So
strange
an
accident
has
happened
to
us
that
I cannot
forbear
recording
it, although
it
is
very
probable
that
you
will
see
me
before
these
papers
can
come
into
your
possession.
Last
Monday
(July 31st)
we
were
nearly
surrounded
by
ice,
which
closed
in
the
ship
on
all
sides,
scarcely
leaving
her
the
sea-room
in
which
she
floated.
Our
situation
was
somewhat
dangerous, especially
as
we
were
compassed round
by
a
very
thick
fog.
We
accordingly
lay
to, hoping
that
some
change
would
take
place
in
the
atmosphere
and
weather.
About
two
o'clock
the
mist
cleared away,
and
we
beheld, stretched
out
in
every
direction,
vast
and
irregular plains
of
ice,
which
seemed
to
have
no
end.
Some
of
my
comrades
groaned,
and
my
own
mind
began
to
grow watchful
with
anxious
thoughts,
when
a
strange
sight suddenly
attracted
our
attention
and
diverted
our
solicitude
from
our
own
situation.
We
perceived
a
low
carriage, fixed
on
a
sledge
and
drawn
by
dogs, pass
on
towards
the
north,
at
the
distance
of
half
a mile; a being
which
had
the
shape
of
a man,
but
apparently
of
gigantic
stature, sat
in
the
sledge
and
guided
the
dogs.
We
watched
the
rapid
progress
of
the
traveller
with
our
telescopes
until
he
was
lost
among
the
distant
inequalities
of
the
ice.
This
appearance
excited
our
unqualified wonder.
We
were,
as
we
believed,
many
hundred
miles
from
any
land;
but
this
apparition
seemed
to
denote
that
it
was
not,
in
reality,
so
distant
as
we
had supposed.
Shut
in, however,
by
ice,
it
was
impossible
to
follow
his
track,
which
we
had
observed
with
the
greatest attention.
About
two
hours
after
this
occurrence
we
heard
the
ground sea,
and
before
night
the
ice
broke
and
freed
our
ship. We, however,
lay
to
until
the
morning,
fearing
to
encounter
in
the
dark
those
large
loose
masses
which
float
about
after
the
breaking
up
of
the
ice. I
profited
of
this
time
to
rest
for
a
few
hours.
In
the
morning, however,
as
soon
as
it
was
light, I went
upon
deck
and
found
all
the
sailors
busy
on
one
side
of
the
vessel, apparently talking
to
someone
in
the
sea.
It
was,
in
fact, a sledge,
like
that
we
had
seen
before,
which
had
drifted
towards
us
in
the
night
on
a
large
fragment
of
ice.
Only
one
dog
remained
alive;
but
there
was
a
human
being
within
it
whom
the
sailors
were
persuading
to
enter
the
vessel.
He
was
not,
as
the
other
traveller
seemed
to
be, a savage
inhabitant
of
some
undiscovered island,
but
a European.
When
I
appeared
on
deck
the
master
said, "Here
is
our
captain,
and
he
will
not
allow
you
to
perish
on
the
open
sea."
On
perceiving
me,
the
stranger
addressed
me
in
English, although
with
a
foreign
accent. "Before I
come
on
board
your
vessel," said he, "will
you
have
the
kindness
to
inform
me
whither
you
are
bound?"
You
may
conceive
my astonishment
on
hearing
such
a
question
addressed
to
me
from
a
man
on
the
brink
of
destruction
and
to
whom
I
should
have
supposed
that
my
vessel
would
have
been a resource
which
he
would
not
have
exchanged
for
the
most
precious
wealth
the
earth
can
afford. I replied, however,
that
we
were
on
a
voyage
of
discovery
towards
the
northern
pole.
Upon
hearing
this
he
appeared
satisfied
and
consented
to
come
on
board.
Good
God! Margaret,
if
you
had
seen
the
man
who
thus
capitulated
for
his
safety,
your
surprise
would
have
been boundless.
His
limbs
were
nearly frozen,
and
his
body
dreadfully emaciated
by
fatigue
and
suffering. I
never
saw
a
man
in
so
wretched a condition.
We
attempted
to
carry
him
into
the
cabin,
but
as
soon
as
he
had
quitted
the
fresh
air
he
fainted.
We
accordingly brought
him
back
to
the
deck
and
restored
him
to
animation
by
rubbing
him
with
brandy
and
forcing
him
to
swallow
a small quantity.
As
soon
as
he
showed
signs
of
life
we
wrapped
him
up
in
blankets
and
placed
him
near
the
chimney
of
the
kitchen stove.
By
slow
degrees
he
recovered
and
ate a
little
soup,
which
restored
him
wonderfully.
Two
days
passed
in
this
manner
before
he
was
able
to
speak,
and
I
often
feared
that
his
sufferings had deprived
him
of
understanding.
When
he
had
in
some
measure
recovered, I removed
him
to
my
own
cabin
and
attended
on
him
as
much
as
my
duty
would
permit. I
never
saw
a
more
interesting creature:
his
eyes
have
generally
an
expression
of
wildness,
and
even
madness,
but
there
are
moments
when,
if
anyone
performs
an
act
of
kindness
towards
him
or
does
him
any
the
most
trifling service,
his
whole
countenance
is
lighted
up,
as
it
were,
with
a
beam
of
benevolence
and
sweetness
that
I
never
saw
equalled.
But
he
is
generally melancholy
and
despairing,
and
sometimes
he
gnashes
his
teeth,
as
if
impatient
of
the
weight
of
woes
that
oppresses
him.
When
my
guest
was
a
little
recovered
I had
great
trouble
to
keep
off
the
men,
who
wished
to
ask
him
a
thousand
questions;
but
I
would
not
allow
him
to
be
tormented
by
their
idle curiosity,
in
a
state
of
body
and
mind
whose
restoration
evidently
depended
upon
entire
repose. Once, however,
the
lieutenant
asked
why
he
had
come
so
far
upon
the
ice
in
so
strange
a vehicle.
His
countenance instantly
assumed
an
aspect
of
the
deepest
gloom,
and
he
replied, "To
seek
one
who
fled
from
me." "And
did
the
man
whom
you
pursued
travel
in
the
same
fashion?" "Yes." "Then I fancy
we
have
seen
him,
for
the
day
before
we
picked
you
up
we
saw
some
dogs drawing a sledge,
with
a
man
in
it,
across
the
ice."
This
aroused
the
stranger's attention,
and
he
asked
a
multitude
of
questions
concerning
the
route
which
the
demon,
as
he
called
him, had pursued.
Soon
after,
when
he
was
alone
with
me,
he
said, "I have, doubtless, excited
your
curiosity,
as
well
as
that
of
these
good
people;
but
you
are
too
considerate
to
make
inquiries." "Certainly;
it
would
indeed
be
very
impertinent
and
inhuman
in
me
to
trouble
you
with
any
inquisitiveness
of
mine." "And
yet
you
rescued
me
from
a
strange
and
perilous
situation;
you
have
benevolently
restored
me
to
life."
Soon
after
this
he
inquired
if
I
thought
that
the
breaking
up
of
the
ice
had
destroyed
the
other
sledge. I replied
that
I
could
not
answer
with
any
degree
of
certainty,
for
the
ice
had
not
broken
until
near
midnight,
and
the
traveller
might
have
arrived
at
a
place
of
safety
before
that
time;
but
of
this
I
could
not
judge.
From
this
time a
new
spirit
of
life
animated
the
decaying
frame
of
the
stranger.
He
manifested
the
greatest eagerness
to
be
upon
deck
to
watch
for
the
sledge
which
had
before
appeared;
but
I
have
persuaded
him
to
remain
in
the
cabin,
for
he
is
far
too
weak
to
sustain
the
rawness
of
the
atmosphere. I
have
promised
that
someone
should
watch
for
him
and
give
him
instant
notice
if
any
new
object
should
appear
in
sight.
Such
is
my
journal
of
what
relates
to
this
strange
occurrence
up
to
the
present
day.
The
stranger
has gradually
improved
in
health
but
is
very
silent
and
appears
uneasy
when
anyone
except
myself
enters
his
cabin.
Yet
his
manners
are
so
conciliating
and
gentle
that
the
sailors
are
all
interested
in
him, although
they
have
had
very
little
communication
with
him.
For
my
own
part, I
begin
to
love
him
as
a brother,
and
his
constant
and
deep
grief
fills
me
with
sympathy
and
compassion.
He
must
have
been a
noble
creature
in
his
better
days, being
even
now
in
wreck
so
attractive
and
amiable. I said
in
one
of
my letters, my
dear
Margaret,
that
I
should
find
no
friend
on
the
wide
ocean;
yet
I
have
found a
man
who,
before
his
spirit had been
broken
by
misery, I
should
have
been
happy
to
have
possessed
as
the
brother
of
my heart. I
shall
continue
my
journal
concerning
the
stranger
at
intervals,
should
I
have
any
fresh
incidents
to
record.
