Our Floating World.

On the 25th we landed the Channel pilot at Torbay. The passage then started in real earnest; the shores of Old England quickly receded from sight, and for the first time in the lives of the majority of the ship's complement we were,

"Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide, wide sea."

With the prospect of three months of it, more or less, probably more, nearly all of us sea sick, and already sick of the sea. Contrast the conditions under which a trip to New Zealand was made in those days with those of the present time. An iron tank, roughly 250ft long by 35ft wide and 25ft deep, depending entirely on the wind for its motive power, and constituting for the time being our whole world. No wireless to keep us up to date with important political news or international relations. And yet the old St. Leonards was a floating palace compared to some of the old "hookers" that brought out emigrants in the early days. She was staunch, well found, and well manned, and given a chance, could ball it off the log reel.

A sailer carrying more than a limited number of passengers, was compelled to carry extra hands for'rd, sometimes to the extent of a double crew; hence we had about twenty men before the mast—four quartermasters, carpenter, sail-maker, boatswain, donkeyman, cook, baker, four apprentices, steward, cabin boy, and, of course, first and second mates. There was also a doctor, of whom it is not possible to speak too highly. His name, Goode, was applicable to his nature. I can visualise him now, with his cheery smile and pleasant words for all. He hailed from Dublin, and spoke with a rich mellow brogue, to my mind pleasant to listen to, especially as he made no distinction between the saloon and the fo'c's'le or steerage. I remember one of the emigrants, a Mrs. Jackson, being seriously ill; all hope was practically given up, and she was brought on deck and laid on the main hatch, for we were in the tropics, and it was insufferably hot in the 'tween decks. The doctor knelt at her head—sympathy beaming in his eyes, and he was scarcely able to conceal his emotion, holding her hands, and waiting for the end to come or the crisis to pass. Young as I was then, I think that to a great extent I realised the solemnity of the occasion—an apparently dying woman and the sea yawning for its victim. However, the patient did not die. The doctor's skill and unremitting attention pulled her through. Another case: In the southeast trades one Sunday morning about seven bells, the watch were engaged in "sweating up," i.e., tightening the lines attached to the yards and sails. Some hands were on the fo'c's'le head hauling on the head sheets, when an A.B. named Peachy inadvertently stepped on the skylight. He was barefooted, and the broken glass cut his leg from ankle to knee. He was carried aft to the break of the poop, and the doctor (who had not yet turned out) was informed at the accident. It was fortunate that it occurred in a passenger ship rating a doctor, as it is extremely doubtful whether a captain could have dealt successfully with such a severe cut; the man would probably have bled to death. In a very few seconds the doctor, not waiting to dress, was on deck in his pyjamas. He stitched and bandaged the wound, superintended the conveying of the man for'ard and disposal in his bunk, and was dodging backwards and forwards very frequently, giving strict orders to be called the instant there was the slightest suspicion of anything going wrong. Fortunately, no complications arose, and the man madepage 365 a good recovery, though it took several weeks before he was fit to report for duty.

Not only professionally but also in a social way the good old doctor showed a desire to do all possible to vary the monotony of the passage. In the second dogwatch (6 to 8) he visited the emigrants' quarters, and read to the passengers, taking the different compartments alternately. I am afraid that few men in his position would have left the more congenial surroundings of the saloon, comparatively brilliantly illuminated with a kerosene lamp, to entertain third-class passengers in the dark, dismal 'tween decks with someone holding a lantern (one candle) in position to enable him to see the print.