Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus

								


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                             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

    the 1831 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" for
one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with
some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to
comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so
very frequently asked me--"How I, when a young girl, came to think of,
and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very
averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only
appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be
confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I
can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.
It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished
literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing.
As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given
me for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasure
than this, which was the formation of castles in the air--the indulging
in waking dreams--the following up trains of thought, which had for
their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My
dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In
the latter I was a close imitator--rather doing as others had done,
than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was
intended at least for one other eye--my childhood's companion and
friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody;
they were my refuge when annoyed--my dearest pleasure when free.
I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable
time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque
parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern
shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call
them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and
the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of
my fancy. I wrote then--but in a most common-place style. It was beneath
the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides
of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy