We are living and learning, forever. Life is a court of cassation, where truth sits, as chancellor, daily reversing the most incomparably beautiful decrees of theoretical philosophy.

It is not unlikely, that a very interesting volume of 600 pages, folio, might be prepared, to be called the Mistakes of Science. The elephant in the moon, and the weighing of the fish have furnished amusement, in their day. Even in our own times, philosophers, of considerable note, have seriously doubted the truth of that incomparable hoax, concerning Sir John Herschell’s lunar discoveries.

Savans were completely deceived, for a considerable period, by the electrical beatifications of Mr. Bose. One of the most amusing occurrences, upon record, on which occasion, the philosopher, unlike Mr. Bose, was a perfectly honest man, befell the famous mathematical instrument-maker, Mr. Troughton. He became fully possessed, by the idea, that certain persons, a select few, were capable of exerting a magnetic influence, over the needle, by advancing their faces towards it. So far from being common, this power was limited to a very small number. The statements of Mr. Troughton, and his well-established reputation, for integrity, caused the subject to be gravely discussed, by members of the Royal Society.

Every individual of the very small number, who possessed this remarkable power—every medium—was carefully examined. Collusion seemed utterly impossible. A new theory appeared to be established. Amazement ran through the learned assembly. A careful inquiry was instituted, in relation to the manner of life of these mediums, from their youth upwards, their occupations, diet, &c., and some very learned papers would, erelong, have been read, before the Royal Society, if Mr. Troughton himself had not previously made a most fortunate discovery—he discovered, that he wore a wig, constructed with steel springs—such, also, was the case with every other medium!

The tendency to predicate certainty, of things, manifestly doubtful, is exceedingly common. I fell, recently, into the society of some very intelligent gentlemen, who were certain, that Sir John Franklin was lost, irrecoverably lost.

There are some—perhaps their name is not Legion—whose faith is of superior dimensions to the mustard seed, and who believe, that Sir John Franklin is not destroyed; that he yet lives; and, that, sooner or later, he will come back to his friends and the world, with a world of wonders to relate, of all that he has seen and suffered. God, all merciful, grant it may be so. To all human observation, after a careful balancing of probabilities, there is certainly nothing particularly flattering in the prospect. Yet, on the other hand, absolute, unqualified despair is irrational, and unjustifiable.

The present existence of Sir John Franklin is certainly possible. No one, I presume, will say it is probable. Some half a dozen good, substantial words are greatly needed, to mark shades between these two, and to designate what is more than possible, and less than probable.

A careful consideration of the narrative of Sir John Ross, the narrative, I mean, of his second voyage, in quest of a northwest passage, and of his abode in the Arctic regions, and of the opinion, very generally entertained, for a great length of time, that he was lost, will strengthen the impression, that Sir John Franklin also may be yet alive, somewhere! Even then, a question may arise, in connection with the force of certain currents, referred to, by those, who have lately returned, from an unsuccessful search for Sir John Franklin, whether it may be possible to return, against those currents, with such means and appliances, as he possessed; and whether, even on this side the grave, there may not be a bourne, from which no presumptuous voyager ever shall return.

The residence of Sir John Ross, in the Arctic regions, continued, through five consecutive years, 1829, ’30, ’31, ’32, ’33. To such, as imagine there is any effective summer, in those regions, and who have been accustomed to associate spring and summer, with flowers and fruits, it may not be amiss, by way of corrective, to administer a brief passage, from the journal of Sir John Ross, in August, 1832—“But to see, to have seen, ice and snow, to have felt snow and ice forever, and nothing forever but snow and ice, during all the months of a year; to have seen and felt but uninterrupted and unceasing ice and snow, during all the months of four years, this it is, that has made the sight of those most chilling and wearisome objects an evil, which is still one in recollection, as if the remembrance would never cease.”

At this period, August, 1832, very little hope was entertained, that Sir John Ross and his companions were living. Even a year before, they were generally supposed to be lost.

The abandonment of their ship, which had been locked fast in the ice, for years, and their almost inconceivable toil, while crossing, with their boats, on sledges, to the confluence of Regent’s Inlet, and Barrow’s Strait, are fully presented in the narrative. Their hour of deliverance came at last, and the event cannot be better described, than in the words of Sir John Ross himself. As they were standing along the southern shore of Harrow’s Strait, in their boats, on the 26th of August, a sail, to their inexpressible joy, hove in sight. After a period of great anxiety, lest she should not observe their signals of distress, their deep delight may be imagined, even by an unpractised landsman, when they first became assured, that they had attracted the notice of the crew, in one of the ship’s boats. The reader will be better satisfied with an account from the lips of the p???t??p?? ?? a??a p???a, himself.

“She was soon along side, when the mate in command addressed us, by presuming, that we had met with some misfortune and lost our ship. This being answered in the affirmative, I requested to know the name of his vessel, and expressed our wish to be taken on board. I was answered, that it was the ‘Isabella, of Hull, once commanded by Captain Ross;’ on which I stated, that I was the identical man in question, and my people the crew of the Victory. That the mate, who commanded this boat, was as much astonished, as he appeared to be, I do not doubt; while, with the usual blunderheadedness of men, on such occasions, he assured me, that I had been dead two years. I easily convinced him, however, that what ought to have been true, according to his estimate, was a somewhat premature conclusion; as the bear-like form of the whole set of us, might have shown him, had he taken time to consider, that we were certainly not whaling gentlemen, and that we carried tolerable evidence of our being ‘true men and no imposters,’ on our backs, and in our starved and unshaven countenances.”

However close the resemblance, between Sir John Ross and his comrades to bears, they soon become lions on board the Isabella. Sir John continues thus—

“A hearty congratulation followed, of course, in the true seaman style, and, after a few natural inquiries, he added, that the Isabella was commanded by Captain Humphreys; when he immediately went off in his boat to communicate his information on board; repeating, that we had long been given up as lost, not by them alone, but by all England.”

In this precedent, there is kindling stuff for hope, if not substantial fuel. After reading this account, the hearts of the strong-hearted cannot fail to be strengthened the more. A scientific and elaborate comparison of all the facts and circumstances, in the respective cases of Ross and Franklin, may lead to dissipate our hope. But hope is a vivacious principle, like the polypus, from the minutest particle remaining, growing up to be the integral thing, that it was. Science, philosophy, perched upon theoretical stilts, occasionally walk confidently into the mire. Sir John Franklin may yet be among the living, notwithstanding those negative demonstrations, in which many so very plausibly indulge themselves.Let us follow Sir John Ross and his companions on board the Isabella.—“As we approached slowly after him (the mate of the Isabella) he jumped up the side, and, in a minute, the rigging was manned; while we were saluted with three cheers, as we came within cable’s length, and were not long in getting on board my old vessel, where we were all received, by Captain Humphreys, with a hearty seaman’s welcome. Though we had not been supported by our names and characters, we should not the less have claimed, from charity, the attentions we received; for never was seen a more miserable looking set of wretches. If to be poor, wretchedly poor, as far as all our present property was concerned, were to have a claim on charity, none could well deserve it more; but, if to look so, be to frighten away the so called charitable, no beggar, that wanders in Ireland, could have outdone us, in exciting the repugnance of those, who know not what poverty can be. Unshaven, since I know not when, dirty, dressed in the rags of wild beasts, instead of the tatters of civilization, and starved to the very bones, our gaunt and grim looks, when contrasted with those of the well dressed and well fed men around us, made us all feel, I believe, for the first time, what we really were, as well as what we seemed to others.”

Very considerable training must, doubtless, be required, to reconcile a Mohawk Indian to a feather bed. A short passage from the Journal of Sir John Ross forcibly illustrates the truth, that we are the creatures of habit. “Long accustomed, however, to a cold bed, on the hard snow or the bare rock, few could sleep, amid the comforts of our new accommodations. I was myself compelled to leave the bed, which had been kindly assigned me, and take my abode in a chair for the night, nor did it fare much better with the rest. It was for time to reconcile us to this sudden and violent change, to break through what had become habit, and to inure us, once more, to the usages of our former days.”