We may survive; and if we do not,
I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart. Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of
my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,
and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the sickening failings of your heart-felt
expectations are, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven
bless you, and make you so! My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the
power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair: he
rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe
these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day’s
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair. *       *       *       *       *

September 5th. A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of
being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my
unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This
morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes
half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,—I was roused by half a
dozen of the sailors, who desired admission into the cabin. They
entered; and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to
me, to make me a demand, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were
immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared that
if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be
opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them
into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They
desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my coarse
southward. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,
he said—

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so
easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious
expedition? and wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was
smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers
and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be
called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death
surrounded, and these dangers you were to brave and overcome. For this
was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were
hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your name
adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and
the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of
danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your
courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who
had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that
requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and
dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove
yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your
purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your
hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot withstand you, if you say that it
shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered,
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and
heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved. They looked at
one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire,
and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them further
north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return. They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in
languor, and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die, than
return shamefully,—my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships. *       *       *       *       *

September 7th. The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess,
to bear this injustice with patience. *       *       *       *       *

September 12th. It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory;—I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted
towards England, and towards you, I will not despond. September 19th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were
heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every
direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only
remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest,
whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined
to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards
the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage
towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and
that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a
shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued.