_ The
paradoxical effort was paradoxically successful, and, as publishers'
lists aver to this day, Frankenstein's monster has turned out to be
the hardest-lived specimen of the 'raw-head-and-bloody-bones' school
of romantic tales. So much, no doubt, to the credit of Mary Shelley.
But more creditable, surely, is the fact that she was not tempted, as
'Monk' Lewis had been, to persevere in those lugubrious themes.
Although her publishers--_et pour cause_--insisted on styling her 'the
author of Frankenstein', an entirely different vein appears in her
later productions. Indeed, a quiet reserve of tone, a slow, sober, and
sedate bearing, are henceforth characteristic of all her literary
attitudes. It is almost a case of running from one to the other
extreme. The force of style which even adverse critics acknowledged in
_Frankenstein_ was sometimes perilously akin to the most disputable
kinds of romantic rant. But in the historical or society novels which
followed, in the contributions which graced the 'Keepsakes' of the
thirties, and even--alas--in the various prefaces and commentaries
which accompanied the publication of so many poems of Shelley, his
wife succumbed to an increasing habit of almost Victorian reticence
and dignity. And those later novels and tales, though they sold well
in their days and were kindly reviewed, can hardly boast of any
reputation now.
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