(the Modern Prometheus)

by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement

of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister

of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets

of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,

which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand

this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions

towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.

Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent

and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole

is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself

to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There,

Margaret,

the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon

and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There--for with your leave,

my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators--

there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea,

we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty

every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.

Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena

of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.

What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?

I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle

and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require

only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.

I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world

never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted

by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient

to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence

this labourious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks

in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery

up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,

you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer

on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage

near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months

are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which,

if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,

and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven,

for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind

as a steady purpose--a point on which the soul may fix

its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream

of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts

of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect

of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas

which surround the pole. You may remember that a history

of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole

of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education was neglected,

yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study

day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret

which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction

had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets

whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became

a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;

I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple

where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.

You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily

I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited

the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned

into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking.

I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself

to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.

I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;

I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep;

I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day

and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine,

and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer

might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself

as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration.

I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me

the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain

with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish

some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury,

but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path.

Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!

My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate,

and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed

on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which

will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only

to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,

when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia.

They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant,

and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach.

The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs--

a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference

between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours,

when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins.

I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between

St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks;

and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done

by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors

as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing.

I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return?

Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed,

many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet.

If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,

and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude

for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton

Letter 2

To Mrs. Saville, England

Archangel, 28th March, 17--

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!

Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel

and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged

appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed

of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy,

and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil.

I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm

of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed

by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection.

I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium

for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man

who could sympathize with me, whose eyes would reply to mine.

You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel

the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous,

possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind,

whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.

How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother!

I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.

But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated:

for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common

and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages.

At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets

of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power

to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction

that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages

than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality

more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true

that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended

and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) *keeping*;

and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me

as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend

on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.

Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even

in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful

courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather,

to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession.

He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional

prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest

endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him

on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city,

I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable

in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline.

This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage,

made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude,

my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage,

has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome

an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship:

I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner

equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience

paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate

in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first

in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness

of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago

he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed

a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented

to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony;

but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet,

entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time

that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father

would never consent to the union. My generous friend

reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,

instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm

with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life;

but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains

of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited

the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover.

But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour

to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable,

quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress

was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!"

you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:

he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him,

which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing,

detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive

a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering

in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage

is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation.

The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well,

and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps

I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly:

you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness

whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect

of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you

a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful,

with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions,

to "the land of mist and snow," but I shall kill no albatross;

therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you

as worn and woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion,

but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to,

my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean

to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets.

There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.

I am practically industrious--painstaking, a workman to execute

with perseverance and labour--but besides this there is a love

for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined

in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men,

even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again,

after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape

of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear

to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present

to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters

on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits.

I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,

should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

Robert Walton

Letter 3

To Mrs. Saville, England

July 7th, 17--

My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe--

and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England

by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;

more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps,

for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold

and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice

that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region

towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them.

We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is

the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England,

the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores

which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree

of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure

in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak

are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record,

and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake,

as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger.

I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

But success *shall* crown my endeavours. Wherefore not?

Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas,

the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies

of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed

yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart

and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.

But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.

Letter 4

To Mrs. Saville, England

August 5th, 17--

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear

recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me

before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice,

which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her

the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous,

especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog.

We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place

in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld,

stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice,

which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned,

and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts,

when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention

and diverted our solicitude from our own situation.

We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs,

pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile;

a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,

sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress

of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost

among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,

many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote

that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,

however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track,

which we had observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea,

and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however,

lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark

those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up

of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck

and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel,

apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge,

like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night

on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive;

but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading

to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be,

a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European.

When I appeared on deck the master said, "Here is our captain,

and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea."

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English,

although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel,"

said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question

addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom

I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource

which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth

the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we

were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.

Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated

for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.

His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated

by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.

We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted

the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck

and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy

and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed

signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney

of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,

which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak,

and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding.

When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin

and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw

a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally

an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when,

if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him

the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up,

as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness

that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing,

and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes

that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble

to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions;

but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity,

in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended

upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked

why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom,

and he replied, "To seek one who fled from me."

