bedside, from which we moistened the parched
lips for the last time; the handkerchief which
dried the deathly moisture from the dear face
and touched the wasted cheeks almost at the
same moment when our lips pressed them at
parting—these mute relics find a language of
their own, when the first interval of grief allows
us to see them again; a language that fills the
mind and softens the heart, and makes the sacred
memory of the dead doubly precious; a language
that speaks to every nation and every rank, and
tells, while the world lasts, the one solemn story
that exalts, purifies, and touches us all alike.

Reflections such as these are naturally
suggested by a relic of public interest, associated
with a public bereavement, which now lies
before us while we write. England has not
forgotten the brave and devoted men who went out
from her, never to return, on Franklin's expedition
to the Polar Seas. Few subjects of national
interest have sunk deeper into the public mind
than the fate of the lost heroes whose last
earthly resting-place is still hidden from us in
the mysterious solitudes of the frozen deep.
Every step of their progress so long as any
trace of it was left, was once eagerly watched;
every chance of their preservation, so long as
those chances remained, was once anxiously
discussed; every relic of their past existence that
has drifted back to us, since we mourned them
as lost, has been welcomed with melancholy
gratitude, and treasured with loving care. Any
fresh trace of their progress on the fatal voyage
which we can still recover, is a memorial of the
dead and gone, only less precious than those
nearer and dearer memorials associated with the
private and personal losses which have tried us
all within the circle of our own homes.

The new relic of the lost Arctic voyagers to
which we now refer, is as simple in form as any
of those little household remembrances which
hard experience has taught us to regard with
such tender care. It consists only of a few
pages of a journal on board ship, kept by
Captain Fitzjames, of the Erebus, and addressed
by him, from the coast of Greenland, to
Mrs. Coningham. The manuscript thus
produced has been privately printed by Mr. Coningham,
well known to many of our readers as the
Member of Parliament for Brighton, and as the
advocate of some important reforms in
connexion with the purchase of pictures for the
National Gallery. Although Captain Fitzjames
was not related either to Mr. or Mrs. Coningham,
he had always lived on terms of the closest intimacy
with them; having being brought up at
an early age under the roof of Mr. Coningham's
father. Captain Fitzjames's career began in
the year 1825, when he entered the navy as a
master's assistant. At a later period, he became
a first class volunteer. After serving in various
ships, he joined Colonel Chesney in the
Euphrates expedition; and, before sailing, rescued
a Liverpool tide-waiter from drowning, at the risk
of his own life, by jumping overboard in his clothes
in the middle of the Mersey—an heroic action
which the authorities of Liverpool rewarded by
presenting him with a medal, and with the freedom
of their city. Subsequently this brave
officer joined the Chinese expedition, and was
severely wounded. His next, and last, exertions
in the service of his country were devoted—
against Mr. Coningham's urgent entreaties—to
the fatal Arctic Expedition under Sir John
Franklin; and his narrative of that part of the
voyage which brought the Erebus and Terror to
the coast of Greenland is now privately printed,
as the simplest and truest memorial of a man
whose happy privilege it was to be loved,
honoured, and trusted by all who knew him.

It is necessary to state that the journal
produced under Mr. Coningham's supervision is
intended for private circulation among his own
friends. That gentleman has, however, voluntarily
accorded to us the permission to make what
literary use we may think fit of Captain
Fitzjames's Diary. We have gladly accepted Mr.
Coningham's offer, not only in consideration of
the deep public interest which attaches to this
unpretending document, viewed simply as an
addition to our few memorials of the lost Polar
Expedition, but also on account of the remarkable
merit of the journal itself. Every page of
it assures us that Captain Fitzjames added to
his high professional qualifications the two rare
gifts of a quick and true observation of
character and a happy facility in conveying the
results of that observation plainly, unaffectedly,
and graphically to others. Narrow as its limits
are, this interesting journal effects its avowed
object of placing us on board ship by the
writer's side, of showing us his floating home in
its most familiar and most domestic aspect, and
of introducing us, in a delightfully considerate
and kindly spirit, to the more prominent characters
among the officers and the men. We propose
to make our readers sharers in the attractive
view thus presented—the last view attainable,
so far as we know at present—of past life
and past events on board one of the two doomed
Discovery Ships; in the full belief that every
one who looks over them will close the pages
here presented, as we have closed the journal
from which they are quoted, with a heightened
admiration and a closer sympathy for Sir John
Franklin, for Captain Fitzjames, and for their
brave companions on that memorable Voyage
which Englishmen who prize the honour of their
country can never forget.

The sad story takes us back to the June of
eighteen hundred and forty-five. The two
discovery ships, the Erebus and Terror, are at sea,
with the transport containing their supplies in
attendance on them. The time is noon; the
place on the ocean is near the island of Rona,
seventy or eighty miles from Stromness; and
the two steamers, Rattler and Blazer, are taking
leave—a last, long leave—of the Arctic voyagers.

"Their captains" (says the journal, referring
to the two steamers) " came on board and took
our letters; one from me will have told you of
our doings up to that time. There was a heavy