The Modern Prometheus modern design twist on Mary Shelley's Frankenstein | Page 16

Letter 2

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