Last Century. struck with admiration at the uncommon wildness of They had not proceeded many paces until they were the scene which now opened to their view. The rocks which seemed to guard the entrance of the glen were abrupt and [savage, and approached so near each other, that one could suppose them to have been riven asunder to give a passage to the clear stream which flowed between them. As they advanced, the hills receded on either side, making room for meadows and corn-fields, through which the rapid burn pursued its way in many a fantastic maze. the north side of the glen, owed as little to art as any much encumbered by loose stones, brought down from country road in the kingdom. It was very narrow, and the hills above by the winter torrents. The road, which winded along the foot of the hills, on at all resembling our way of living, except the description given by Rousseau of Wolmar's farm Picture of Glenburnie and Scottish Rural Life in the and vintage.' A taste for literature soon appeared in Elizabeth Hamilton. Wallace was the first hero of her studies; but meeting with Ogilvie's translation of the Iliad, she idolised Achilles, and dreamed of Hector. She had opportunities of visiting Edinburgh and Glasgow, after which she carried on a learned correspondence with Dr Moyse, a philosophical lecturer. She wrote also many copies of verses-that ordinary outlet for the warm feelings and romantic sensibilities of youth. Her first appearance in print was accidental. Having accompanied a pleasure-party to the Highlands, she kept a journal for the gratification of her aunt, and the good woman shewing it to one of her neighbours, it was sent to a provincial magazine. Her retirement in Stirlingshire was, in 1773, gladdened by a visit from her brother, then about to sail for India. Mr Hamilton seems to have been an excellent and able young man; and his subsequent letters and conversations on Indian affairs stored the mind of his sister with the materials for her Hindoo Rajah, a work equally remarkable for good sense and sprightliness. Mr Hamilton was cut off by a premature death in 1792. Shortly after this period commenced the literary life of Elizabeth Hamilton, and her first work was that to which we have alluded, connected with the memory of her lamented brother, The Letters of a Hindoo Rajah, in two volumes, published in 1796. The success of the work stimulated her exertions. In 1800 she published The Modern Philosophers, in three volumes; and between that period and 1806, she gave to the world Letters on Education, Memoirs of Agrippina, and Letters to the Daughters of a Nobleman. In 1808 appeared her most popular, original, and useful work, The Cottagers of Glenburnie; and she subsequently published Popular Essays on the Human Mind, and Hints to the Directors of Public Schools. For many years Miss Hamilton had fixed her residence in Edinburgh. She was enfeebled by ill health, but her cheerfulness and activity of mind continued unabated, and her society was courted by the most intellectual and influential of her fellow-citizens. The benevolence and correct judgment which animated her writings pervaded her conduct. Having gone to Harrogate for the benefit of her health, Miss Hamilton died at that place on the 23d of July 1816, aged fifty-eight. The Cottagers of Glenburnie is in reality a tale of cottage-life. The scene is laid in a poor scattered Scottish hamlet, and the heroine is a retired English governess, middle-aged and lame, with £30 a year! This person, Mrs Mason, after being long in a noble family, is reduced from a state of ease and luxury to one of comparative indigence; and having learned that her cousin, her only surviving relative, was married to one of the small farmers in Glenburnie, she agreed to fix her residence in her house as a lodger. On her way, she called at Gowan-brae, the house of the factor or land-steward on the estate, to whom she had previously been known; and we have a graphic account of the family of this gentleman, one of whose daughters figures conspicuously in the after-part of the tale. Mr Stewart, the factor, his youngest daughter, and boys, accompany Mrs Mason to Glenburnie. Mrs Mason and Mary were so enchanted by the change of scenery which was incessantly unfolding to their view, that they made no complaints of the slowness of their progress, nor did they much regret being obliged to stop a few minutes at a time, where they found so much to amuse and to delight them. But Mr Stewart had no patience at meeting with obstructions which, with a little pains, could have been so easily obviated; and as he walked by the side of the car, expatiated upon the indolence of the people of the glen, who, though they had no other road to the market, could contentedly go it. How little trouble would it cost,' said he, to on from year to year without making an effort to repair throw the smaller of these