CONCLUSION
For three and twenty years Robert Edwin Peary has knocked valiantly at the portals of Immortal Fame—that Castle Nowhere—whose glistening walls of eternal ice lie shimmering in the brilliant sun; whose jewelled towers and minarets catch the glint of sparkling rainbows.
The Gates at last have opened and the banquet hall is set. Wild Arctic melodies fall grandly upon the ear. The cannonade of glaciers thunders a salute. About the festive board stand the heroes of the past, according to their precedence and rank.
Hail! ye Iva Bardsen! Hail! ye early Norsemen and ye Danes! There stand the Cabots, John the father, Sebastian the bold son. There Sir Willoughby and Chancellor; and old Sir Humphrey Gilbert and a host of others. There Barentz, there Behring,—there Henry Hudson and old Baffin. Three hearty cheers for Von Wrangell, Ross and Parry and brave old Sir John Franklin! Crozier and his men line at attention and salute!
Ah! Elisha Kane, the beauty of a noble soul lies written in a gentle face. Francis Hall, thou dreamer, stand forth and welcome the arriving guest. German, Austrian, Norwegian and Italian, stand thou behind the board, lift high the diamond chalice and quaff the limpid draft in honour of the hero, for he comes.
In one voice, down the ages goes the cry, “All praise to him who conquers!” and Peary, entering, bows, and takes his seat.