 CHAPTER II London was our present point of rest. We determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time. But this was with me a secondary object. I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers. If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me. When alone I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth, the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men. This barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish. But in clerval I saw the image of my former self. He was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was, to him, an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mean. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasure's natural to one who was entering on the new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver and my heart to palpitate. After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country, and asked if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth where he resided. Clevel eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with which nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places. We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers. The majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us. From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join a standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the amiable Forkland, the insolent goreng, his queen and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city where they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque, the streets almost magnificent, and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers and spires and domes in bosom-demung aged trees. I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always interest my heart and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree, the bolt has ended my soul, and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be, a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and abhorrent to myself. We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs, and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating epoch of English history. A little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampton, and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated, from its debasing and miserable fears, to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrances. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village resembles, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland, but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white alps, which always attend on the piney mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Cervaux and Chamonix. The latter name made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated. From Derby, still journeying northward, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes and the dashing of the rocky streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Cervaux was proportionably greater than mine, his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. I could pass my life here, said he to me, and among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine. But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch, and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties. We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period of our appointment with our scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the demon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience. If they were delayed I was miserable and overcome by a thousand fears, and when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind, and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clairville did not like it so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's seat, St. Bernard's well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Cooper, St Andrews, and along the banks of the Tay to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest, and accordingly I told Clairville that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. Do you, said I, enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two, but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you, leave me to peace and solitude for a short time, and when I return I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper. Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. I had rather be with you, he said, in your solitary rambles than with these scotch people whom I do not know. Hason then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence. Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt, but that the monster followed me, and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the Northern Highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggly limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalid lists of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession. An incident which would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottages been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much as suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour, but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland. It was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and, when troubled by the winds, there tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roaring of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labour it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at others I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was indeed a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment. My mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal. I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. In the meantime I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dare not trust myself to question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken in my bosom. CHAPTER III I sat one evening in my laboratory. The sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea. I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant. She might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight for its own sake in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts, but she had not, and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each other, the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might you not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form. She might also turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man. She might quit him, and he be alone again, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the demon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created. I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats. But now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me, I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace, at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by the light of the moon the demon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels, he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths, and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought, with a sensation of madness, on my promise to create another like him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours, and then, with trembling steps, sought my own apartment. I was alone, none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours passed, and I remained near my window, gazing on the sea. It was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed unto the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fisherman called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if someone endeavored to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot. I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine, but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavored to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage. The door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice, You have destroyed the work which you began. What is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery. I left Switzerland with you. I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its Willow Islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger. Do you dare destroy my hopes? Begone! I do break my promise. Never will I create another like yourself equal in deformity and wickedness. Slave! I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power. You believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master. Obey! The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness, but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a demon whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage. The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. Shall each man, cried he, find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone. I had feelings of affection, and they were equated by detestation and scorn. Man, you may hate, but beware, your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains, revenge henceforth dearer than light or food. I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict. Devil cease, and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me, I am inexorable. It is well, I go, but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding night. I started forward and exclaimed, Villain, before you sign my death warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe. I would have seized him, but he eluded me, and quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent, but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room, hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then, I thought again of his words, I will be with you on your wedding night. That, then, was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear, yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her. Tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean. My feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-beings. May, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock. Wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a demon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me, and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure. Yet the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death knell. They appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous with an otun cake. When I saw a fishing boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet, it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval in treating me to join him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth in a week from that time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceedings. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the exploration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect. I must pack my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature whom I had destroyed lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room, but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night, and in the meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the demon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled. But I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me. The threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose, and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary. A few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my fellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness and cast my basket into the sea. I listened to the gurgling sound as it sank, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded, but the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and, fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its keel cut through the waves. The murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was northeast, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but quickly found that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so little acquainted with the geography of this part of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic and feel all the torches of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others. I looked upon the sea. It was to be my grave. Feigned, I exclaimed, your task is already fulfilled. I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval, and sunk into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus, but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell. I felt sick and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life, even in the excess of misery. I constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I eagerly traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small, neat town, and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together, with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language. My good friends, said I, will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am? You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a gruff voice. Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste, but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, promise you. I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. Why do you answer me so roughly? I replied. Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably. I do not know, said the man, what the custom of the English may be, but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains. While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn, but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said, Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kerwin's to give an account of yourself. Who is Mr. Kerwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country? Aye, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kerwin is a magistrate, and you were to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night. This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent, that could easily be proved. Accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger, but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignonomy or death. I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection. End of Section 24. I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old, benevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward, and one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before, with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen, they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was, to all appearance, dead. Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves, but upon examination they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. He appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated. My limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and, of course, drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore—and, as far as he could judge from the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door of her cottage waiting for the return of the fisherman, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into their house, it was not cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely that, as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour, ignorant of the distance of the town of—from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kerwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was, accordingly, conducted by the magistrate and several other persons to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night, but knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was layered up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed. Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry of life? Two others I have already destroyed, other victims await their destiny, but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor! The human frame could no longer support the agonising suffering that I endured. I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death. My ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful. I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented, and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kerwin alone understood me, but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before. Why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents. How many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb. Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture. But I was doomed to live, and in two months found myself, as awakening from a dream, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding. I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me. But when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterised that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see, without sympathising in, sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference, she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. Are you better now, sir? said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice. I believe I am, but if it all be true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror. For that matter, replied the old woman, if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you, but you will be hung when the next sessions come on. However, that's none of my business, I am sent to nurse you and get you well. I do my duty with a safe conscience, it will well if everybody did the same. I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved on the very edge of death, but I felt languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream. I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish, a darkness pressed around me, no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle hand of love, no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me, but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that a Mr. Kerwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me. Wretched indeed was the best, and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It was true he seldom came to see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and at long intervals. One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than remain miserably pent up, only to be let loose in a world replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kerwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion. He drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French. I fear that this place is very shocking to you. Can I do anything to make you more comfortable? I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me. On the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving. I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one born down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge. That is my least concern. I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me? Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on the shore, renowned its hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed as it were by some fiend across your path. As Mr. Kerwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kerwin hastened to say, it was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and among others, one which I discovered from its commencement, to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva, nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. But you are ill. Even now you tremble. You are unfit for agitation of any kind. The suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event. Tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament. Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kerwin with gentleness. And some one, a friend, is come to visit you. I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony. Oh, take him away! I cannot see him! For God's sake, do not let him enter! Mr. Kerwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone, I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance. My father, cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. Is my father indeed come? How kind! How very kind! But where is he? Why does he not hasten to me? My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate. Perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing at this moment could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried, Are you then safe, and Elizabeth, and Ernest? My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavored, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits, but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. What a place is this that you inhabit, my son? said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room. You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you, and poor clerval. The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state. I shed tears. Alas! Alas! Yes, my father! replied I. Some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry. We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Cohen came in and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of clerval was forever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections through me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny which is now drawing to a close. Soon—oh, very soon—will death extinguish these throbbing, and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust. And in executing the award of justice I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts, and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of their sizes approached. I had already been three months in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county town where the court was held. Mr. Kerwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found, and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere and allowed to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever, and although the sun shone upon me as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the black orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them. Sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest. But these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes indeed I felt a wish for happiness, and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved cousin, or longed with a devouring melody to pay to see once more the blue lake and rapid roam that had been so dear to me in early childhood. But my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest seen in nature, and these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavored to put an end to the existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, he may be innocent of the murder, but he certainly has a bad conscience. These words struck me. A bad conscience, yes, surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval had died through my infernal machinations. And whose death, cried I, is to finish the tragedy. Oh, my father, do not remain in this wretched country. Take me where I may forget myself, my existence, and all the world. My father easily acceded to my desire, and after having taken leave of Mr. Kerwin we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a heavy weight when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so much misery. It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin, and I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream, yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repast in my memory, my whole life, my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought, a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of Lordenham, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery. My dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare. I felt the fiend's grasp on my neck, and could not free myself from it. Growns and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me, and pointed to the port of Hollyhead, which we were now entering. CHAPTER V We had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country to Portsmouth, and thence to embark for half. I preferred this plan principally, because I'd ready to see again those places in which I had enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my beloved clerval. I thought with horror of seeing again those persons whom we had been accustomed to visit together, and who might make inquiries concerning an event the very remembrance of which made me feel again the pang I endured when I gazed on his lifeless form in the ear-nut. As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to again seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His tenderness and tensions were unremitting. My grief and gloom was obstinate, but he would not despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. Alas, my father, said I, how little do you know me! Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge. She died for it, and I am the cause of this. I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry, they all died by my hands. My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion. When I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a feeling that I should be supposed mad, and this forever chained my tongue when I would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret. Upon this occasion, my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, What do you mean, Victor? Are you mad? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again. I am not mad, I cried energetically. The sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims, they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives. But I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race. The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course of thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm. Misery had had welling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes. Sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice. We arrived at Harbour on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris, where my father had some business which detained us a few weeks. In this city I received the following letter from Elizabeth. To Victor Frankenstein, my dearest friend, it gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris. You are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered. I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense, yet I hope to see peace in your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity. Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. Explanation, you may possibly say, what can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and I have no more to do than to sign myself your affectionate cousin. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this explanation. And in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin. You well know, Victor, that our union has been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case. Tell me, dearest Victor, answer me, I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple truth. Do you not love another? You have travelled, you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt, and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you, and that in my fair dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness, I desire, as well as my own, when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable, unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruelest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend, and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. Do not let this letter disturb you. Do not answer to-morrow or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. Elizabeth Levenza, Geneva, May 18th, 17. This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend. I will be with you on your wedding night. Such was my sentence, and on that night would the demon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so, a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which, if he was victorious, I should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom! such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burned, his lands laid waste, and he has turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure. Alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death. Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy. But the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable. Yet again I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed to be with me on my wedding night, yet he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime. For, as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the annunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retard it a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. I fear my beloved girl, I said. Little happiness remains for us on earth, yet all that I may one day enjoy is consented in you. Chase away your idle fears. To you alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one. When revealed to you it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you, the day after our marriage shall take place. For, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then I conjure you. Do not mention or elude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply. In about a week, after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we returned to Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me. But her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed a real insanity possessed me. Sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke or looked, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits. Her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason returned she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah, it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with my cousin. I remained silent. Have you then some other attachment? None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed, and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin. My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune, and when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be borne to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived. Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned, nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words, I shall be with you on your wedding night, I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father that, if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth than to have consented to this miserable marriage. But if possessed of magic powers the monster had blinded me to his real intentions, and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim. As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received, and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart, the anxiety that prayed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. A house was purchased for us near Coloni, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the country, and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every day, who would still reside within the walls, for the benefit of earnest, that he might follow his studies at the schools. In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person, in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquility. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while a happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer, and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent. Elizabeth seemed happy. My tranquil demeanor contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a pre-sentiment of evil pervaded her, and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed, and in the bustle of preparation, only observed in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride. After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father's, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should pass the afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologne the next morning. As the day was fair and the wind favourable, we resolved to go by water. Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along. The sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mount Selive, the pleasant banks of Montelagre, and at a distance surmounting all the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her. Sometimes, coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it. I took the hand of Elizabeth. You were sorrowful, my love. Ah, if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy. Be happy, my dear Victor, replied Elizabeth. There is, I hope, nothing to distress you, and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Montblanc, render the scene still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature appears! Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating, joy for a few incidents shone in her eye, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie. The sun sunk lower in the heavens. We passed the river Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung. The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze. The soft air just ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears revive, which were soon to clasp me and cling to me for ever. End of Section 26 Section 27 of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. This LibriFox recording is in the public domain. Volume 3 Chapter 6 It was eight o'clock when we landed. We walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend. The clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while a lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom. Every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, were extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence. At length she said, What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear? O peace, peace my love, replied I. This night and all will be safe, but this night is dreadful, very dreadful. I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly untreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge just to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces, when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind. My arms dropped. The motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended. I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! Why did I not then expire? Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature of earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure, her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridle-beer. Could I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and cling's closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection. I fainted. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn. Their countenance has expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love. My wife. So lately living. So dear. So worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her. And now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deathly langer and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster. He seemed to cheer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom shot, but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running with a swiftness of lightning plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats, nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjectured by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I did not accompany them. I was exhausted. A film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened. My eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I had lost. At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time, but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife. Even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend. My father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake, but the wind was unfavorable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before, in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before. They had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness. No creature had ever been so miserable as I was, so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors, I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can be but tedious to you. Know that one by one my friends were snatched away, I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man. His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight, his niece, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection which a man feels, who, in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness. He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him. An apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not. I lost sensation, and chains and darkness with the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant veils with the friends of my youth, but awoke and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. But liberty had been useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause, the monster whom I had created, the miserable demon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes. I began to reflect on the best means of securing him, and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make, and that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. Be assured, sir, said he, no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain. I thank you, replied I. Listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood. My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive but calm. I had formed in my heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my agony, and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history, briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested. I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others, a lively surprise, unmengled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I said, this is the being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion. This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half-kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events, but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and none can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit. I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the Shammy, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts. You do not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with a punishment which is his dessert. As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes. The magistrate was intimidated. You are mistaken, said he. I will exert myself, if it is in my power to seize the monster. Be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove to be impracticable, and that, while every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to make up your mind to disappointment. That cannot be! But all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you. Yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer whom I have turned loose upon society still exists. You refuse my just demand. I have but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction. I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this. There was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Geneva magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me, as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tail as the effects of delirium. Man! I cried. How ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease! You know not what it is you say! I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. 7. My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury. Revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure. It modelled my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever—my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me. Now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with death. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are want to meet. How I have lived, I hardly know. Many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive. I dared not die and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery, where William, Elizabeth, and my father were posed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent, except the leaves of the trees which were gently agitated by the wind. The night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but seen not, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived, their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, by the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that claimed I wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear. And by thee, O night, and by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to pursue the demon who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life. To execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise shall vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony. Let him feel the despair that now torments me. I had begun my adoration with solemnity, and an oar which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion. But the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night, by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily, the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known and bored voice apparently close to my ear addressed me in an audible whisper. I am satisfied, miserable wretch, you have determined to live, and I am satisfied. I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disc of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped. I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path. Sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace I should despair and die, often left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you, first entering on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined to endure. I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell. Yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps, and when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk unto the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspired me. The fair was indeed coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I may not doubt that it was said there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers, but the demon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it, or bringing with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided those moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country. Again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming, until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them? How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived? At such moments, vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the demon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, then as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were, whom I pursued, I cannot know. Sometimes indeed he left marks in writing, on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me and instigated my fury. My reign is not yet over. These words were legible in one of these inscriptions. You live, and my power is complete. Follow me. I seek the everlasting Isis of the North, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost to which I am impassive. You will find, near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hair. Eat and be refreshed. Come on, enemy, we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive. Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance, again do I devote the miserable fiend to torture and death. Never will I omit my search until he or I perish, and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and those who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage. As I still pursued my journey to the Northwood, the snows thickened and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured, and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription at he left was in these words, Prepare, your toils only begin, wrap yourself in furs, and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred. My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words. I resolved not to fail in my purpose, and, calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh, how unlike it was to the blue seas of the South! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down, and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, not withstanding my adversaries' jive, to meet and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him—so much so that, when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived in the night, armed with a gun and many pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land, and they conjectured that he must be speedily destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary excess of despair. He had escaped me, and I missed commenced a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst colds that few of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live, and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and like a mighty tide overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land sledge for one fashion for the inequalities of the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution, burning within my heart, could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey, and the continual protraction of hope returning back upon the heart often rung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery, when once, after the poor animals that carried me had, with incredible toil, gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking under his fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! with water-burning gush did hope revisit my heart. Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the demon. But still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay. I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when, for a short time, some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my enemy, my hopes was suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground-sea was heard, the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose, the sea roared, and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished. In a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed, several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astonished at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigor was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled. Oh, when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the demon, allow me the rest I so much desire, or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death. Yet do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No, I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live, swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and live to make another wretch such as I am. He is eloquent and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart, but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendish malice. Hear him not, call on the names of William, just