loose stones into these holes and ruts, and to remove the larger ones to the side, where they would form a fence between the road and the hill! There are enough of idle boys in the glen to effect all this, by working at it for one hour a week during the summer. But then their fathers must unite in setting them to work; and there is not one in the glen who would not sooner have his horses lamed, and his carts torn to pieces, than have his son employed himself." in a work that would benefit his neighbours as much as these small farmers; and immediately turning a sharp As he was speaking, they passed the door of one of corner, began to descend a steep, which appeared so unsafe that Mr Stewart made his boys alight, which they could do without inconvenience, and going to the head of the horse, took his guidance upon himself. At the foot of this short precipice the road again made a sudden turn, and discovered to them a misfortune which threatened to put a stop to their proceeding any further for the present evening. It was no other than the overturn of a cart of hay, occasioned by the breaking down of the bridge, along which it had been passing. Happily for the poor horse that drew this illfated load, the harness by which he was attached to it was of so frail a nature as to make little resistance; so that he and his rider escaped unhurt from the fall, notwithstanding its being one of considerable depth. At first, indeed, neither boy nor horse was seen; but as Mr Stewart advanced to examine whether, by removing the hay, which partly covered the bridge and partly hung suspended on the bushes, the road might still be passable, he heard a child's voice in the hollow exclaiming: 'Come on, ye muckle brute! ye had as weel come I'll gar ye! I'll gar ye! That's a gude beast Come awa! That's it! Ay, ye're a gude beast on! now. now!' As the last words were uttered, a little fellow of about ten years of age was seen issuing from the hollow, and pulling after him, with all his might, a great longbacked clumsy animal of the horse species, though apparently of a very mulish temper. You have met with a sad accident,' said Mr Stewart; 'how did all this happen?' 'You may see how it happened plain eneugh,' returned the boy; 'the brig brak, and the cart coupet.' And did you and the horse coup likewise?' said Mr Stewart. O ay, we a' coupet thegither, for I was ridin' on his back.' And where is your father and all the rest of the folk?' 'Whaur sud they be but in the hay-field? Dinna ye ken that we're takin' in our hay? John Tamson's and Jamie Forster's was in a week syne, but we're aye ahint the lave.' All the party were greatly amused by the composure which the young peasant evinced under his misfortune, as well as by the shrewdness of his answers; and having learned from him that the hay-field was at no great distance, gave him some halfpence to hasten his speed, and promised to take care of his horse till he should return with assistance. He soon appeared, followed by his father and two other men, who came on stepping at their usual pace. 'Why, farmer,' said Mr Stewart, you have trusted rather too long to this rotten plank, think' (pointing to where it had given way); 'if you remember the last time I passed this road, which was several months since, I then told you that the bridge was in danger, and shewed you how easily it might be repaired.' 'It is a' true,' said the farmer, moving his bonnet; 'but I thought it would do weel eneugh. I spoke to Jamie Forster and John Tamson about it; but they said they wadna fash themselves to mend a brig that was to serve a' the folk in the glen.' 'But you must now mend it for your own sake,' said Mr Stewart, even though a' the folk in the glen should be the better for it.' Ay, sir,' said one of the men, that's spoken like yoursel'! Would everybody follow your example, there would be nothing in the world but peace and good neighbourhood.' The interior arrangements and accommodation of the cottage visited by Mrs Mason are dirty and uncomfortable. The farmer is a good easy man, but his wife is obstinate and prejudiced, and the children self-willed and rebellious. Mrs Mason finds the family quite incorrigible, but she effects a wonderful change among their neighbours. She gets a school established on her own plan, and boys and girls exert themselves to effect a reformation in the cottages of their parents. The most sturdy sticklers for the gude auld gaits are at length convinced of the superiority of the new system, and the village undergoes a complete transformation. In the management of these humble scenes, and the gradual display of character among the people, the authoress evinces her knowledge of human nature, and her tact and discrimination as a novelist. We subjoin a Scottish song by Miss Hamilton which has enjoyed great popularity. My Ain Fireside. I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, een ; But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside; My ain fireside, my ain fireside, When I draw in my stool on my cosy hearthstane, LADY MORGAN. LADY MORGAN (Sydney Owenson, or Mac Owen, as the name was originally written), during the course of forty or fifty years, wrote in various departments of literature-in poetry, the drama, novels, biography, ethics, politics, and books of travels. Whether she has written any one book that will become a standard portion of our literature, is doubtful, but we are indebted to her pen for a number of clever lively national sketches and anecdotes. She had a masculine disregard of as she herself stated, 'as cheery and genial as common opinion or censure, and a temperament, ever went to that strange medley of pathos and humour-the Irish character.' Mr Owenson, the father of our authoress, was a respectable actor, a favourite in the society of Dublin, and author of some popular Irish songs. His daughter (who was born in 1783) inherited his predilection for national music and song. Very early in life she published a small volume of poetical effusions, and afterwards The Lay of the Irish Harp, and a selection of twelve Irish melodies, with music. One of these is the song of Kate Kearney, and we question whether this lyric will not outlive all Lady Morgan's other lucubrations. While still in her teens, Miss Owenson became a novelist. She published two tales long since forgotten, and in 1801 a third, The Wild Irish Girl, which was exceedingly popular. This success introduced the authoress into some of the higher circles of Irish and English society, in which she greatly delighted. In 1811, she married Sir Charles Morgan, a physician, and travelled with him to France and Italy. She continued her literary labours, and published The Missionary, an Indian Tale (1811); O'Donnel, a National Tale (1814); Florence Macarthy, an Irish Tale (1818); and The O'Briens and the O'Flahertys (1827). these works our authoress departed from the beaten track of sentimental novels, and ventured, like Miss Edgeworth, to portray national manners. We have the high authority of Sir Walter Scott for the opinion, that O'Donnel, though deficient as a story, has some striking and beautiful passages of situation and description, and in the comic In O there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain part is very rich and entertaining.' Lady Mor fireside. Ance mair, gude be thankit, round my ane heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; gan's sketches of Irish manners are not always pleasing. Her high-toned society is disfigured with grossness and profligacy, and her subordinate characters are often caricatured. The vivacity and variety of these delineations constitute one of their attractions: if not always true, they are a slip of sallow in the other, with which he had been lively; for it was justly said, that whether it is distributing some well-earned punities to his pupils ; a review of volunteers in the Phoenix Park, or a thus exhibiting, in appearance, and in the important party at the Castle, or a masquerade, a meeting of expression of his countenance, an epitome of that order United Irishmen, a riot in Dublin, or a jug-day at of persons once so numerous, and still far from extinct Bog-moy—in every change of scene and situation, learned in the antiquities and genealogies of the great in Ireland, the hedge schoolmaster. O'Leary was our authoress wields the pen of a ready writer.' Irish families, as an ancient senachy, an order of which One complaint against these Irish sketches was he believed himself to be the sole representative; credutheir personality, the authoress indicating that lous of her fables, and jealous of her ancient glory; some of her portraits at the viceregal court, and ardent in his feelings, fixed in his prejudices; hating those moving in the 'best society' of Dublin, the Bodei Sassoni, or English churls, in proportion as were intended for well-known characters. Their he distrusted them; living only in the past, contemptuconversation is often a sad jargon of prurient ous of the present, and hopeless of the future, all his allusion, comments on dress, and quotations in national learning and national vanity were employed French and Italian, with which almost every page in his history of the Macarthies More, to whom he is patched and disfigured. The unfashionable deemed himself hereditary senachy; while all his early characters and descriptions-even the rapparees, associations and affections were occupied with the Fitzand the lowest of the old Irish natives, are infin- adelin family; to an heir of which he had not only been itely more entertaining than these offshoots of the foster-father, but, by a singular chain of occurrences, tutor and host. Thus there existed an incongruity aristocracy, as painted by Lady Morgan. Her between his prejudices and his affections, that added to strength lay in describing the broad character- the natural incoherence of his wild, unregulated, ideal istics of her nation, their boundless mirth, their character. He had as much Greek and Latin as generold customs, their love of frolic, and their wild ally falls to the lot of the inferior Irish priesthood, an grief at scenes of death and calamity. The other order to which he had been originally destined; he works of our authoress are France and Italy, spoke Irish, as his native tongue, with great fluency; containing dissertations on the state of society, and English, with little variation, as it might have been manners, literature, government, &c. of those spoken in the days of James or Elizabeth; for English nations. Lord Byron has borne testimony to the was with him acquired by study, at no early period of fidelity and excellence of Italy; and if the author-life, and principally obtained from such books as came ess had been less ambitious of being always fine within the black-letter plan of his antiquarian pursuits. and striking,' and less solicitous to display her reading and high company, she might have been one of the most agreeable of tourists and observers. Besides these works, Lady Morgan has given to the world The Princess (a tale founded on the revolution in Belgium); Dramatic Scenes from Real Life (very poor in matter, and affected in style); The Life and Times of Salvator Rosa; The Book of the Boudoir (autobiographical sketches and reminiscences); Woman and her Master (a philosophical history of woman down to the fall of the Roman empire); and various other shorter publications. In 1841, Lady Morgan published, in conjunction with her husband, Sir T. C. Morgan (author of Sketches of the Philosophy of Life and Morals, &c.), two volumes, collected from the portfolios of the writers, and stray sketches which had previously appeared in periodicals, entitling the collection The Book without a Name. In 1859, she published Passages from my Autobiography, containing reminiscences of high-life in London and Paris. A pension of £300 a year was conferred on her during the ministry of Earl Grey, and the latter years of Lady Morgan were spent in London. She died in April 1859. Her Correspondence was published by Mr Hepworth Dixon in 1862. The Irish Hedge Schoolmaster. From Florence Macarthy. A bevy of rough-headed students, with books as ragged as their habiliments, rushed forth at the sound of the horse's feet, and with hands shading their uncovered faces from the sun, stood gazing in earnest surprise. Last of this singular group, followed O'Leary himself in learned dishabille! his customary suit, an old great-coat, fastened with a wooden skewer at his breast, the sleeves hanging unoccupied, Spanish-wise, as he termed it; his wig laid aside, the shaven crown of his head resembling the clerical tonsure; a tattered Homer in one hand, and Words that wise Bacon and grave Raleigh spoke, were familiarly uttered by O'Leary, conned out of old English tracts, chronicles, presidential instructions, copies of patents, memorials, discourses, and translated remonstrances from the Irish chiefs, of every date since the arrival of the English in the island; and a few French words, not unusually heard among the old Irish Catholics, the descendants of the faithful followers of the Stuarts, completed the stock of his philological riches. O'Leary now advanced to meet his visitant, with a countenance radiant with the expression of complacency and satisfaction, not unmingled with pride and importance, as he threw his eyes round on his numerous disciples. To one of these the Commodore gave his horse; and drawing his hat over his eyes, as if to shade them from the sun, he placed himself under the shadow of the Saxon arch, observing : 'You see, Mr O'Leary, I very eagerly avail myself of your invitation; but I fear I have interrupted your learned avocation.' 'Not a taste, your honour, and am going to give my classes a holiday, in respect of the turf, sir.-What does yez all crowd the gentleman for? Did never yez see a raal gentleman afore? I'd trouble yez to consider yourselves as temporary.-There's great scholars among them ragged runagates, your honour, poor as they look; for though in these degendered times you won't get the children, as formerly, to talk the dead languages, afore they can spake, when, says Campion, they had Latin like a vulgar tongue, conning in their schools of teachcraft the aphorisms of Hippocrates, and the civil institutes of the faculties, yet there's as fine scholars, and as good philosophers still, sir, to be found in my seminary as in Trinity College, Dublin.