by Brett McKay
Stuck in a blizzard with dwindling supplies, the men knew the end was nigh for them as well. No longer able to continue the march, the men hunkered down and prepared for death. Despite the bitter cold and incredible fatigue, Scott managed to write twelve letters to his family and friends, to the relatives of the other men on the team, and to his fellow countrymen. In a “Message to the Public,” Scott chalked the expedition’s failure up to unfortunate circumstances and ended by saying:
“But for my own sake I do not regret this journey, which has shown that Englishmen can endure hardships, help one another, and meet death with as great a fortitude as ever in the past. We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of providence, determined still to do our best to the last. … Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale.”
The men died ten days later. They were found frozen in their sleeping bags. Although the explorers carried lethal doses of opium and morphine, which would have enabled them to end their suffering and take their own lives, these supplies remained untouched.
The following is the letter Scott wrote to Kathleen, his wife and the mother of their three-year-old son, Peter. She did not receive it until the doomed explorer’s body was found in 1913.
Note: The punctuation and format of the letter has been slightly edited. Scott struggled to write the letter in subzero temperatures over the course of several days, scribbling his thoughts as best he could, filling several pages, and then writing across the backs of the paper. The letter ends abruptly and without a signature.
To My Widow
Dearest darling – We are in a very tight corner and I have doubts of pulling through – In one short lunch hour I take advantage of a very small measure of warmth to write letters preparatory to a possible end – The first is naturally to you on whom my thoughts mostly dwell waking or sleeping – If anything happens to me I shall like you to know how much you have meant to me and what pleasant recollections are with me as I depart –
I should like you to take what comfort you can from these facts also – I shall not have suffered any pain but leave the world fresh from harness & full of good health & vigour – this is decided already – when provisions come to an end we Simply stop unless we are within easy distance of another depot –Therefore you must not imagine a great tragedy – we are very anxious of course & have been for weeks but our splendid physical condition and our appetites compensate for all discomfort – The cold is trying & sometimes angering but here again the hot food which drives it forth is so wonderfully enjoyable that one would scarcely be without it.
We have gone down hill a good deal since I wrote the above – Poor Titus Oates has gone – he was in a bad state. The rest of us keep going and imagine we have a chance to get through but the cold weather doesn’t let up at all. We are now only 20 miles from a depot but we have very little food & fuel
Well dear heart I want you to take the whole thing very sensibly as I’m sure you will. The boy will be your comfort. I had looked forward to helping you to bring him up but it is a satisfaction to feel that he is safe with you. I think both he and you ought to be specially looked after by the country for which after all we have given our lives with something of spirit which makes for example – I am writing letters on this point in the end of this book after this. Will you send them to their various destinations? I must write a little letter for the boy if time can be found to be read when he grows up. The inherited vice from my side of the family is indolence – above all he must guard & you must guard him against that. Make him a strenuous man. I had to force myself into being strenuous, as you know – had always an inclination to be idle, my father was idle and it brought much trouble.
Dearest that you know I cherish no sentimental rubbish about re marriage – when the right man comes to help you in life you ought to be your happy self again – I wasn’t a very good husband but I hope I shall be a good memory – certainly the end is nothing for you to be ashamed of and I like to think that the boy will have a good start in parentage of which he may be proud.
Dear it is not easy to write because of the cold – 70 degrees below zero and nothing but the shelter of our tent – you know I have loved you, you know my thoughts must have constantly dwelt on you and oh dear me you must know that quite the worst aspect of this situation is the thought that I shall not see you again – The inevitable must be faced – you urged me to be leader of this party and I know you felt it would be dangerous – I’ve taken my place throughout, haven’t I? God bless you my own darling – I shall try and write more later – I go on across the back pages
Since writing the above we have got to within 11 miles of our depot with one hot meal and two days cold food and we should have got through but have been held for four days by a frightful storm – I think the best chance has gone. We have decided not to kill ourselves but to fight it to the last for that depot but in the fighting there is a painless end so don’t worry.
I have written letters on odd pages of this book – will you manage to get them sent? You see I am anxious for you and the boy’s future – make the boy interested in natural history if you can, it is better than games – they encourage it at some schools – I know you will keep him out in the open air – try and make him believe in a God, it is comforting.
Oh my dear my dear what dreams I have had of his future and yet oh my girl I know you will face it stoically – your portrait and the boy’s will be found in my breast and the one in the little red Morocco case given by Lady Baxter – There is a piece of the Union flag I put up at the South Pole in my private kit bag together with Amundsen’s black flag and other trifles – give a small piece of the Union flag to the King and a small piece to Queen Alexandra and keep the rest a poor trophy for you!
