FRANKENSTEIN(Illustrated) E-Book

Mary Shelley

• Herausgeber: Micheal Smith
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

• Illustrated Edition: Contains 15 meticulously crafted illustrations, reflecting the rich tapestry of emotion, ambiance, and gothic aesthetic found within the novel.
• Enhanced Content: Features a concise summary, in-depth characters list, and a captivating author biography, offering readers additional insights into this timeless masterpiece.

Delve into the haunting realms of human aspiration and despair with Mary Shelley’s iconic gothic masterpiece, "Frankenstein." This illustrated edition breathes life into the enduring tale, immersing readers in the chilling encounters between creator and creation.

In the quest for forbidden knowledge, the young and ambitious scientist, Victor Frankenstein, fashions a living being from the remnants of the deceased. The awakening of this creature propels both Victor and his creation into a harrowing dance of morality, acceptance, and consequence. Witness the torment of existence through the eyes of the forsaken creature, roaming an indifferent world, yearning for companionship and redemption.

Shelley's profound exploration of ambition, responsibility, and the human condition has ignited imaginations, inviting readers to ponder the shadows of existence and the ramifications of playing god. The accompanying illustrations in this edition augment the atmospheric and thematic depth of the novel, enriching the reader’s engagement with this timeless literary creation.

Additionally, the included summary, character list, and author biography enhance the reading experience, offering deeper insights into Shelley’s life, her opulent literary world, and her lasting impact on literature and the exploration of human experience.

Whether you are a connoisseur of classic literature, a student of the human psyche, or a lover of captivating narratives, this enriched edition of "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley is poised to deliver a reading experience that echoes with the whispers of creation and the echoes of solitude.

 

Leseprobe

FRANKENSTEIN              by                            MARY SHELLEY  

ABOUT SHELLEY

Mary Shelley: Illuminator of the Shadows

Early Life:

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, who became Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley on August 30, 1797, in London, came from a long family of accomplished writers and politicians. She was the offspring of groundbreaking feminist author Mary Wollstonecraft and political philosopher William Godwin. Her mother's death not long after she was born tragically marked her arrival on earth. Mary, a self-educated woman, was raised on the literary creations of her learned parents, who helped her develop a strong and early love for learning and creativity.

Romantic Engagements:

In her adolescent years, Mary became intertwined with the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Their union was embroiled in scandal, given Percy's marital status at the time of their meeting. The couple faced societal ostracization and financial constraints, leading them through various European cities. Their journey became the backdrop of Mary's formative literary experiences, influenced by interactions with eminent personalities of the Romantic Movement such as Lord Byron and John Polidori.

Birth of a Monster:

The inception of her seminal work, "Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus" (1818), occurred during the summer of 1816. Mary, Percy, Lord Byron, and John Polidori, confined by the inclement weather at Lake Geneva, conjured tales of the supernatural to while away the time. Mary’s vision of a scientist animating life manifested in the enduring figure of Victor Frankenstein and his Creature. "Frankenstein" explores themes of ambition, responsibility, the human condition, and the consequences of playing god, contributing a complex narrative to the annals of Gothic and science fiction literature.

A Tapestry of Works:

Mary Shelley’s literary repertoire extended beyond her iconic creation. She penned novels such as "The Last Man" (1826), which portrays a dystopian future ravaged by a plague, and "Valperga" (1823), which delves into historical and philosophical themes. Her oeuvre also encompasses short stories, essays, biographies, and travel narratives, exemplifying her versatile literary craftsmanship.

Life’s Autumn and Legacy:

The tragedies that bookended her life continued to punctuate it. The untimely demise of her husband and children left Mary beleaguered by grief. Despite facing constant tribulations, she continued her literary pursuits until her death on February 1, 1851. The brilliance of Mary Shelley’s work has traversed centuries, her monster serving as an eternal reminder of the ramifications of unchecked ambition and the eternal quest for knowledge. She endures as an inspirational figure, a beacon in the realms of literature, science fiction, and feminism.

Accolades and Honors:

Mary Shelley’s influence persists in contemporary discourse, with her being celebrated as a pioneering figure in literature. The amalgamation of scientific curiosity, philosophical inquiry, and profound human insight in her work has resulted in her earning recognition as a progenitor of science fiction, and her musings on societal, ethical, and existential dilemmas resonate with readers to this day.

Closing Note:

Mary Shelley’s life, marked by love, loss, and literary innovation, paints a portrait of a woman who illuminated the shadows of human existence through her words. Her enduring legacy is etched not only in the hearts of those who seek solace in her creations but also in the annals of literary and intellectual history.

SUMMARY

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley: A Symphony of Horror and Humanity

Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus" stands as an illustrious light in the fields of gothic literature and science fiction, creating a tale of ambition, morality, and consequence that has captivated readers since its publication in 1818.

Plot Synopsis:

Victor Frankenstein, a fervent and ambitious scientist, becomes consumed by a relentless pursuit of knowledge and the enigma of life creation. In his obsession, he animates a creature—formed from disparate body parts. However, the creature's grotesque appearance terrifies Victor, leading him to abandon his creation. The forsaken creature, intelligent and sentient, craves companionship and acceptance but encounters fear and hostility from humankind.