August
13th, 17— My
affection
for
my
guest
increases
every
day.
He
excites
at
once
my
admiration
and
my
pity
to
an
astonishing
degree.
How
can
I
see
so
noble
a
creature
destroyed
by
misery
without
feeling
the
most
poignant
grief?
He
is
so
gentle,
yet
so
wise;
his
mind
is
so
cultivated,
and
when
he
speaks, although
his
words
are
culled
with
the
choicest
art,
yet
they
flow
with
rapidity
and
unparalleled eloquence.
He
is
now
much
recovered
from
his
illness
and
is
continually
on
the
deck, apparently
watching
for
the
sledge
that
preceded
his
own. Yet, although unhappy,
he
is
not
so
utterly
occupied
by
his
own
misery
but
that
he
interests
himself
deeply
in
the
projects
of
others.
He
has frequently
conversed
with
me
on
mine,
which
I
have
communicated
to
him
without
disguise.
He
entered
attentively
into
all
my
arguments
in
favour
of
my
eventual
success
and
into
every
minute
detail
of
the
measures
I had taken
to
secure it. I
was
easily led
by
the
sympathy
which
he
evinced
to
use
the
language
of
my heart,
to
give
utterance
to
the
burning
ardour
of
my soul
and
to
say,
with
all
the
fervour
that
warmed
me,
how
gladly
I
would
sacrifice
my fortune, my existence, my
every
hope,
to
the
furtherance
of
my enterprise.
One
man's
life
or
death
were
but
a small
price
to
pay
for
the
acquirement
of
the
knowledge
which
I sought,
for
the
dominion
I
should
acquire
and
transmit
over
the
elemental
foes
of
our
race.
As
I spoke, a dark
gloom
spread
over
my listener's countenance.
At
first
I
perceived
that
he
tried
to
suppress
his
emotion;
he
placed
his
hands
before
his
eyes,
and
my voice
quivered
and
failed
me
as
I beheld
tears
trickle
fast
from
between
his
fingers; a groan
burst
from
his
heaving breast. I paused;
at
length
he
spoke,
in
broken
accents: "Unhappy man!
Do
you
share
my madness?
Have
you
drunk
also
of
the
intoxicating
draught?
Hear
me;
let
me
reveal
my tale,
and
you
will
dash
the
cup
from
your
lips!"
Such
words,
you
may
imagine,
strongly
excited my curiosity;
but
the
paroxysm
of
grief
that
had
seized
the
stranger
overcame
his
weakened powers,
and
many
hours
of
repose
and
tranquil
conversation
were
necessary
to
restore
his
composure.
Having
conquered
the
violence
of
his
feelings,
he
appeared
to
despise
himself
for
being
the
slave
of
passion;
and
quelling
the
dark
tyranny
of
despair,
he
led
me
again
to
converse
concerning
myself
personally.
He
asked
me
the
history
of
my earlier years.
The
tale
was
quickly
told,
but
it
awakened
various
trains
of
reflection. I
spoke
of
my
desire
of
finding
a friend,
of
my
thirst
for
a
more
intimate
sympathy
with
a
fellow
mind
than
had
ever
fallen
to
my lot,
and
expressed my
conviction
that
a
man
could
boast
of
little
happiness
who
did
not
enjoy
this
blessing. "I
agree
with
you," replied
the
stranger; "we
are
unfashioned creatures,
but
half
made
up,
if
one
wiser, better,
dearer
than
ourselves—such a
friend
ought
to
be—do
not
lend
his
aid
to
perfectionate
our
weak
and
faulty natures. I
once
had a friend,
the
most
noble
of
human
creatures,
and
am
entitled, therefore,
to
judge
respecting
friendship.
You
have
hope,
and
the
world
before
you,
and
have
no
cause
for
despair.
But
I—I
have
lost everything
and
cannot
begin
life
anew."
As
he
said
this
his
countenance became
expressive
of
a calm, settled
grief
that
touched
me
to
the
heart.
But
he
was
silent
and
presently retired
to
his
cabin.
Even
broken
in
spirit
as
he
is,
no
one
can
feel
more
deeply
than
he
does
the
beauties
of
nature.
The
starry sky,
the
sea,
and
every
sight
afforded
by
these
wonderful
regions
seem
still
to
have
the
power
of
elevating
his
soul
from
earth.
Such
a
man
has a
double
existence:
he
may
suffer
misery
and
be
overwhelmed
by
disappointments,
yet
when
he
has retired
into
himself,
he
will
be
like
a
celestial
spirit
that
has a
halo
around
him,
within
whose
circle
no
grief
or
folly
ventures.
