ches sight of
him; but fails to reach him. At last, beside the body of his last
victim--Frankenstein himself--the creature is filled with remorse
at the "frightful catalogue" of his sins, and makes a final bid
for our sympathy in the farewell speech to Walton, before
climbing on an ice-raft to be "borne away by the waves and lost
in darkness and distance."

Like _Alastor_, _Frankenstein_ was a plea for human sympathy, and
was, according to Shelley's preface, intended "to exhibit the
amiableness of domestic affection and the excellence of universal
virtue." The monster has the perception and desire of goodness,
but, by the circumstances of his abnormal existence, is delivered
over to evil. It is this dual nature that prevents him from being
a mere automaton. The monster indeed is far more real than the
shadowy beings whom he pursues. Frankenstein is less an
individual than a type, and only interests us through the
emotions which his conflict with the monster arouses. Clerval,
Elizabeth and Frankenstein's relatives are passive sufferers
whose psychology does not concern us. Mrs. Shelley rightly
lavishes her skill on the central figure of the book, and
succeeds, as effectually as Frankenstein himself, in infusing
into him the spark of life. Mrs. Shelley's aim is to "awaken
thrilling horror," and, incidentally, to "exhibit the excellence
of domestic virtue," and for her purpose the demon is of
paramount importance. The involved, complex plot of a novel
seemed to pass beyond Mrs. Shelley's control. A short tale she
could handle successfully, and Shelley was unwise in inciting her
to expand _Frankenstein_ into a long narrative. So long as she is
completely carried away by her subject Mrs. Shelley writes
clearly, but when she pauses to regard the progress of her story
dispassionately, she seems to be overwhelmed by the wealth of her
resources and to have no power of selecting the relevant details.
The laborious introductory letters, the meticulous record of
Frankenstein's education, the story of Felix and Sofie, the
description of the tour through England before the creation of
the second monster is attempted, are all connected with the main
theme by very frail links and serve to distract our attention in
an irritating fashion from what really interests us. In the novel
of mystery a tantalising delay may be singularly effective. In a
novel which depends chiefly for its effect on sheer horror,
delays are merely dangerous. B