HOW “FRANKENSTEIN” CAME TO BE "WRITTEN. In the Bummer of 1816, wo visited Switzer-; land, and became the neighbors ol Bora Byron. At fir6t we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, and wandering on itp shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing his third eanto of “Childo Harold,” was the only one ampng us who put his thoughts upon pap . These,aB kobrought them successively to us, clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the ntorieß of heaven and earth, whoso influences we partook with him. But it proved a wet, ungcnial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes ot ghost stones, translated from the German and French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vowb, tound himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger cons of bis ill-fated house, just when they -reached-tbe-age-of- promise. -Ilia-gigantic,. shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Ham let, in complete armor, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight by the moon’s fitful beams to advance slowly aloDg the gloomy avenue. 'The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate SWUxig back, a step was heard, the door ot the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upoa his face as be bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapped upon the stalk. I have not seen these Btories since then; but their inci dents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday. . . . „ . , “We will each write a ghost story, said I«Oid Byron; and his proposition was acceded ,to There were four of üb. The noble au thor began a tale, a fragment of wnich he , printed at the end of his poem of “Mizeppa. • tiholley, more apt to embody ideas and senti ments in the radiance of brilliant'imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, thau to invent the machinery ol a 3iory,commenced one founded on the experiences oi his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull headed lady, who was so punished tor peep ing through a key-hole (wnat to see I forgot) something very shocking and wrong of course; but when Bhe was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coven try, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of the Capulete, the only place for which sue was fitted. The illustrious poets, also an noyed by the platitude ot prose, speedily re linquished their uncongenial task. ' “I busied myself to think of a story—a story to rival those which had excited us to tnis task. One which would speak to the myste rious fears of our nature, and awaking thril ing horror —one to make the reader dread to look round, to carde the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not ac complish these things, my ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I tnought and pondered—vainly. I felt that blank incapa bility of invention which is the greatest mis ery ol authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxiouß invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked each morn ing, and each morning I was forced to reply With a mortifying negative. « * * - . * * * Many and long were the conversations be tween Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I waß a devout but nearly silent listener. Dar ing one of these, various philosophical doc trines Were discussed, and among others, the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability ot its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked ot the experiments of Dr. Darwin s- Bcssed and guided me, gifting the successive images that rose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bound of reverie. I saw —with shut eyes, but acute mental vision—l saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beßide the thing he had pat together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and theD, on the working of some powerful engine, show signßOf life, and stir with an uneasy, half-vital motion. Frightful mast it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock tne stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from bis odious handiwork, horror stricken. He Would hope that, left to itself, the slight spars ot life which he had commu nicated, would fade; that this thing which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench forever the transien existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradled life. He Bleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold, the horrid things stands at his bedside, opening bis curtains; and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. I opened mine in terror. The idea so pos sessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchauge the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them slid; the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters, wim the moonlight struggling through, and the soose J had that the glassy lake and while high Alps were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story—my tiresome, unlucky ghost story. Oh, if I could only contrive one whfch would frighlea my - **v#fhder as I myself had been frightened th ai night. Swift as light, and as cheering, was the idea tha' broke in upon me. “I nave foun i it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow.” On the mor row 1 announced that I had thought of a story. 