which it was over-
hung.
   The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amaz-
ing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just
ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the
trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the
most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk be-
neath the horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I
felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp
me, and cling to me for ever.
            CHAPTER Vl.

It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short
time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then re-
tired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of waters,
woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still display-
ing their black outlines.
   The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with
great violence in the west. The moon had reached her sum-
mit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the clouds
swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and
dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the
busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that
were beginning to rise.' Suddenly a heavy storm of rain de-
scended.
   I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night ob-
scured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my
mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand
grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound
terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly,
and not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or
that of my adversary, were extinguished.
   Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid
and fearful silence; at length she said, "What is it that agitates
you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?"
   "Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I, "this night, and all
will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."
   I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I re-
flected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily ex-
pected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to
retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some
knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
   She left me, and I continued some time walking up and
down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner
that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered
no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some
fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of
his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had re-
tired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my
arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was sus-
pended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tin-
gling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for
an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the
room.
   Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to
relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest crea-
ture of earth. She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown
across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and dis-
torted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I
see the same figure-her bloodless arms and relaxed form
flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this,
and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is
most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I
fainted.
   When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the peo-
ple of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless ter-
ror: but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a
shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from
them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love,
my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been
moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief
thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her
asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour;
but the deathly languor and coldness of the limbs told me,
that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Eliza-
beth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark
of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had
ceased to issue from her lips.
   While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I hap-
pened to look up. The windows of the room had before been
darkened; and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow
light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had
been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be
described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hide-
ous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he
seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards
the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and
drawing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me,
leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of
lightning, plunged into the lake.
   The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I
pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we fol-
lowed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After
passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my com-
panions believing it to have been a form conjured by my
fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the
country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.
   I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered
my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In
this state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what had hap-
pened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek
something that I had lost.
   At length I remembered that my father would anxiously
expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must re-
turn alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I
wept for a long time; but my thoughts rambled to various
subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was
bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of
William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and
lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my
only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the
fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp,
and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me
shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved
to return to Geneva with all possible speed.
   There were no horses to be procured, and I must return
by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell
in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might rea-
sonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took
an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from men-
tal torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I
now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered
me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and,
leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy
idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were fa-
miliar to me in my happier time, and which I had contem-
plated but the day before in the company of her who was
now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from
my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the
fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before;
they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so pain-
ful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The
sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could
appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had
snatched from me every hope of future happiness: no crea-
ture had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event
is single in the history of man.
   But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed
this last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors;
I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but
be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were
snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is ex-
hausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my
hideous narration.
   I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the
former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, ex-
cellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy,
for they had lost their charm and their delight-his niece, his
more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affec-
tion which a man feels, who, in the decline of life, having few
affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain.
Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey
hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could
not live under the horrors that were accumulated around
him; an apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few days he
died in my arms.
   What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and
chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon
me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery
meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but
awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed,
but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries
and situation, and was then released from my prison. For
they had called me mad; and during many months, as I un-
derstood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.
   But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.
As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began
to reflect on their cause-the monster whom I had created,
the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the
world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening
rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed
that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and
signal revenge on his cursed head.
   Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I be-
gan to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this
purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a
criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusa-
tion to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that
I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehen-
sion of the murderer.
   The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness:
"Be assured, sir," said he, ano pains or exertions on my part
shall be spared to discover the villain."
   "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposi-
tion that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I
should fear you would not credit it, were there not some-
thing in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction.
The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I
have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus ad-
dressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my
own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and
this purpose quieted my agony, and provisionally reconciled
me to life. I now related my history briefly, but with firmness
and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never de-
viating into invective or exclamation.
   The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but
as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I
saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively
surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his counte-
nance.
   When I had concluded my narration, I said, "This is the
being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punish-
ment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your
duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feel-
ings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those
functions on this occasion."
   This address caused a considerable change in the physiog-
nomy of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half
kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural
events; but when he was called upon to act officially in conse-
quence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, how-
ever, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid
in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears
to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance.
Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice,
and inhabit caves and dens, where no man would venture to
intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the com-
mission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what
place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit."
   "I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I in-
habit; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may
be hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey.
But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative,
and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment
which is his desert."
   As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was in-
timidated; "You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself;
and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that
he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I
fear, from what you have yourself described to be his proper-
ties, that this will prove impracticable, and that, while every
proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to make
up your mind to disappointment."
   "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.
My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be
a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of
my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the mur-
derer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists.
You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I
devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction."
   I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was
a phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that
haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to have
possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was oc-
cupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and hero-
ism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of mad-
ness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child,
and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.
   "Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wis-
dom! Cease; you know not what it is you say."
   I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired
to meditate on some other mode of action.
            CHAPTER Vll.