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

"Yes."

"Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up

we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."

This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude

of questions concerning the route which the demon, 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 inhuman of me

to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."

"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation;

you have benevolently restored me to life."

Soon after this he 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 a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame

of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck

to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him

to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness

of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should watch for him

and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence

up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health

but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself

enters 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 compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days,

being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend

on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit

had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed

as the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,

should I have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17--

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once

my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.

How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery

without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle,

yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks,

although his words are culled with the choicest art,

yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,

apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own.

Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery

but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others.

He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated

to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments

in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail

of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led

by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart,

to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul, and to say,

with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune,

my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise.

One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement

of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire

and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke,

a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first

I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands

before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears

trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast.

I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man!

Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught?

Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!"

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity;

but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger

overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose

and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared

to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling

the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse

concerning myself personally. He asked me the history

of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened

various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend,

of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind

than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction

that a man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures,

but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--

such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate

our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble

of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge

respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you,

and have no cause for despair. But I--I have lost everything

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 seem still to have the power

of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence:

he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments,

yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit

that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer?

You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined

by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore

somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit

to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man.

Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is

which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above

any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment,

a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration

into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision;

add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations

are soul-subduing music.

August 19, 17--

Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive,

Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes.

I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils

should die with me, but you have won me to alter 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 disasters

will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing

the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers

which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce

an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed

in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.

Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous.

Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter

your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible

in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter

of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature;

nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence

of the truth of the events of which it is composed."

You may easily imagine 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 useless;

my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event,

and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,"

continued 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 imperatively occupied

by my duties, 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 interest and sympathy shall I read it

in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice

swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me

with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand

raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face

are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story,

frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course

and wrecked it--thus!

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 indefatigable attention to public business.

He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs

of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early,

nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband

and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character,

I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate 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 oblivion in the same country

where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence.

Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner,

he retreated 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 bitterly deplored

the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy

of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring

to seek him out, with the hope of persuading 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 sustenance

for some months, and in the meantime 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 leisure 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 sickness,

incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness,

but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing

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; she plaited straw

and by various means contrived to earn a pittance

scarcely sufficient to support 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 beggar.

This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin

weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. 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.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents,

but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer

in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice

in my father's upright mind which rendered it necessary

that he should approve highly to love strongly.

Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered

unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value

on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship

in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness

of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues

and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her

for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace

to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes

and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic

is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her

with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion

in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity

of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she

had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous

to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished

all his public functions; and immediately after their union

they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene

and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,

as a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child,

was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles.

I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were

attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores

of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me.

My mother's tender caresses and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure

while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything

and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent

and helpless creature bestowed on them by heaven, whom to bring up to good,

and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness

or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me.

With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being

to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness

that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour

of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,

and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed

but one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired

to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring.

When I was about five years old, while making an excursion

beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores

of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter

the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty;

it was a necessity, a passion--remembering what she had suffered,

and how she had been relieved--for her to act in her turn

the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks

a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice

as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children

gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day,

when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,

visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working,

bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal

to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted

my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock.

The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants;

this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest

living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed

to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample,

her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face

so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her

without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,

and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder

and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history.

She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman.

Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth.

The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse:

they were better off then. They had not been long married,

and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge

was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory

of Italy--one among the *schiavi ognor frementi*, who exerted himself

to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim

of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered

in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated;

his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued

with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode,

fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me

in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub--

a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form

and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition

was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed

on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond

of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them,

but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want

when Providence afforded her such powerful protection.

They consulted their village priest, and the result was

that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house--

my more than sister--the beautiful and adored companion

of all my occupations and my pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment

with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride

and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home,

my mother had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor--

tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow,

she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,

with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally

and looked upon Elizabeth as mine--mine to protect, love, and cherish.

All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own.

We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word,

no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood

to me--my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

Chapter 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year

difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers

to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul

of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast

that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.

Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition;

but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application

and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.

