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SHELLEY, MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (GODWIN), an English novelist, born in London, August 30, 1797; died there, February 21, 1851. She inherited much of the genius of her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, and of her father, William Godwin, and imbibed many of their theories upon social subjects. The circumstances of her connection with Percy Bysshe Shelley will be found in the succeeding sketch of the poet. Her most distinctive work is the wild romance Frankenstein, written in her eighteenth year. After the death of Shel-ley she edited his works, and wrote several novels, among which are Valperga, The Last Man, Lodore, The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck, and a volume of Rambles in Italy and Germany. The plot of Frankenstein runs thus: Frankenstein, who tells the story, is a German student of the occult sciences. He succeeds in creating a living being in the human form, but having the most diabolical instincts. This monster becomes a torment to his own creator, whom he haunts like a spell for years; and finally extorts from him a promise to create a mate like unto himself.

THE MONSTER CREATED BY FRANKENSTEIN.

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony I collected the instruments of life around me that I might infuse a spark of being

into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed of almost the same color as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

I had worked hard for nearly two years for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room; and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavoring to seek a few moments of repose. But it was in vain; I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams.

I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead; my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed, when by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable Monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed, and his eyes-if eyes they may be called-were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear. One hand was

stretched out as if to detain me; but I escaped, and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished. He was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me: and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete.

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare to return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavoring by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated with fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me.

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE, an English poet, born at Field Place, near Horsham, Sussex, August 4, 1792. His great-grandfather, Timothy, lived for a number of years in America; and his grandfather, Bysshe, was born in Newark, N. J., of an American mother. The family was wealthy and of local distinction in Sussex. Timothy, the poet's father, succeeded in 1815 to the baronetcy given Bysshe in 1806. Shelley's schooling began at six. At ten he was sent to Sion House, near Brentford, and at twelve to Eton. In the fall of 1810, having finished in good standing at Eton, he entered Oxford. He was an incessant reader, speculator, and writer from his early days at Eton, and, though he slighted the prescribed studies, he became greatly interested in chemistry and read deeply in the works of Locke, Hume, D'Holbach, Volney, Rousseau, and Voltaire. By March, 1811, he had produced two novels, a rhymed narrative, a play (now lost), a great quantity of verse of indifferent or wholly bad quality, and was joint author with his cousin Medwin of a romance. He had also already begun Queen Mab. On March 25, 1811, he, with his friend Thomas Jefferson Hogg, was expelled from Oxford for having written, printed, and circulated a pamphlet, The Necessity of Atheism. Shelley's father cut off the boy's allowance, and for a time

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