distance, and reasonably suppose himself to be a mile or two nearer to, or farther off from it than he actually was? Would not that very probable circumstance interfere with the course to be pursued, and justify (nay even demand) measures, which have under adverse circumstances, been attended with such unhappy results? Dead upon a lee shore at an uncertain distance, and with a most uncertain light, the wind and sea both setting in fearfully towards the land, it may have been an awful fact, known only to one brave heart who fought it out to the last, that under all these conjunctures the sailing qualities of the Dunbar would _not_ permit her to keep out to sea that night. Hour after hour, minute after minute, notwithstanding all careful steering she made a lee-way, which, no change of wind occurring, must at last have thrown her bodily somewhere upon the coast. This lee-way could not be securely calculated upon, even by him who knew the Dunbar so well, because his first idea of distance when he sighted Botany was, to say the least, uncertain, if not untrue. Captain Green shaped his course for the North Head (it was of that he spoke at the last), but he only fetched the fatal rocks at the Gap. It seems doubtful to many if he could have done anything more than what he did do, and thus his duty to the utmost performed, Green met his death with calmness, as a brave man should. The only particular pang that might then have shot through him would be this--that he would be more or less condemned unheard, carrying with him his own strong, unanswerable defence. God alone knows all he had to struggle against, and to weigh in his mind that night.