She busied herself with following the aerial creations

of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes

which surrounded our Swiss home--the sublime shapes

of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,

the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence

of our Alpine summers--she found ample scope for admiration

and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious

and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things,

I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me

a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research

to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture,

as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations

I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years,

my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves

in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne

on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance

of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally

in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed

in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd

and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore,

to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds

of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval

was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy

of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship,

and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read

in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs

and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure.

He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades,

in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles,

of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train

who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre

from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself.

My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.

We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot

according to their caprice, but the agents and creators

of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled

with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate

my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement;

but by some law in my temperature they were turned

not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn,

and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess

that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments,

nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me.

It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn;

and whether it was the outward substance of things

or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man

that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,

or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak,

with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life,

the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme;

and his hope and his dream was to become one among those

whose names are recorded in story as the gallant

and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul

of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.

Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance

of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us.

She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract;

I might have become sullen in my study, through the ardour of my nature,

but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness.

And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?

Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful

in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness

amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded

to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good

the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,

before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions

of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.

Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also 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 afterward ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river,

from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling 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 demonstrate 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 communicated my discovery to my father. 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 entirely 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 were chimerical,

while those of the former were real and practical,

under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside

and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,

by returning with greater ardour to my former studies.

It is even possible that the train of my ideas

would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin.

But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume

by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents,

and I continued 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 besides myself.

I have described myself as always having been imbued

with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature.

In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries

of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented

and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed

that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great

and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors

in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted

appeared even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged

in the same pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted

with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more.

He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal

lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,

anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause,

causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him.

I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed

to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature,

and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper

and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred,

and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such

should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine

of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree,

self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father

was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness,

added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance

of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence

into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life;

but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.

Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend

the discovery if I could banish disease from the human 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 fulfillment 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. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems,

mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories

and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge,

guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident

again changed the current of my ideas. When I was

about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,

when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm.

It advanced from behind the mountains 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 nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it

the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.

It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced

to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything

so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious

laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research

in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe,

he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed

on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new

and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly

into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus,

the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow

of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies.

It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known.

All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable.

By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps

most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up

my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny

as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained

the greatest disdain for a would-be science which

could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge.

In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics

and the branches of study appertaining to that science

as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy

of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments

are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back,

it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination

and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel

of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of preservation

to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars

and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced

by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed

the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.

It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,

happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.

Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed

my utter and terrible destruction.

Chapter 3

When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved

that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.

I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father

thought it necessary for the completion of my education

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;

her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger.

During her illness 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 the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer

control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions

triumphed over the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved,

but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.

On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied

by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants

prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude

and benignity of this best of women did not desert her.

She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. "My children,"

she said, "my 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 supply my place to my younger children. 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 exhibited 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

forever--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 connection?

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 ourselves fortunate whilst one remains

whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt,

which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon.

I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me

sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death,

of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life.

I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me.

I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me,

and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth

in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter

to us all. She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties

with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those

whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins.

Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled

the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.

She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening

with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him

to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father

was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin

in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt

the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education.

He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye

and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve

not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce.

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other

nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said,

and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose,

each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning's dawn

I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away,

they were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval

to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties

that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine attentions

on her playmate and friend.

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

"old familiar faces," but I believed myself totally unfitted

for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections

as I commenced 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 reflections

during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.

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 principal professors.

Chance--or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction,

which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned

my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to

M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man,

but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me

several questions concerning my progress in the different

branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied

carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names

of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied.

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 stepped 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 beginning

of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures

upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,

a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days

that he omitted.

I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered

those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned

not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape.

M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive

countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour

of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain,

perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to

concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content

with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science.

With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth

and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge

along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers

for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. 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 exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities

of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days

of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent

in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents

in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, 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 sentences 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 grey hairs covered his temples,

but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person

was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest

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 forget:

"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 transmuted and that the elixir of life

is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble

in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible,

have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses

of nature and show 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."

Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words

of the fate--enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt

as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one

the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being;

chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled

with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done,

exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein--more, far more, will I achieve;

treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way,

explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries

of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was

in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order

would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees,

after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's

thoughts were as a dream. There only remained