Oct 12, 2026 · 43 min · 14 segments
The enthusiastic letters of sea captain Robert Walton turn ominous as arctic ice and crushing loneliness close in. The discovery and rescue of a half-frozen stranger puts an end to his despondency…
Colin MorganHost
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburg, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight.
Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
I try, in vain, to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation.
There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disc just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There, for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators.
There, snow and frost are banished, and sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.
Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.
What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.
I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat with his holiday mates on an expedition of discovery up his native river.
But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite, or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be affected by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose, a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole.
You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas's library.
These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt as a child on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburg, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight.
Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
I try, in vain, to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation.
There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disc just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There, for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators.
There, snow and frost are banished, and sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.
Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.
What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.
I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat with his holiday mates on an expedition of discovery up his native river.
But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite, or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be affected by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose, a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole.
You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas's library.
These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt as a child on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven.
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