In 1824 Captain George F. Lyon was despatched, in the _Griper_, to complete surveys of north-east America, but not specially to attempt discovery. The _Griper_ was an old tub of a vessel, utterly unfitted for its work, and it is rather of the voyage itself, as displaying the advantages of perfect naval discipline under great disadvantages, than for any other reason, this unfortunate expedition is recorded. The vessel was a bad sailer, and constantly shipped seas which threatened to sweep everything from the decks. In Sir Thomas Rowe’s Welcome—the passage between Southampton Island and the mainland—fogs and heavy seas were encountered, while no trust could be placed in the compasses, and the water was fast shallowing. Lyon was obliged to bring the vessel “up with three bowers and a stream anchor in succession,” but not before the water had shoaled to five and a half fathoms, the ship all the while pitching bows under. So perilous was their position that the boats were stored with arms, ammunition, and provisions; the officers drew lots for their respective boats, although two of the smaller ones would have inevitably been swamped the moment they were lowered. Heavy seas continued to sweep the decks, and when the fog lifted a little a low beach was discovered astern of the ship, on which the surf was running to an awful height, and where, says Lyon, “no human power could save us if driven upon it.” Immediately afterwards the ship, lifted by a tremendous sea, struck with great violence the whole length of the keel, and her total wreck was momentarily expected. In the midst of all their misery the crew remained twenty-four hours on the flooded decks, and Lyon himself did not leave for his berth till exhausted after three nights’ watching. Few on board expected to survive the gale. Still, every precaution was taken for the comfort of the men, who were ordered to put on their best and warmest clothing to support life as long as possible. The officers each secured some useful instrument for future work, if, indeed, the slightest hope remained. “And now,” says Lyon, “that everything in our power had been done, I called all hands aft, and to a merciful God offered prayers for our preservation. I thanked every one for their excellent conduct, and cautioned them, as we should, in all probability, soon appear before our Maker, to enter His presence as men resigned to their fate. We then all sat down in groups, and, sheltered from the wash of the sea by whatever we could find, many of us endeavoured to obtain a little sleep. Never, perhaps, was witnessed a finer scene than on the deck of my little ship, when all hope of life had left us. Noble as the character of the British sailor is always allowed to be in cases of danger, yet I did not believe it to be possible that among forty-one persons not one repining word should have been uttered. The officers sat about wherever they could find shelter from the sea, and the men lay down, conversing with each other