-Now, step forward here, you Homers. "Kehlute meu Troes, kai Dardanoi, id epikouroi." Half a dozen overgrown boys, with bare heads and naked feet, hustled forward. "There's my first class, plaze your honour; sorrow one of them gassoons but would throw you off a page of Homer into Irish while he 'd be clamping a turf stack.Come forward here, Padreen Mahony, you little mitcher, ye. Have you no better courtesy than that, Padreen? Fie upon your manners! -Then for all that, sir, he 's my 279 head philosopher, and am getting him up for Maynooth. Och then, I wouldn't ax better than to pit him against the provost of Trinity College this day, for all his ould small-clothes, sir, the cratur! Troth, he 'd puzzle him, grate as he is, ay, and bate him too; that's at the humanities, sir.—Padreen, my man, if the pig's sould at Dunore market to-morrow, tell your daddy, dear, I'll expect the pintion. Is that your bow, Padreen, with your head under your arm, like a roasting hen? Upon my word, I take shame for your manners.-There, your honour, them's my cordaries, the little leprehauns, with their cathah heads, and their burned skins; I think your honour would be divarted to hear them parsing a chapter.-Well, now dismiss, lads, jewel-off with yez, extemplo, like a piper out of a tent; away with yez to the turf: and mind me well, ye Homers, ye, I'll expect Hector and Andromache to-morrow without fail; obsarve me well; I'll take no excuse for the classics barring the bog, in respect of the weather being dry; dismiss, I say.' The learned disciples of this Irish sage, pulling down the front lock of their hair to designate the bow they would have made if they had possessed hats to move, now scampered off; while O'Leary observed, shaking his head and looking after them: 'Not one of them but is sharp-witted and has a janius for poethry, if there was any encouragement for learning in these degendered times.' MRS SHELLEY. In the summer of 1816, Lord Byron and Mr and Mrs Shelley were residing on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. They were in habits of daily intercourse, and when the weather did not allow of their boating-excursions on the lake, the Shelleys often passed their evenings with Byron at his house at Diodati. During a week of rain at this time,' says Mr Moore, 'having amused themselves with reading German ghost-stories, they agreed at last to write something in imitation of them. "You and I," said Lord Byron to Mrs Shelley, "will publish ours together." He then began his tale of the Vampire; and having the whole arranged in his head, repeated to them a sketch of the story one evening; but from the narrative being in prose, made but little progress in filling up his outline. The most memorable result, indeed, of their storytelling compact was Mrs Shelley's wild and powerful romance of Frankenstein-one of those original conceptions that take hold of the public mind at once and for ever.' Frankenstein was published in 1817, and was instantly recognised as worthy of Godwin's daughter and Shelley's wife, and as, in fact, possessing some of the genius and peculiarities of both. It is formed on the model of St Leon, but the supernatural power of that romantic visionary produces nothing so striking or awful as the grand conception of Frankenstein-the discovery that he can, by his study of natural philosophy, create a living and sentient being. The hero, like Caleb Williams, tells his own story. A native of Geneva, Frankenstein, is sent to the university of Ingolstadt to pursue his studies. He had previously dabbled in the occult sciences, and the university afforded vastly extended facilities for prosecuting his abstruse researches. He pores over books on physiology, makes chemical experiments, visits even the receptacles of the dead and the dissecting-room of the anatomist, and after days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, he succeeds in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, he became capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter! Full of his extraordinary discovery, he proceeds to create a man, and at length, after innumerable trials and revolting experiments to seize and infuse the principle of life into his image of clay, he constructs and animates a gigantic figure, eight feet in height. His feelings on completing the creation of this Monster are powerfully described: 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, Í 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 endeavoured 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 almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. 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 ardour 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 mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain ; I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. 