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought
was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; re-
venge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it
modelled my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and
calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would
have been my portion.
   My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my coun-
try, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me,
now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with
a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had be-
longed to my mother, and departed.
   And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but
with life.  I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and
have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts
and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived
I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs
upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge kept
me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being.
   When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some
clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.
But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours
around the confines of the town, uncertain what path I
should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the
entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my
father, reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which
marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves
of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night
was nearly dark; and the scene would have been solemn and
affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the
departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which
was felt but seen not, around the head of the mourner.
   The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly
gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived;
their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out
my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth,
and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on
which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the
deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O
Night, and by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to
pursue the daemon, who caused this misery, until he or I
shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve
my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the
sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise
should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spir-
its of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of venge-
ance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and
hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair
that now torments me."
   I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe
which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered
friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies pos-
sessed me as I concluded, and rage choaked my utterance.
   I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and
fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the
mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me
with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should
have been possessed by phrenzy, and have destroyed my mis-
erable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was
reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-
known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, ad-
dressed me in an audible whisper-"I am satisfied: miserable
wretch! you have determined to live, and I am satisfied."
   I darted towards the spot from which the sound pro-
ceeded; but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad
disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and
distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed.
   I pursued him; and for many months this has been my
task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the
Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and,
by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide
himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my pas-
sage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how.
   Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still
evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the
peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of
his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all
trace I should despair and die, often left some mark to guide
me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print
of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on
life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you
understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fa-
tigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I
was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eter-
nal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my
steps, and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate
me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaus-
tion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored
and inspirited me. The fare was indeed coarse, such as the
peasants of the country ate; but I may not doubt that it was
set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often,
when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by
thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops
that revived me, and vanish.
   I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the
daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the popu-
lation of the country chiefly collected. In other places human
beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the
wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and
gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it, or
bringing with me some food that I had killed, which, after
taking a small part, I always presented to those who had pro-
vided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
   My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it
was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep!
often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams
lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had
provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that
I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of
this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During
the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night:
for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved coun-
try; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father,
heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld
Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a
toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until
night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the
arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I
feel for them! how did I cling to their dear forms, as some-
times they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade my-
self that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that
burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path
towards the destruction of the daemon, more as a task en-
joined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power
of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my
soul .
   What his feelings were whom I pursued, I cannot know.
Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of
the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my
fury. "My reign is not yet over," (these words were legible in
one of these inscriptions); "you live, and my power is com-
plete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north,
where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I
am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not
too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my
enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard
and miserable hours must you endure, until that period shall
arrive."
   Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I de-
vote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I
omit my search, until he or I perish; and then with what ec-
stasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and those who even now pre-
pare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pil-
grimage.
   As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows
thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too se-
vere to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels,
and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the
animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places
to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish
could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief arti-
cle of maintenance.
   The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of
my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words:
"Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs, and
provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where
your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred."
   My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these
scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, call-
ing on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fer-
vour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared
at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the hori-
zon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Cov-
ered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its
superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy
when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia,
and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not
weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my
guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where
I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and
grapple with him.
   Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge
and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable
speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same ad-
vantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground
in the pursuit, I now gained on him; so much so, that when I
first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance,
and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the
beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two
days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the sea-shore. I inquired
of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate
information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the
night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to
flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his
terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter
food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized
on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed
them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck vil-
lagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction
that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speed-
ily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the
eternal frosts.
   On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access
of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a de-
structive and almost endless journey across the mountainous
ices of the ocean,-amidst cold that few of the inhabitants
could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and
sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that
the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and venge-
ance returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every
other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits
of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and re-
venge, I prepared for my journey.
   I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned for the in-
equalities of the frozen ocean; and, purchasing a plentiful
stock of provisions, I departed from land.
   I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but
I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal senti-
ment of a just retribution burning within my heart could
have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged moun-
tains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard
the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruc-
tion. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea
secure.
   By the quantity of provision which I had consumed I
should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey;
and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon
the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief
from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey,
and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery; when once,
after the poor animals that carried me had with incredible
toil gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one
sinking under his fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before
me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck
upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it
could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distin-
guished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-
known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope
revisit my heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily
wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of
the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning
drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I
wept aloud.
   But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the
dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion
of food; and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely neces-
sary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued
my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose
sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some
ice rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed per-
ceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days' jour-
ney, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my
heart bounded within me.
   But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my en-
emy, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all
trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A
ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the wa-
ters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment
more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The
wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of
an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and
overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished: in a few
minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy,
and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was
continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous
death.
   In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my
dogs died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumu-
lation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor,
and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no
conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was as-
tounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to
construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite
fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I
had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust
myself to the mercy of the seas, rather than abandon my pur-
pose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I
could still pursue my enemy. But your direction was north-
ward. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted,
and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships
into a death, which I still dread,-for my task is unfulfilled.
   Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the
daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die,
and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not
escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in
his death. Yet, do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage,
to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not
so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the
ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear
that he shall not live-swear that he shall not triumph over
my accumulated woes, and live to make another such a
wretch as I am. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his
words had even power over my heart: but trust him not. His
soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend-like
malice. Hear him not; call on the manes' of William, Justine,
Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and
thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct
the steel aright.