What lots and lots I could tell you of this journey. How much better it has been than lounging in too great comfort at home – what tales you would have for the boy but oh what a price to pay – to forfeit the sight of your dear dear face – Dear you will be good to the old mother. I write her a little line in this book. Also keep in with Ettie and the others – oh but you’ll put on a strong face for the world – only don’t be too proud to accept help for the boys sake – he ought to have a fine career and do something in the world. I haven’t time to write to Sir Clements – tell him I thought much of him and never regretted him putting me in command of the Discovery. – Give messages of farewell to Lady Baxter and Lady Sandhurst keep friends with them for both are dear women & to also both the Reginald Smiths
“Stand firm and immovable as an anvil when it is beaten upon.” —Saint Ignatius
The Man With the Iron Will
FROM BALLADS OF THE HEARTHSTONE, 1901
By Henry H. Johnson
Give me the man with an iron will
And a purpose firm and strong;—
Who dares to stand by the right until
He has crushed to death the wrong;
Who treads where the path of duty leads,
Though the way be blocked by foes;—
Whose heart and hand a good cause speeds,
No matter who oppose.
Give me the man with an iron will,
Who knows no such word as fail;
Who will, if need, his heart’s blood spill
To make the good prevail;
Who guards the right with his strong arm,
And dares to stand ’gainst might;
Who shields the poor and weak from harm,
And does right because ’tis right.
Give me the man with an iron will
And a heart as true as gold;—
Whose God-given mission he will fulfill,
Who cannot be bought nor sold.
Give me the man whom no power can bend
From a
purpose grand and high;—
Whose all, for a righteous cause will spend,
For a righteous cause will die.
Let No Feeling of Discouragement
Prey Upon You
A LETTER FROM ABRAHAM LINCOLN TO GEORGE LATHAM, 1860
Abraham Lincoln wrote the following letter to George Latham, who was a close friend of Lincoln’s son Robert. Both young men hoped to attend Harvard. Robert passed the entrance exams; George did not. George’s father had died several years before, and Lincoln wrote to George with paternal concern and as a man who knew something about perseverance.
Springfield, Ills. July 22, 1860
My dear George
I have scarcely felt greater pain in my life than on learning yesterday from Bob’s letter, that you failed to enter Harvard University. And yet there is very little in it, if you will allow no feeling of discouragement to seize, and prey upon you. It is a certain truth, that you can enter, and graduate in, Harvard University; and having made the attempt, you must succeed in it. “Must” is the word.
I know not how to aid you, save in the assurance of one of mature age, and much severe experience, that you can not fail, if you resolutely determine, that you will not.
The President of the institution, can scarcely be other than a kind man; and doubtless he would grant you an interview, and point out the readiest way to remove, or overcome, the obstacles which have thwarted you.
In your temporary failure there is no evidence that you may not yet be a better scholar, and a more successful man in the great struggle of life, than many others, who have entered college more easily.
Again I say let no feeling of discouragement prey upon you, and in the end you are sure to succeed.
With more than a common interest I subscribe myself.
Very truly your friend,
A. Lincoln.
For a Man Cannot Know Himself Without a Trial
FROM THE ESSAY “ON PROVIDENCE,” IN THE MINOR DIALOGUES, c. 60–65 A.D.
By Seneca
In this essay, Seneca gives the Stoic explanation for why the gods allow bad things to happen to good people. His answer? What seems like hardship is really for our good; adversity tests and strengthens us and allows us to demonstrate our virtue.
Prosperity comes to the mob, and to low-minded men as well as to great ones; but it is the privilege of great men alone to send under the yoke the disasters and terrors of mortal life: whereas to be always prosperous, and to pass through life without a twinge of mental distress, is to remain ignorant of one half of nature. You are a great man; but how am I to know it, if fortune gives you no opportunity of showing your virtue?
You have entered the arena of the Olympic games, but no one else has done so: you have the crown, but not the victory: I do not congratulate you as I would a brave man, but as one who has obtained a consulship or praetorship. You have gained dignity. I may say the same of a good man, if troublesome circumstances have never given him a single opportunity of displaying the strength of his mind. I think you unhappy because you never have been unhappy: you have passed through your life without meeting an antagonist: no one will know your powers, not even you yourself.
For a man cannot know himself without a trial: no one ever learnt what he could do without putting himself to the test; for which reason many have of their own free will exposed themselves to misfortunes which no longer came in their way, and have sought for an opportunity of making their virtue, which otherwise would have been lost in darkness, shine before the world. Great men, I say, often rejoice at crosses of fortune just as brave soldiers do at wars. I remember to have heard Triumphus, who was a gladiator in the reign of Tiberius Caesar, complaining about the scarcity of prizes. “What a glorious time,” said he, “is past.”