1 began that day with the words. It was on a dreary night in November, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my.'vakiag dream. At hrEt 1 thought but of a few pages—of a ehort tale; but Knelley urued mo to develop , the idea to greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor t uc&rccly ot ooe train of fecliDg, to my kiU3- b&nd, and yet,but tor lm incitement it would .v> CCVfir b&vo tnliCD the form iu which it w&b presented to the world- From this declare tion I must except the preface. As far as 1 • can recollect, it was written by him —Mrs Shelley. the DAILY EVENING BULLETIN-PHILADELPHIA, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1869. ; , RO9SINL • A correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette gives the following account of a visit to Ros sini: “It was my good fortune to have a brief, interview with Rossini shortly before he was attacked with bis lest fatal illness. Under any circumstances the sayings of one;so illustrious would be likely to make an impres sion upon those privileged but once in their life to hear them, but now that the art of music has lost this great ornament, even the casual utterances of Rossini, if faithfully re corded, may have more than ephemeral in terest. Rossini has always had the reputation of being fond of good-humored irony; stand ing in a world-recognized position, he has been unwilling to criticise his contemporaries, or, perhaps, to give them certificates of approval. I cannot, therefore, tell how far a chance visitor was entitled to take all that he said au grand scrieux; what I can vouch for is only the sincerity with which he appeared, to speak,andthe accuracy with which I have tried to repeat bis words. But I may add that other recorded accounts of his opinions coincide with what I had the pleasure of hearing from his lips. It must be clear to those who are familiar with Mrs. Sartoria’s most interesting cbapter'on Rossini in her lately published ‘Medusa,’ and with Ferdinand Hiller’s ‘Con indifference to the condition and progress of an art he had virtually abandoned, rested rather in people’s imaginations than on actual fact. “Hiß house at Passy was not as sugges tive of a luxurious occupant as I had ex pected, but I was so intent on observing Rossini himself that the furniture, pictures, &c., were lost upon me. He received me in his bedroom, which seemed to serve the double purpose of study aDd dormitory. On the table I observed plenty of newspapers and musical journals. He spoke, jn the warmest terms of the energy and spirit evi denced by the programmes of the Saturday Afternoon Concerts at the Crystal Palace; and seemed to regard them as a very hopeful sign of musical progress in England. We talked ot Handel and the oratorios at Exeter Hall. Rossini remarked, ‘His songs, I own, I often find wearisome, but his choruses ! Iu my boyhood’s days at Bologna I had the run ol a first-rate library, and made Handel the constant object ot my studies. I knew bis works thoroughly.’ I was curious to see if Rossini waß one of those who see nothing in Wagner, or of those who recognize iu him not only a musician of real merit, but a man of conßide rable literary attainments. ‘II a dit et fai* lant de betises’ (he remarked), ‘que le rnonde ne 1 ecou era pas;’ lmt be qualified what at first seemed to be his assent to that statement, by adding, ‘I think him a great instrumental ist'(surely it would be worth while for Mr. Mapltson or Mr. Gye to give us au opportu nity of ascertaining the value of testimony coming from Buch a quarter —the more so a 9 I felt satisfied that the first clause of the sen tence had no reference to the composer’s woiks). Of Beethoven and Schubert, whose popularity bad at one time been eclipsed in Vienna by the music of Rossini himself, be said but little. That little, as far as Schubert was concerned, to my ears was, I confess bat a doubtful compliment. Alluding to Mali bran’s exquisite \aittging of Schubert 'a Lieder, be said: ‘Schubert etait sans doute le Bellini d'Autricbe.’ Of Mendelssohn's genial manner and unri valled power as an extempore player, he spoke with enthusiasm, adding: ‘He would frequently improvise in my presence on sub jects taken from my own w.Orks.' 1 asked him if he waß not tempted occasionally to go to the Grand Opera to hear his own ‘William Tell.’ This question extracted from Rossini wbat I fancy was intended as a joke: Me ne vais jamais au theatre, et outre cela, ma musique vieille. Such and such an artist writes inviting me to oome and hear thom “pousser la voix, mats quant i moi, je suis poU'gij moi-meme.” ’ Our talk was inter tupted by the visit of an Italian gentleman, whose devotion to the maestro was sbowD by four fervent kisses, which Rossini accepted with perfect equanimity, offering one cheek at';er the other, as if perfectly used to the pro cess. “A good sckction of the carious incidents in the gieat-composer’s life would be very diverting. I have once, and once only,heard oi Rossini in a spotting capacity, but can vouch fen lie accuracy of the following story : Many yc-ais ago Rossini joined a shooting party at the luie Lord Kincard's, in Norfolk. Alter dinner, when the score of slaughtered game was brought in, theuumber was found deficient, when Rossini exclaimed that the results ot hie 'c.basße” were ‘en haut’ in hie portmanteau; that be had got a very curious bird, he did not know the name, but it was one of those ‘the mangiano gli necelli." Everybody present thought Roseini must mean a bawk, but on the portmanteau be ing produced and search made, the bird proved to be a lien pheasant, the killing of heDB being Btrictly forbidden by their owner. With the hen pheasant were hares and rab bits. Rossini, taking up one of the latter by the ears, exclaimed, ‘J’ai eu an terrible com - bat avec celui la.’ The great musician was certainly better qualified to enjoy game on the table than to do credit to a ‘hot corner’ as a good sportsman.” BRIGHAM YOUNG AT THE THEATRE, He owns a theatre which cost, it is Baid, $200,000 and which has yielded a large reve nue. It is a well built edifice, nearly as large as the Boston theatre, with parquette and circle, dress circle, family circle and gallery. Gentiles are consigned to the dress circle, though saints also sit there. Climbing a narrow stairway we find our selves m the dreßS circle, occupying a front seat, giving us a good position to Btudy the audience. We are not there to see the play, but the people. The curtain is still down and the audience are taking their seats. The parquette is arranged with slips like those in a church. At the right hand side in the par quette ciicle is Brigham's family pew—dis tinguished from all other Beals by its red plush or damask upholßtery. In the right hand aisle of the parquette is a rocking chair which Brigham sometimes occupies, when he wants to Le on a familiar looting with the Saints. The light in the building is rather dim, gas not having been introduced to Silt Lake, coal oil being used instead, bat there is light enough lor us to study the countenances of those around üb. On seatß adjoining ours are two young girls, fresu, fair, rosy-cheeked,ac companied by a young man well-dresßed — Geurdes, I judge, trum a remark dropped now and then. At our right hand is a wo man with a baby in her arms, three other childieu by her side. Beyond her another woman with a baby and a great strapping fel -I>w wiib red whiskers by her side. Behind ue are three roystering fellows from the mines ■ 1 Montana, ogling the girls in the parquette. They arc Gt-mile wolves. Elder Williams cautioned the gills last bursday to bevyaro of those who come in sheep’s clothiug to lead Uk m away from Unchurch and down to per dition. These wolvGMp sometimes carry off the fairest lambs of the flock. Some of the girls prefer the undivided love of a hardy, good loi kiug young Gentile to the fortieth or fiftieth pan of a withered old Apoßtle. Two sea's distant is qtooiher uaby. The mother is wrinkled and careworn. We can see the linte of cure and sufieringaeross her fore- head, and in her sunken cheeks, as jf time had been turning deep furrows hnd hls Bharohad gone down into! the subsoil and had cut the heartstrings. )Not hers alone. We; 'see the same joylesslcaat Of countenance on; every female face, t Arfists,: who with pen and pencil paint character—who can rcad the joys and sorrows of life in the lines of the human face—should Come to Salt Lake city. They would find it one vast studio —every woman a subject ..“Dead Affections” would be an appropriate title to their pictures. Stifled, rather. These women never have known what it is to love or to beloved. They know only sacrifice. , They. axe. slaves—in bondage to the church addito!the deyil at the same time. They are ground to powder be tween two mighty millstones—the upper one a religious idea, tbd lower one ; the lewdness and lust of hard-hearted men. /Heaven and hell together are brought into action, crushing out human affections and the highest and holiest instincts of the soul. The priests of Buddha, ia China, in one of their delineations of the damned, have accu rately portrayed the condition of these women at Salt -Lake. I remember a scone in a tern pie at Canton—a mill iu which human souls were ground up—a slow, steady turning of the stone. The soul went In head foremost Down below there was a trickling stream of joy, happiness, hope, peace, brains and hearts are ground slowly out in this infernal miill 7 '} xY “'.it- i : But there is the man who runs the mill— the head of the church—President and Reve lator —in the private box by the side of (he stage. He is portly, his hair is nicely brushed. He wears a. white vest, blqek broadcloth coat, kid gloves, puts an opera glass to his eyes ahd looks oyer to the gallery containing us Gentiles to. see who ia there. He has a broad! .forehead, large nose, and whisker#furnlng white. Ability, decision, duplicity, shrewdness, cunning—the good and bad elements of character are plainly marked in his countenance." Apostle Wells, a tall, thin, spare man, nearly aB old as Brig ham, is by his Bide. In Brigham's family circle we see two of bis concubines and twenty-two of his children —all but three of them girls; One ol the women is past the prime of life —plain coun tenance, plainly dressed. She is sad—sad when others laugh/" The play ia the “3dm nambulist,” but the comic scenes which set the crowd a laughing brings no smile to her face. At the end of the seat is one of the favorite concubines—a woman of thirty, pale, thought, ful, with an intellectual cast of conntenauee, with a book in hand which she reads be tween the scenes. She has largo lustrous eyes, dark brown hair, jewels on her lingers and a mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her hand. She is elegantly-dressed—wears a cosily fine cape. Did I not know that they