        W A L T O N, in continuation .

                          August 26th, 17-.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and
do you not feel your blood congealed with horror, like that
which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sud-
den agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice
broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so re-
plete with agony. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted
up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and
quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he com-
manded his countenance and tones, and related the most
horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every
mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face
would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage,
as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.
   His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the
simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and
Safie, which he shewed me, and the apparition of the mon-
ster, seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction
of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however
earnest and connected. Such a monster has then really exist-
ence; I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admira-
tion. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein
the particulars of his creature's formation; but on this point
he was impenetrable.
   "Are you mad, my friend?" said he, "or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for your-
self and the world a demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your
questions tend? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not
seek to increase your own."
   Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his
history: he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and
augmented them in many places; but principally in giving the
life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy.
"Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would
not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity."
   Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the
strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts,
and every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the in-
terest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and
gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I
counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope
of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now
know will be when he composes his shattered feelings to
peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of
solitude and delirium: he believes, that, when in dreams he
holds converse with his friends, and derives from that com-
munion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his
vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but
the real beings who visit him from the regions of a remote
world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
   Our conversations are not always confined to his own his-
tory and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he
displays unbounded knowledge, and a quick and piercing ap-
prehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I
hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours
to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a
glorious creature must he have been in the days of his pros-
perity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He seems
to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.
   "When younger," said he, "I felt as if I were destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I pos-
sessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature sup-
ported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I
deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those tal-
ents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I re-
flected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the
creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank
myself with the herd of common projectors. But this feeling,
which supported me in the commencement of my career,
now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my specu-
lations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who
aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My
imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and applica-
tion were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived
the idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now I can-
not recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was
incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in
my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From
my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambi-
tion; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known
me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of
degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high des-
tiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to
rise. "
   Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a
friend; I have sought one who would sympathize with and
love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a
one; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his value,
and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses
the idea.
   "I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions
towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new
ties, and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those
who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any
woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not
strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions
of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know
our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be after-
wards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of
our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity
of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed
such symptoms have been shewn early, suspect the other of
fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly
he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with
suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit
and association, but from their own merits; and, wherever I
am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation
of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead;
and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to
preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking
or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-crea-
tures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny;
I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave exist-
ence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die."

