FRANKENSTEIN,
or the Modern Prometheus
by
Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Letter 1
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th,
17—
TO Mrs. Saville, England
TO Mrs. Saville, England
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 forever 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 forever. 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 tranquillize 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
Archangel, 28th March, 17—
To Mrs. Saville, England
To Mrs. Saville, England
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 sympathize 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
July 7th, 17—
To Mrs. Saville, England
To Mrs. Saville, England
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
August 5th, 17—
To Mrs. Saville, England
To Mrs. Saville, England
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.
When my
guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men, who
wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be
tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose
restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the
lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.
His
countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he replied,
"To seek one who fled from me."
"And
did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"
"Yes."
"Then
I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some dogs
drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."
This
aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude of questions
concerning the route which the demon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon
after, when he was alone with me, he said, "I have, doubtless, excited
your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too
considerate to make inquiries."
"Certainly;
it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any
inquisitiveness of mine."
"And
yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently
restored me to life."
Soon after
this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the
other sledge. I replied that I could not answer with any degree of certainty,
for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have
arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the
sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the
cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have
promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any
new object should appear in sight.
Such is my
journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The
stranger has gradually improved in health but is very silent and appears uneasy
when anyone except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating
and gentle that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had
very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a
brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion.
He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck
so attractive and amiable. I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that
I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before
his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have
possessed as the brother of my heart.
I shall
continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any
fresh incidents to record.
August 13th, 17—
My
affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration
and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature
destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle,
yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words
are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled
eloquence. He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the
deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests
himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me
on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered
attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into
every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led
by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give
utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour
that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a
small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the
dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As
I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I
perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his
eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from
between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length
he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have
you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and
you will dash the cup from your lips!"
Such
words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of
grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours
of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself
for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he
led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history
of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains
of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a
more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and
expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness who did not
enjoy this blessing. "I agree with you," replied the stranger;
"we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better,
dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble
of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship.
You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I—I
have lost everything and cannot begin life anew."
As he said
this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me
to the heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his cabin.
Even
broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from
earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be
overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will
be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no
grief or folly ventures.
Will you
smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would
not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement
from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only
renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this
wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is
which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I
ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but
never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things,
unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression
and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.
August 19, 17—
Yesterday
the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I
have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time
that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter
my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I
ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to
sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters
will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct
you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.
Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we
among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief,
perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and
mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with
the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in
its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is
composed."
You may
easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication, yet I
could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his
misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative,
partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if
it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.
"I
thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in
peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished
to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow
me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you
will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."
He then
told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at
leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every
night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly
as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should
be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford
you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his
own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day!
Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his
lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin
hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by
the soul within.
Strange
and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant
vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!