were Brigham’s concubines I should set the n down as teachers of a girls’ boarding-school, who had come down with their classes to enjoy the evening. It is a motley audience —saints, sinners and Indians. Far up in the gallery, I see three oftheUte tribe, in moccasins and blauket, gazing with imperturbable gravity upon the scene. Brigham looks upon the audience most o! the time—turning his attention to the Btage only when something especially attractive or laughable occurs. He talks with Brother Wells, takes his knife from his pocket, pares an apple,which he slowly munches. He ba the appearance of a man not well acquainted with the usages of good society, but who is well off in the worli, independent pf every - body, and who for the remainder of his life is going to take things easy and have everything his own way. Tbe marquis do moustier. A cable despatch informs us of the death of the Marquis de Moustier. a member of the French Sinaie, and late Minister of Foreign Affairs. Liom), Marquis de Monstier.was born In 1815,and ia Ihe eldeßl son of the Marquis Clement Eiward de Monsiier. Ho was educated for the diplo matic career, elected member of the Legislative Assembly for the Department of Doubs, May 1 ;i. 1849; was Embassador at the Court of Berlin from March. 1853. to November, 1859; Embassador at Vienna from December, 1859. to August, 18G1; Embassador at Constanti nople from August, 18G1, to September, 18GG. and appointed Secretary of State for Foreign Afl iirs od the 2d of September, 18GG, which place he held up to December, 1868, when he was mace Si nalor, and wus succeeded by the Mar quis de La Valette. While filling the Department of Foreign Affaire, Ihe Marquis waß generally regarded as representing the war policy ot ihe Empire, and, in particular, as urging an ag giefsivc interference iu the affairs of Germany, with a view to preventing the consummation of Geimup- unity. His health, eince the period of his appointment to the Senate, has boeu steadily aud perceptibly declining. His retirement from the Foreign Department was almost universally regarded as a manifestation on the part of Naop leon 111. of his abandonment of a war policy to ward Prussia, and Ihe news of It wan joyfully re ceived at the Prussian Court.— Tribune. The title ol Three f rench Writers. An English paper, announcing the deaths of three Frubch writers, gives luteresting sketches of their lives: “Ftlieien Mallefille, Carmoucbe, Charles Bv taille and Pelloqnet, ail enjoyed a reputation o: the Boulevards—a cate celebnty. MitllufUle, the ablest cl them, had led a somewhat manlier aurl more varied Ule than most of Ulb eenfrerea. Boro in the Mauritius, ho was obliged to travel before he could get to Paris; and travel suiter! him well. A sportsman, a first-rate swimmer. BDd a man eminently capable of taking his one purt, be knew infinitely more about the world, and could do a great deal more with his know ledge, than the young gentlemen who are only acquainted with a single other country besides France—to wit, Bohemia. In 1848 Feliclen ‘struck the stars with his sublime head;' be was sent as Minister Plenipotentiary to Portugal. W' dare say he did his buciuefs very creditably; bu l his dignity was short-lived; and for the remainder of biß life he was known only as a clever writer for the stage. “Carmouche also was a dramaturge,with Inter vals of managership; but in Paris ho had long bien celebrated chlefiy os the husband of the fa mous octrees, Fanny Vcrtprd. Charlos Bataiilc pioduced some successful pieces, but was mainly known as a journalist of great readiness and fer tility. indeed, it was mournfully said of him that his pen waß still iluent long after his brain hod bocoino sterile Ah a writer, he had a mar vellous power of Improvisation; he abased the gift, and periebed by lls abuse. The poor lollow died mad. Some melancholy prevision of his lato seems lo have been granted him. In an early podbi, written while he wus fall of von b and strength, ho calls on ‘the gay children of Bo hemia’ to laugh and sing; lor, should tlio worn' come to the worst, society, which can’t help lov ing them after all, will be sure to help them; so ciety, be says, ‘when we ure weak and worn, and ill, will find ns some asylum still; though that asylum may, for me. the lunatic asylum be !" “Our last figure is that of Pelloquet, an art critic of considerable intelligence, who died a few weeks ago in a madhouse near Nice. Involun tarily one recalls the dreadful pictures of journal- I ißtic life drawn by Balzac, In Ills ‘Grand Homme I de Province a Pans,’ and especially the horrible I speech In which Lonsteau initiates young Lucian I Into the mysteries of the craft.. Bo long ae jour- I nnlistn and ‘Bohemianism’ are considered iu Paris as necessarily identical, bo long will the I profession of a public writer require more reck- I Usances of life than lhu( of a soldier combined I with tbo habits ol a rank, Involve harder work tbun that of u lawyer, and result In’failure, in misery, madness aud death." A trout Time Koepeira. *" Probably tbe means earliest üßed for measuring the lapso of the hours was that afforded by th change in tbe position of tho shadow thrown b< a man standing erect, the human form thus making the gnomon of the first sun-dial, of which OBITUARY. ibe plane was constituted by. the '.Jeyolfldld, After this Uhe dial-piano was gradpatedt and a ; moroperfeettot'm