FRANKENSTEIN:
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
BY MARY W. SHELLEY.
AUTHOR OF THE LAST MAN, PERKIN WARBECK, &c. &c.
[Transcriber's Note: This text was produced from a photo-reprint of the1831 edition.]
REVISED, CORRECTED,
AND ILLUSTRATED WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION,
BY THE AUTHOR.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET:
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
AND CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1831.
INTRODUCTION.
The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting "Frankenstein" forone of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them withsome account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing tocomply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, sovery frequently asked me—"How I, when a young girl, came to think of,and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am veryaverse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will onlyappear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will beconfined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, Ican scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.
It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguishedliterary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing.As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours givenme for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasurethan this, which was the formation of castles in the air—the indulgingin waking dreams—the following up trains of thought, which had fortheir subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. Mydreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. Inthe latter I was a close imitator—rather doing as others had done,than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote wasintended at least for one other eye—my childhood's companion andfriend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody;they were my refuge when annoyed—my dearest pleasure when free.
I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerabletime in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesqueparts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northernshores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I callthem; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, andthe pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures ofmy fancy. I wrote then—but in a most common-place style. It was beneaththe trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sidesof the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airyflights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myselfthe heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affairas regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes orwonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my ownidentity, and I could people the hours with creations far moreinteresting to me at that age, than my own sensations.
After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction.My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I shouldprove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page offame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain