I can imagine few things more trying to the patience than the long wasted days of waiting.

We are very near the end, but have not and will not lose our good cheer.

Every day some new fact comes to light - some new obstacle which threatens the gravest obstruction. I suppose this is the reason which makes the game so well worth playing.

We are weak, writing is difficult, 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.

As one looks across the barren stretches of the pack, it is sometimes difficult to realise what teeming life exists immediately beneath its surface.

Hunger and fear are the only realities in dog life: an empty stomach makes a fierce dog.

Slowly but surely the sea is freezing over.

The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.

We are showing that Englishmen can still die with a bold spirit, fighting it out to the end.

But take comfort in that I die at peace with the world and myself - not afraid.

But we have been to the Pole and we shall die like gentlemen. I regret only for the women we leave behind.

Certainly dog driving is the most terrible work one has to face in this sort of business.

Each man in his way is a treasure.

I fear we have shot our bolt - but we have been to Pole and done the longest journey on record.

I may not have proved a great explorer, but we have done the greatest march ever made and come very near to great success.

The dog is almost human in its demand for living interest, yet fatally less than human in its inability to foresee.

To wait idly is the worst of conditions.

But if we have been willing to give our lives to this enterprise, which is for the honour of our country, I appeal to our countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for.

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 events of the day's march are now becoming so dreary and dispiriting that one longs to forget them when we camp; it is an effort even to record them in a diary.