Frankenstein: or The Modern Prometheus (Restored and Annotated Edition) E-Book

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

• Herausgeber: Moon Hare Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

What happens when human ambition defies the laws of nature? Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s Frankenstein is the timeless tale of creation and consequence—a haunting story that gave birth to modern science fiction.

This Restored Edition from Moon Hare Books preserves Shelley’s original 1818 text with a new introduction and “About the Author” section by Élodie Scott. Rediscover Victor Frankenstein’s desperate quest to unlock the secrets of life, and the creature’s tragic struggle for understanding in a world that rejects him.

Perfect for lovers of gothic literature, classic horror, and philosophical fiction, Frankenstein remains a powerful reflection on humanity, isolation, and the cost of unchecked ambition.

Step into the storm where science meets the soul—and experience the definitive version of one of the world’s most influential novels.

Leseprobe

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Frankenstein: or, the Modern Prometheus (Restored and Annotated Edition)

With a New Introduction by Élodie Scott

Copyright © 2025 Moon Hare Books

This edition, including the introduction, annotations, author biography, and digital formatting, is original to Moon Hare Books.

The text of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1818) is in the public domain.

Edited and introduced by Élodie Scott.

All rights reserved. No part of this edition may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews or critical commentary.

Published by Moon Hare Books.

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Table of contents

Introduction by Élodie Scott

About the Author Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Letter 1

Letter 2

Letter 3

Letter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Credits

landmarks

Title page

Cover

Table of contents

Book start

Introduction

by Élodie Scott

Few novels have left as deep and lasting an impression on world literature as Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. First published anonymously in 1818, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s masterpiece stands at the crossroads of gothic horror, romantic idealism, and modern science fiction. It was born from a single, electrifying question: what might happen if man could play God? From that question sprang a story that has echoed for more than two centuries—an exploration of creation and consequence that feels as urgent today as it did in Shelley’s own time.

The origins of Frankenstein are as fascinating as the story itself. During the summer of 1816, Mary Shelley—then only eighteen years old—was traveling in Switzerland with her future husband, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and their friend Lord Byron. Confined indoors by stormy weather on the shores of Lake Geneva, the group entertained themselves by telling ghost stories. It was during one of these evenings that Byron proposed they each write their own tale of the supernatural. For several nights Mary was haunted by the image of a young scientist “kneeling beside the thing he had put together,” watching as it began to show signs of life. That dream became the seed of Frankenstein, and in giving it shape, Shelley gave birth not only to one of literature’s greatest tragedies but also to the entire genre of modern science fiction.

At its core, Frankenstein is a profound meditation on human ambition and moral responsibility. Victor Frankenstein’s quest to create life springs from noble curiosity but quickly descends into obsession. When he succeeds, his creation—born innocent but shunned for its appearance—becomes a mirror reflecting humanity’s fear, cruelty, and loneliness. Shelley’s narrative, told through layers of letters and recollections, allows readers to feel both the creator’s guilt and the creature’s anguish. The monster, eloquent and heartbroken, is not simply a figure of horror but a deeply sympathetic being whose suffering exposes the very flaws of the society that rejects him.

This Restored Edition from Moon Hare Books faithfully preserves Shelley’s original text and structure while presenting it in a clean, accessible format for today’s readers. No annotations alter the story; instead, this edition includes a new introduction and an “About the Author” section to provide historical and literary context. These supplementary materials aim to help readers understand not just the novel’s plot, but the remarkable woman behind it—a young writer whose insight into the human condition surpassed that of many seasoned authors of her age.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was born into literary greatness: the daughter of political philosopher William Godwin and pioneering feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft. Yet her own life was marked by tragedy—loss, illness, and the constant struggle between intellect and emotion. Her experiences undoubtedly shaped the moral and philosophical undercurrents of Frankenstein. The novel reflects her awareness of both the promise and peril of scientific discovery, as well as her empathy for the outcast and the misunderstood.

Though written over two hundred years ago, Frankenstein remains startlingly relevant. Its questions about scientific ethics, creation, identity, and isolation continue to resonate in our age of artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and technological dominance. Victor’s pursuit of forbidden knowledge mirrors our modern desire to push beyond natural limits, while the creature’s pain reflects our society’s ongoing battle with alienation and prejudice. Shelley’s tale reminds us that progress without compassion can yield devastating consequences.

The novel’s subtitle, The Modern Prometheus, recalls the myth of the Greek Titan who stole fire from the gods to give to humanity, an act that brought both enlightenment and suffering. In the same way, Victor Frankenstein’s theft of divine power grants him the ability to create life—but at the cost of his own peace and the destruction of everything he loves. Shelley’s choice of this mythic framework transforms her story from a simple gothic horror into a profound allegory of ambition, responsibility, and the human soul’s restless yearning for greatness.

This edition from Moon Hare Books seeks to honor Shelley’s vision by presenting Frankenstein as she intended: a tale both terrifying and tender, philosophical and deeply emotional. It is not merely the story of a scientist and his creation, but a reflection on what it means to be human—to dream, to err, to seek understanding, and to suffer the consequences of one’s actions. The creature’s haunting plea to his creator—“I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel”—captures the essence of the novel’s enduring power: its ability to awaken both fear and empathy in equal measure.