An Odyssey of Suffering:

The creature's odyssey is a poignant reflection on isolation, rejection, and the human craving for companionship. Enshrouded in loneliness and despair, the creature ultimately seeks vengeance against his creator for his doomed existence. This relentless pursuit draws a macabre dance between creator and creation across the scenic landscapes of Europe, culminating in a chilling climax in the icy realms of the Arctic.

Themes and Imagery:

"Frankenstein" unfolds a multifaceted tapestry of themes, exploring the ramifications of playing god, the moral obligations of a creator, the insatiable quest for knowledge, and the inherent need for love and acceptance. It delves deep into the philosophical underpinnings of human nature and the dichotomy between appearance and reality. The novel’s rich imagery and Shelley’s masterful prose amplify the haunting atmosphere, rendering it an immortal piece of literature.

Legacy:

Mary Shelley's magnum opus has transcended time, inspiring myriad adaptations and igniting discussions on scientific ethics, human rights, and existential inquiries. The term "Frankenstein" has become synonymous with any creation that overpowers its creator, reflecting the timeless relevance of Shelley's creation.

Conclusion:

"Frankenstein" is not merely a tale of horror; it is a profound exploration of humanity, morality, and the shadows of existence. It beckons readers to reflect upon the essence of life, the moral boundaries of scientific pursuit, and the echoes of our actions. This masterful amalgamation of gothic horror and philosophical exploration ensures "Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus" continues to illuminate the minds of readers, urging them to delve into the labyrinth of the human psyche.

CHARACTERS LIST

Characters in Mary Shelley’s "Frankenstein":

Victor Frankenstein:

The Protagonist

A scientist passionate about natural philosophy and chemistry.

Creates the Creature and regrets his creation due to its appearance.

The Creature:

Victor’s creation, often referred to as the “Monster.”

Composed of various body parts collected by Victor.

Intelligent and articulate but faces rejection and isolation due to his appearance.

Elizabeth Lavenza:

Victor’s adoptive sister and later, his fiancée.

Represents purity and innocence.

Is tragically murdered by the Creature.

Henry Clerval:

Victor’s best friend.

Symbolizes the humane and selfless aspects of humanity.

Accompanies Victor during his studies.

Alphonse Frankenstein:

Victor’s father.

The patriarch of the Frankenstein family, supportive and compassionate.

William Frankenstein:

Victor’s youngest brother.

His death triggers the unfolding of the novel’s tragic events.

Justine Moritz:

A servant in the Frankenstein household.

Wrongfully accused and executed for William’s murder.

Robert Walton:

The story's framing narrator.

A ship captain on his way to the North Pole meets Victor.

Margaret Saville:

Robert Walton’s sister.

The recipient of Walton’s letters through which the story is unfolded.

Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein:

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- Victor’s mother.

- Dies from scarlet fever which she contracts from Elizabeth.

De Lacey Family:

Felix De Lacey: Provides the Creature with an insight into kindness and humanity.

Agatha De Lacey: Felix’s sister, who illustrates the theme of familial love.

Blind Father De Lacey: Symbolizes the perception unclouded by appearance.

Safie:

Felix’s lover, whose story represents the themes of freedom and constraint.

Minor Characters:

M. Waldman: One of Victor’s professors who inspires his interest in chemistry.

M. Krempe: A professor at Ingolstadt who dismisses Victor’s study of the alchemists.

Beaufort: A friend of Alphonse, Caroline’s father.

Each character in "Frankenstein" is meticulously crafted to intertwine themes of humanity, morality, isolation, ambition, and the pursuit of knowledge, making the novel a timeless exploration of the human condition.

Contents

Introduction

Preface

Letter 1

Letter 2

Letter 3

Letter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Introduction

The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting "Frankenstein" for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so very frequently asked me—"How I, when a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.

It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given me for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air—the indulging in waking dreams—the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator—rather doing as others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye—my childhood's companion and friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed—my dearest pleasure when free.

I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then—but in a most common-place style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations.

After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should write, not so much with the idea that I could produce any thing worthy of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, in the way of reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my attention.

In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of Childe Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him.

But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday.

"We will each write a ghost story," said Lord Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a key-hole—what to see I forget—something very shocking and wrong of course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.

I busied myself to think of a story,—a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror—one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered—vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative.

Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindoos give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning ideas suggested to it.

Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments of Dr. Darwin, (I speak not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by him,) who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.

Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw—with shut eyes, but acute mental vision,—I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handywork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story,—my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night!

Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. "I have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the morrow I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the words, It was on a dreary night of November, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream.

At first I thought but of a few pages—of a short tale; but Shelley urged me to develope the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him.

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers have nothing to do with these associations.

I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative; and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Throughout they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched.

M. W. S.

London, October 15, 1831.

Preface

The event on which this fiction is founded, has been supposed, 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 series 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, however 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 ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece,—Shakspeare, in the Tempest, and Midsummer Night's Dream,—and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, 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 present day, and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical 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 regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. 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.

Marlow, September, 1817.

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 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. 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 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 before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise 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's 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 Shakspeare 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 stage-coach. 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.