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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