Whether you are discovering this literary treasure for the first time or returning to it after many years, may this edition illuminate the beauty, tragedy, and genius of Mary Shelley’s imagination. More than a tale of horror, Frankenstein is a mirror held up to the human condition—a reminder that our creations, whether scientific or emotional, reflect the best and worst of ourselves.

About the Author

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797–1851) was one of the most visionary and influential writers of the nineteenth century, best known as the author of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus—a novel that redefined both gothic horror and science fiction. More than two hundred years after its publication, Shelley’s creation continues to haunt the imagination of readers around the world, inspiring countless adaptations, films, and cultural references. Yet behind the enduring legend of Frankenstein stands a remarkable woman whose life was marked by brilliance, tragedy, and literary innovation.

Born on August 30, 1797, in Somers Town, London, Mary Shelley was the daughter of two of the most radical thinkers of the Enlightenment. Her father, William Godwin, was a political philosopher best known for An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, while her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, authored A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—one of the earliest and most influential works of feminist philosophy. Tragically, Wollstonecraft died just days after Mary’s birth, leaving her daughter to grow up in the intellectual but emotionally austere household of Godwin. Despite her lack of formal schooling, Mary was surrounded by books and immersed in an atmosphere of debate, philosophy, and political idealism.

At the age of sixteen, Mary met Percy Bysshe Shelley, a gifted and controversial Romantic poet who admired her father’s writings. Their relationship, scandalous by the standards of the time, blossomed into a passionate partnership of love and creativity. The couple eloped to Europe in 1814, embarking on a journey that would take them through hardship, poverty, and personal loss but also fuel their literary ambitions. During the summer of 1816, while staying at the Villa Diodati near Lake Geneva with Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and John Polidori, Mary conceived the idea for Frankenstein after a famous ghost-story challenge. Her nightmarish vision of a scientist who creates life—and the tragedy that follows—emerged from that stormy summer, forever changing the course of literary history.

Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus was first published anonymously in 1818 when Mary was only twenty years old. Many readers at the time assumed Percy Shelley was the author, given his preface to the book and his literary reputation. It wasn’t until the 1823 second edition that Mary was publicly credited as the writer. The novel’s combination of gothic terror, scientific speculation, and moral philosophy was revolutionary. It addressed the consequences of human ambition, isolation, and moral responsibility long before these themes became staples of modern science fiction. Today, Frankenstein is recognized not just as a gothic horror tale but as one of the earliest—and most profound—works of speculative fiction ever written.

Beyond Frankenstein, Mary Shelley produced a rich and varied body of work that extended well beyond the realm of horror. Her later novels include Valperga (1823), a historical romance set in fourteenth-century Italy; The Last Man (1826), a visionary post-apocalyptic story often regarded as an early example of dystopian fiction; Lodore (1835); and Falkner (1837). Each of these works reveals her deep empathy, her fascination with human resilience, and her keen awareness of social and political injustice. Shelley was also a respected essayist, biographer, and travel writer. Her non-fiction writings—such as Rambles in Germany and Italy (1844)—display her intellect, her moral clarity, and her unyielding curiosity about the world.

Mary Shelley’s life, however, was shadowed by personal tragedy. She endured the deaths of three of her four children and the drowning of her husband Percy in 1822 when he was only twenty-nine. Widowed at twenty-four, Mary devoted much of her remaining life to preserving and promoting Percy Shelley’s poetic legacy. She edited and published his works posthumously, helping to secure his place among the great Romantic poets. Her devotion to literature, both her own and that of her husband, never wavered despite years of grief and financial struggle.

Shelley’s writing reflects both the intellectual inheritance of her parents and her own unique sensitivity to human suffering and moral complexity. Her works combine gothic intensity with philosophical depth, exploring themes of identity, alienation, and the ethical limits of scientific progress. In an era when women were rarely acknowledged as serious intellectuals, Mary Shelley asserted her voice with courage and brilliance, leaving an indelible mark on literature and culture.

She died in London on February 1, 1851, at the age of fifty-three, and was buried at St. Peter’s Church in Bournemouth, near the graves of her father and mother. Though her life was short, her legacy is immense. Today, Mary Shelley is celebrated not only as the author of Frankenstein but as one of the founding figures of modern speculative fiction—a writer who used imagination to confront the profound moral and existential questions of human existence.

Her influence can be seen across centuries of literature, cinema, and science. From the moral dilemmas of artificial intelligence to the ethics of genetic engineering, the themes Mary Shelley introduced remain vital and alive. Her story reminds us that creativity often arises from struggle, and that even in the face of loss and isolation, the written word can bridge the gap between the human and the divine.

This Restored Edition of Frankenstein

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England.

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.

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

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

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

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

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton

Letter 2

To Mrs. Saville, England.

Archangel, 28th March, 17—.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour—but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

Robert Walton

Letter 3

To Mrs. Saville, England.

July 7th, 17—.

My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.

Letter 4

To Mrs. Saville, England.

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.