Will
you
smile
at
the
enthusiasm
I express concerning
this
divine
wanderer?
You
would
not
if
you
saw
him.
You
have
been tutored
and
refined
by
books
and
retirement
from
the
world,
and
you
are
therefore
somewhat
fastidious;
but
this
only
renders
you
the
more
fit
to
appreciate
the
extraordinary
merits
of
this
wonderful
man. Sometimes I
have
endeavoured
to
discover
what
quality
it
is
which
he
possesses
that
elevates
him
so
immeasurably
above
any
other
person
I
ever
knew. I
believe
it
to
be
an
intuitive
discernment, a
quick
but
never-failing power
of
judgment, a
penetration
into
the
causes
of
things, unequalled
for
clearness
and
precision;
add
to
this
a
facility
of
expression
and
a voice
whose
varied
intonations
are
soul-subduing music.
August
19, 17—
Yesterday
the
stranger
said
to
me, "You
may
easily perceive, Captain Walton,
that
I
have
suffered
great
and
unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined
at
one
time
that
the
memory
of
these
evils
should
die
with
me,
but
you
have
won
me
to
alter
my determination.
You
seek
for
knowledge
and
wisdom,
as
I
once
did;
and
I
ardently
hope
that
the
gratification
of
your
wishes
may
not
be
a
serpent
to
sting
you,
as
mine
has been. I
do
not
know
that
the
relation
of
my
disasters
will
be
useful
to
you; yet,
when
I
reflect
that
you
are
pursuing
the
same
course,
exposing
yourself
to
the
same
dangers
which
have
rendered
me
what
I am, I
imagine
that
you
may
deduce
an
apt
moral
from
my tale,
one
that
may
direct
you
if
you
succeed
in
your
undertaking
and
console
you
in
case
of
failure.
Prepare
to
hear
of
occurrences
which
are
usually deemed marvellous.
Were
we
among
the
tamer
scenes
of
nature
I
might
fear
to
encounter
your
unbelief,
perhaps
your
ridicule;
but
many
things
will
appear
possible
in
these
wild
and
mysterious
regions
which
would
provoke
the
laughter
of
those
unacquainted
with
the
ever-varied powers
of
nature;
nor
can
I
doubt
but
that
my
tale
conveys
in
its
series
internal
evidence
of
the
truth
of
the
events
of
which
it
is
composed."
You
may
easily
imagine
that
I
was
much
gratified
by
the
offered
communication,
yet
I
could
not
endure
that
he
should
renew
his
grief
by
a recital
of
his
misfortunes. I felt
the
greatest eagerness
to
hear
the
promised
narrative, partly
from
curiosity
and
partly
from
a
strong
desire
to
ameliorate
his
fate
if
it
were
in
my power. I expressed
these
feelings
in
my answer. "I
thank
you,"
he
replied, "for
your
sympathy,
but
it
is
useless; my fate
is
nearly fulfilled. I
wait
but
for
one
event,
and
then
I
shall
repose
in
peace. I
understand
your
feeling,"
continued
he,
perceiving
that
I
wished
to
interrupt him; "but
you
are
mistaken, my friend,
if
thus
you
will
allow
me
to
name
you;
nothing
can
alter
my destiny;
listen
to
my history,
and
you
will
perceive
how
irrevocably
it
is
determined."
He
then
told
me
that
he
would
commence
his
narrative
the
next
day
when
I
should
be
at
leisure.
This
promise
drew
from
me
the
warmest
thanks. I
have
resolved
every
night,
when
I
am
not
imperatively
occupied
by
my duties,
to
record,
as
nearly
as
possible
in
his
own
words,
what
he
has related
during
the
day.
If
I
should
be
engaged, I
will
at
least
make
notes.
This
manuscript
will
doubtless
afford
you
the
greatest pleasure;
but
to
me,
who
know
him,
and
who
hear
it
from
his
own
lips—with
what
interest
and
sympathy
shall
I read
it
in
some
future
day!
Even
now,
as
I
commence
my task,
his
full-toned voice
swells
in
my ears;
his
lustrous
eyes
dwell
on
me
with
all
their
melancholy sweetness; I
see
his
thin
hand
raised
in
animation,
while
the
lineaments
of
his
face
are
irradiated
by
the
soul within.
Strange
and
harrowing
must
be
his
story,
frightful
the
storm
which
embraced
the
gallant
vessel
on
its
course
and
wrecked it—thus!