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366 forth to  bring  back  the  assurance  that  the  expedition was  really  in  the  direct  channel  leading  to those  waters  traversed  in  former  years  by  Franklin; and to  tell  them  all  that  they  really  were  the  discoverers of  the  long-sought  passage. One footprint was  left  by  Gore  and  Des  Vaux,  in  a cairn beyond Cape  Victory  on  the  west  coast  of  King William’s Land; it  tells  us  that  “on  May  24th, 1847, all  were  well  on  board  the  ships,  and  that Sir John  Franklin  still  commanded.”  Graham Gore probably  traversed  the  short  distance  between his cairn,  and  that  on  Cape  Herschel  in  a week; and we  can  fancy  him  and  the  enthusiastic  Des Vaux, casting  one  glance  upon  the  long-sought shores of  America,  and  hastening  back  to  share their delight  with  those  imprisoned  in  the  ships.

Alas! why do  their  shipmates  meet  the  flushed travellers with  sorrow  imprinted  on  pale  countenances? Why, as  they  cheer  at  the  glad  tidings they bring,  does  the  tear  suffuse  the  eye  of  these rough and  hardy  men? Their chief  lies  on  his death-bed; a long career  of  honour  and  of  worth is drawing  to  its  close. The shout  of  victory, which cheered  the  last  hour  of  Nelson  and  of Wolfe,  rang  not  less  heartily  round  the  bed  of  the gallant Franklin,  and  lit  up  that  kind  eye  with  its last gleam  of  triumph. Like them,  his  last thought must  have  been  of  his  country’s  glory, and the  welfare  of  those  whom  he  well  knew  must now hope  in  vain  for  his  return.

A toll for  the  brave — the  drooping  ensigns  of England  trail  only  half-mast; officers  and  men with sad  faces  walk  lightly  as  if  they  feared  to disturb  the  mortal  remains  of  him  they  love  so much. The solemn  peal  of  the  ship’s  bell  reverberates amongst  the  masses  of  solid  ice; a group of affectionate  followers  stand  round  a huge chasm amongst  the  ice-stream,  and  Fitzjames, who had  sworn  only  to  part  from  him  in  death, reads the  service  for  the  dead  over  the  grave  of Franklin.

Oh! mourn him  not,  seamen  and  brother  Englishmen! unless ye  can  point  to  a more  honourable end  or  a nobler  grave. Like another  Moses, he fell  when  his  work  was  accomplished,  with  the long object  of  his  life  in  view. The discoverer  of the  North- west  Passage  had  his  Pisgah,  and  so  long as his  countrymen  shall  hold  dear  disinterested  devotion and  gallant  perseverance  in  a good  cause, so long  shall  they  point  to  the  career  and  fate  of Admiral  Sir  John  Franklin.

The autumn  comes. It is  not  without  anxiety that Crozier  and  Fitzjames  contemplate  the prospect before  them; but  they  keep  those  feelings to themselves. The Pacific  is  far  off; the  safe retreat of  their  men  up  the  Great  Fish  River,  or Coppermine,  is  fraught  with  peril,  unless  their  countrymen at  home  have  established  depôts  of  provisions at their  embouchures; and  worse  still  their  provisions fail  next  year,  and  scurvy  is  already  showing itself  amongst  the  crews. At last  the  icestream  moves — it  swings  to  and  fro — the  vessels are thrown  into  one  position  of  danger  and  then another. Days elapse — ah  I they  count  the  hours before winter  will  assuredly  come  back; and  how they pray  for  water — water  to  float  the  ships  in; only one  narrow  lane  through  this  hard-hearted pack — one narrow  lane  for  ninety  miles,  and  they are saved! but, if  not  * * * * Thy  will be  done!

The ice-stream  moves  south; the  men  fear  to remark  to  each  other  how  slowly; the  march  of a glacier  down  the  Alpine  pass  is  almost  as  rapid, Yet it  does  move  south,  and  they  look  to  heaven and thank  their  God. Ten miles,  twenty  miles, are passed  over,  still  beset; not  a foot  of  open  water in sight,  yet  still  they  drift  to  the  south. Thirty miles are  now  accomplished; they  have  only  sixty miles of  ice  between  theig. and the  sea,  off  the American coast — nay,  less; for  only  let  them  get round that  west  extreme  of  King  William’s,  which is seen  projecting  into  the  ice-stream,  and  they are saved!

September, 1847,  has  come  in; the  new  ice is forming  fast;  the  drift  of  the  ice-stream diminishes,— can it  have  stopped? Mercy! mercy! It sways  to  and  fro; — gaunt,  scurvy-stricken men watch  the  daily  movement  with  bated  breath; the ships  have  ceased  to  drift;  they  are  now fifteen miles  north  of  Cape  Victory. God, in  His mercy, shield  those  gallant  crews! The dread winter of  1847-48  closes  around  these  forlorn  and now desperate  men; — disease  and  scurvy,  want and cold,  now  indeed  press  them  heavily. Brave men  are  Buffering; we  will  not  look  upon their sore  trial.

The sun  of  1848  rises  again  upon  the  imprisoned expedition,  and  never  did  it  look  down  on a nobler,  yet  sadder  sight. Nine officers  and twelve men  have  perished  during  the  past  season of trial; the  survivors,  one  hundred  and  four  in number,  are  assembled  round  their  leaders — Crozier and Fitzjames — a wan,  half -starved  crew. Poor souls, they  are  going  to  escape  for  their  lives  by ascending  the  Great  Fish  River. Fitzjames, still vigorous, conceals  his  fears  of  ever  saving  so  many in the  hunger-stricken  region  they  have  to traverse. As the  constant  friend  and  companion  of Franklin,  he  knows  but  too  well  from  the  fearful experiences of  his  lamented  chief,  what  toil, hardship and  want  await  them  before  a country capable of  supporting  life  can  be  reached. All that long  last  winter  has  he  pored  over  the graphic and  touching  tale  of  Franklin’s  overland journeys in  Arctic  America,  and  culled  but  small hope; yet he  knows  there  is  no  time  for  despondency; the  men  look  to  their  officers  for  hope  and confidence at  such  a juncture,  and  shall  he  be wanting  at  such  a crisis? No, assuredly  not; and he strives  hard,  by  kind  and  cheering  words — to impart  new  courage  to  many  a drooping heart. The fresh  preserved  provisions  on  board the ships  have  failed; salted  meat  is  simply poison to  the  scurvy-stricken  men; they  must quit the  ships  or  die,  and  if  they  must  die,  is it  not  better  that  they  should  do  so  making  a last gallant struggle  for  life? and, at  any  rate,  they can leave  their  bleaching  skeletons  as  a monument upon Cape  Herschel,  of  having  successfully  done their duty.

Yes, of  course  it  is. They pile  up  their  sledges with all  description  of  gear,  for  as  yet  they  know not how  much  their  strength  has  diminished. Each ship’s  company  brings  a large  whale-boat