http://discerninghistory.com/2013/05/shackletons-ad-men-want...

http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=24

Though I expect few Canadians know about the Franklin exhibition.

... in the English-speaking world, maybe. My father knows all about Amundsen and very little about Scott, because in (fascist) Italy, English activities were played down.

Anyway, it's hardly surprising that the English-speaking world would elevate their own failed champions above other countries' more successful ones, at a time when extreme nationalism was widespread.

At the time, I think he was seen as a heel that pretty effortlessly ended up as champion. The British with their bizarre obsession with manhauling definitely saw the usage of dogs as less manly. Also: Amundsen was not photogenic. More evidence that he was a cartoon villain.

Did Scott end up changing his route after the announcement? Because I seem to recall they started several hundred kilometers apart.

The other part is a peculiarly English cultural tendency, particularly pronounced during the Victorian and Edwardian eras, to raise up for veneration losers who went down with style -- not just Scott, but figures like Gordon of Khartoum (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_George_Gordon) as well. There was a strong strain in the culture boys were raised in during that era that stressed chivalry and a particular sense of good sportsmanship as being much more important than whether one actually wins or loses.

There's a poem from 1892 called Vitaï Lampada (http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Admirals_All/Vita%C3%AF_Lampad...), written by Sir Henry Newbolt (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Newbolt), that is frequently pointed to as the best expression of this ethos:

   There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
   Ten to make and the match to win --
   A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
   An hour to play and the last man in.
   And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
   Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
   But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote --
   'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

   The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
   Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
   The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
   And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
   The river of death has brimmed his banks,
   And England's far, and Honour a name,
   But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
   'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

   This is the word that year by year,
   While in her place the School is set,
   Every one of her sons must hear,
   And none that hears it dare forget.
   This they all with a joyful mind
   Bear through life like a torch in flame,
   And falling fling to the host behind --
   'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

The last bit is definitely true- he died after four or five days in a blizzard, ten miles from resupply. After heroics coming back from the pole with men collapsing from malnutrition.

I too found that in my school's library.