Valour is greedy of danger, and thinks only of whither it strives to go, not of what it will suffer, since even what it will suffer is part of its glory. Soldiers pride themselves on their wounds, they joyously display their blood flowing over their breastplate. Though those who return unwounded from battle may have done as bravely, yet he who returns wounded is more admired.
Do not, I beg you, dread those things which the immortal gods apply to our minds like spurs: misfortune is virtue’s opportunity. Those men may justly be called unhappy who are stupified with excess of enjoyment, whom sluggish contentment keeps as it were becalmed in a quiet sea: whatever befalls them will come strange to them. Misfortunes press hardest on those who are unacquainted with them: the yoke feels heavy to the tender neck. The recruit turns pale at the thought of a wound: the veteran, who knows that he has often won the victory after losing blood, looks boldly at his own flowing gore.
Avoid luxury, avoid effeminate enjoyment, by which men’s minds are softened, and in which, unless something occurs to remind them of the common lot of humanity, they lie unconscious, as though plunged in continual drunkenness. He whom glazed windows have always guarded from the wind, whose feet are warmed by constantly renewed fomentations, whose dining-room is heated by hot air beneath the floor and spread through the walls, cannot meet the gentlest breeze without danger. While all excesses are hurtful, excess of comfort is the most hurtful of all; it affects the brain; it leads men’s minds into vain imaginings; it spreads a thick cloud over the boundaries of truth and falsehood.
Why then should we wonder if God tries noble spirits severely? There can be no easy proof of virtue. Fortune lashes and mangles us: well, let us endure it: it is not cruelty, it is a struggle, in which the oftener we engage the braver we shall become. The strongest part of the body is that which is exercised by the most frequent use: we must entrust ourselves to fortune to be hardened by her against herself: by degrees she will make us a match for herself. Familiarity with danger leads us to despise it. Thus the bodies of sailors are hardened by endurance of the sea, and the hands of farmers by work; the arms of soldiers are powerful to hurl darts, the legs of runners are active: that part of each man which he exercises is the strongest.
No tree which the wind does not often blow against is firm and strong; for it is stiffened by the very act of being shaken, and plants its roots more securely: those which grow in a sheltered valley are brittle: and so it is to the advantage of good men, and causes them to be undismayed, that they should live much amidst alarms, and learn to bear with patience what is not evil save to him who endures it ill.
“Fight one more round. When your arms are so tired that you can hardly lift your hands to come on guard, fight one more round. When your nose is bleeding and your eyes are black and you are so tired that you wish your opponent would crack you one on the jaw and put you to sleep, fight one more round—remembering that the man who fights one more round is never whipped.” —James “Gentleman Jim” Corbett, heavyweight boxing champion
The Fighter
By S.E. Kiser
I fight a battle every day
Against discouragement and fear;
Some foe stands always in my way,
The path ahead is never clear!
I must forever be on guard
Against the doubts that skulk along;
I get ahead by fighting hard,
But fighting keeps my spirit strong.
I hear the croakings of Despair,
The dark predictions of the weak;
I find myself pursued by Care,
No matter what the end I seek;
My victories are small and few,
It matters not how hard I strive;
Each day the fight begins anew,
But fighting keeps my hopes alive.
My dreams are spoiled by circumstance,
My plans are wrecked by Fate or Luck;
Some hour, perhaps, will bring my chance,
But that great hour has never struck;
My progress has been slow and hard,
I’ve had to climb and crawl and swim,
Fighting for every stubborn yard,
But I have kept in fighting trim.
I have to fight my doubts away,
And be on guard against my fears;
The feeble croaking of Dismay
Has been familiar through the years;
My dearest plans keep going wrong,
Events combine to thwart my will,
But fighting keeps my spirit strong,
And I am undefeated still!
“This is the test of your manhood: How much is there left in you after you have lost everything outside of yourself?” —Orison Swett Marden
The Last of the Human Freedoms—
to Choose One’s Own Way
FROM MAN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING, 1959
By Viktor Frankl
In 1942, Jewish psychiatrist Viktor Emil Frankl, along with his wife and parents, were taken to the Theresienstadt concentration camp. There Frankl put his expertise to use in helping other prisoners deal with their grief and despair. At the same time, his own suffering led him to explore the meaning of life and how to find that meaning even in the midst of soul-crushing adversity.
In spite of all the enforced physical and mental primitiveness of the life in a concentration camp, it was possible for spiritual life to deepen. Sensitive people who were used to a rich intellectual life may have suffered much pain (they were often of a delicate constitution), but the damage to their inner selves was less. They were able to retreat from their terrible surroundings to a life of inner riches and spiritual freedom. Only in this way can one explain the apparent paradox that some prisoners of a less hardy makeup often seemed to survive camp life better than did those of a robust nature. In order to make myself clear, I am forced to fall back on personal experience. Let me tell what happened on those early mornings when we had to march to our work site.