                                            September 2d.

MY BELOVED SISTER,

   I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant
whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and
the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by moun-
tains of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every
moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have
persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid;
but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appall-
ing in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert
me. We may survive; and if we do not, I will repeat the les-
sons of my Seneca,' and die with a good heart.
   Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You
will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await
my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of de-
spair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the
sickening failings of your heart-felt expectations are, in pros-
pect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a
husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven
bless you, and make you so!
   My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest com-
passion. He endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if
life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how
often the same accidents have happened to other navigators,
who have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills
me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of
his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair; he
rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they be-
lieve these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will
vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are tran-
sitory; each day's expectation delayed fills them with fear,
and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair.
   September 5th.
   A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that
although it is highly probable that these papers may never
reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.
   We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in immi-
nent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is ex-
cessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already
found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein
has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in
his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to
any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifeless-
ness.
   I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a
mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance
of my friend-his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging list-
lessly,-I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who de-
sired admission into the cabin. They entered; and their
leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions
had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation
to me, to make me a demand, which, in justice, I could not
refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably never
escape; but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should
dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should be rash
enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh dan-
gers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They de-
sired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise,
that if the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my
course southward.
   This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I
yet conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in
justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated
before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been
silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to
attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks
flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,
he said-
   "What do you mean? What do you demand of your cap-
tain? Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did
you not call this a glorious expedition? and wherefore was it
glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a
southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror;
because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be
called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and
death surrounded, and these dangers you were to brave and
overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an hon-
ourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the
benefactors of your species; your name adored, as belonging
to brave men who encountered death for honour and the
benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagina-
tion of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific
trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be
handed down as men who had not strength enough to en-
dure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly, and
returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that requires not this
preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged
your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove your-
selves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady
to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of
such stuff as your hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot with-
stand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your
families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows.
Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who
know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
   He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different
feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty
design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men
were moved. They looked at one another, and were unable to
reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had
been said: that I would not lead them further north, if they
strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that, with
reflection, their courage would return.
   They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was
sunk in languor, and almost deprived of life.
   How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather
die, than return shamefully,-my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I
fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of
glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure
their present hardships.

   September 7th.
   The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not
destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and inde-
cision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires
more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with pa-
tience.

   September 12th.
   It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes
of utility and glory;-I have lost my friend. But I will endeav-
our to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister;
and, while I am wafted towards England, and towards you, I
will not despond.
   September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like
thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and
cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent
peril; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief attention
was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness in-
creased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined to his
bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force to-
wards the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the
11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free.
When the sailors saw this, and that their return to their na-
tive country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous
joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein,
who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult.
"They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to Eng-
land."
   "Do you then really return?"
   "Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead
them unwillingly to danger, and I must return."
   "Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your
purpose; but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare
not. I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance
will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he en-
deavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too
great for him; he fell back, and fainted.
   It was long before he was restored; and I often thought
that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes,
but he breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The
surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to
leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my
friend had certainly not many hours to live.
   His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve,
and be patient. I sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were
closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me
in a feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said-"Alas!
the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die,
and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being.
Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I
feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once
expressed, but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of
my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in
examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blameable. In a
fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and
was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power,
his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there was
another still paramount to that. My duties towards my fellow-
creatures had greater claims to my attention, because they in-
cluded a greater proportion of happiness or misery.  Urged
by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a
companion for the first creature. He shewed unparalleled
malignity and selfishness, in evil: he destroyed my friends; he
devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensa-
tions, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst
for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may ren-
der no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his de-
struction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by self-
ish and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my
unfinished work; and I renew this request now, when I am
only induced by reason and virtue.
   "Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and
friends, to fulfil this task; and now, that you are returning to
England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But
the consideration of these points, and the well-balancing of
what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judg-
ment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of
death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may
still be misled by passion.
   "That he should live to be an instrument of mischief dis-
turbs me; in other respects this hour, when I momentarily ex-
pect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed
for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before
me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happi-
ness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the
apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science
and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."
   His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, ex-
hausted by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an
hour afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was unable;
he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while
the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips.
   Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely ex-
tinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say, that will en-
able you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I
should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears
flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappoint-
ment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.
   I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is
midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck
scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice, but
hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night,
my sister.
   Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet
dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I
shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have re-
corded would by incomplete without this final and wonderful
catastrophe.
   I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated
and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot
find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and
distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his
face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast
hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that
of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he
ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible
as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I
shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavoured to recollect
what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on
him to stay.
   He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turn-
ing towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to for-
get my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed insti-
gated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
   aThat is also my victim!" he exclaimed; ain his murder my
crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is
wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-de-
voted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon
me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou
lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me."
   His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which
had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of
my friend, in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a
mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tre-
mendous being; I dared not again raise my looks upon his
face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ug-
liness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my
lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent
self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address
him, in a pause of the tempest of his passion: "Your repen-
tance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you had listened to the
voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse, before
you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity,
Frankenstein would yet have lived."
   "And do you dream?" said the daemon; "do you think that
I was then dead to agony and remorse?-He," he continued,
pointing to the corpse, "he suffered not more in the consum-
mation of the deed;-oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of
the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its
execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my
heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that the groans of
Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by
misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of
the change without torture, such as you cannot even imagine.
   aAfter the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland,
heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity
amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discov-
ered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its un-
speakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while
he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he
sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the
indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent
envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst
for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it
should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for my-
self a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master of an
impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when
she died!-nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all
feeling, subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my de-
spair. Evil thenceforth became my good.' Urged thus far, I
had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I
had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal de-
sign became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there
is my last victim!"
   I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet
when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his pow-
ers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my
eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was re-kin-
dled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come
here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You
throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are con-
sumed you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypo-
critical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he
be the object, again would he become the prey of your ac-
cursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only
because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your
power."
   "Oh, it is not thus-not thus," interrupted the being; "yet
such must be the impression conveyed to you by what ap-
pears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-
feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I
first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happi-
ness and affection with which my whole being overflowed,
that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has be-
come to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are
turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek
for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, while my suffer-
ings shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that abhor-
rence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my
fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of en-
joyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, par-
doning my outward form, would love me for the excellent
qualities which I was capable of bringing forth. I was nour-
ished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now
vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No crime,
no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found compara-
ble to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue of my
deeds, I cannot believe that I am he whose thoughts were
once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the
beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the
fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy
of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation;
I am quite alone.
   "You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a
knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the de-
tail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the
hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in im-
potent passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes, I did not
satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and crav-
ing; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.
Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only
criminal, when all human kind sinned against me?' Why do
you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with
contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought
to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned,
am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled
on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injus-
tice.
   "But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the
lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they
slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me
or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the se-
lect specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration
among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irre-
mediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You
hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I
regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed;
I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was con-
ceived, and long for the moment when they will meet my
eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.
   "Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
My work is nearly complete. Neither your's nor any man's
death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and
accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own.
Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I
shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me hither,
and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I
shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miser-
able frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curi-
ous and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another
as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies
which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatis-
fied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being;
and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us
both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or
stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and
sense, will pass away; and in this condition must I find my
happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world
affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering
warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and
the chirping of the birds, and these were all to me, I should
have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by
crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find
rest but in death?
   "Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind
whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If
thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge
against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my
destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction,
that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in
some mode unknown to me, thou hast not yet ceased to
think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery.
Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for
the bitter sting of remorse may not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them for ever.
   "But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these
burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral
pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing
flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my
ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will
sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell."
   He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon
the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne
away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

                THE END.