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 Ỉ 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, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down-stairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging the rest of the night, walking up and down in the to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during 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 and aching 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 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, endeavouring, 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 in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me Like one who on a lonely road Doth walk in fear and dread, Doth close behind him tread.* stein, in agony and despair, resolves to seek him out, and sacrifice him to his justice and revenge. The pursuit is protracted for a considerable time, and in various countries, and at length conducts us to the ice-bound shores and islands of the northern ocean. Frankenstein recognises the demon, but ere he can reach him, the ice gives way, and he is afterwards with difficulty rescued from the floating wreck by the crew of a vessel that had been embayed in that polar region. Thus saved from perishing, Frankenstein relates to the captain of the ship his 'wild and wondrous tale;' but the suffering and exhaustion had proved too much for his frame, and he expires before the vessel had sailed for Britain. The Monster visits the ship, and after mourning over the dead body of his victim, quits the vessel, resolved to seek the most northern extremity of the globe, and there to put a period to his wretched and unhallowed existence. The power of genius in clothing incidents the most improbable with strong interest and human sympathies, is evinced in this remarkable story. The creation of the demon is admirably told. The successive steps by which the solitary student arrives at his great secret, after two years of labour, and the first glimpse which he obtains of the hideous Monster, form a narrative that cannot be perused without sensations of awe and terror. While the demon is thus partially known and revealed, or seen only in the distance, gliding among cliffs and glaciers, appearing by moonlight to demand justice from his maker, or seated in his car among the tremendous solitudes of the northern ocean, the effect is striking and magnificent. The interest ceases when we are told of the self-education of the Monster, which is disgustingly minute in detail, and absurd in conception; and when we consider the improbability of his being able to commit so many crimes in different countries, conspicuous as he is in form, with impunity, and without detection. His malignity of disposition, The Monster ultimately becomes a terror to his creator, and haunts him like a spell. For two years he disappears, but at the end of that time he is presented as the murderer of Frankenstein's infant brother, and as waging war with all mankind, in consequence of the disgust and violence with which his appearance is regarded. The demon meets and confronts his maker, demand-and particularly his resentment towards Frankening that he should create him a helpmate, as a solace in his forced expatriation from society. Frankenstein retires and begins the hideous task, and while engaged in it during the secrecy of midnight, in one of the lonely islands of the Orcades, the Monster appears before him. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he 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 of creating another like to 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. stein, do not appear unnatural when we recollect how he has been repelled from society, and refused a companion by him who could alone create such another. In his wildest outbursts we partly sympathise with him, and his situation seems to justify his crimes. In depicting the internal workings of the mind and the various phases of the passions, Mrs Shelley evinces skill and acuteness. Like her father, she excels in mental analysis and in conceptions of the grand and the powerful, but fails in the management of her fable where probable incidents and familiar life are required or attempted. After the death of her husband, Mrs Shelleywho was left with two children-devoted herself to literary pursuits, and produced several worksValperga, The Last Man, Lodore, The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck, and other works of fiction. She contributed biographies of foreign artists and men of letters to the Cabinet Cyclopædia, edited and wrote prefaces to Shelley's Poetical Works, A series of horrid and malignant events now and also edited Shelley's Essays, Letters from mark the career of the demon. He murders the Abroad, Translations and Fragments (1840). In friend of Frankenstein, strangles his bride on her the writings of Mrs Shelley there is much of that wedding-night, and causes the death of his father plaintive tenderness and melancholy characterfrom grief. He eludes detection; but Franken-istic of her father's late romances, and her style is uniformly pure and graceful. She died in 1851, aged fifty-four. * Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. |