Quite the best account of life on board an emigrant ship in the sailing-ship days was given by Mr. S. Philpott, of Auckland, in an article that appeared in the "Auckland Star" under the heading "Sea Memories," and it was so good that I have reproduced it here.

On Tuesday, June 17, 1873, a small family group might have been seen on a departure platform of what was then the Landport railway terminus (now the Portsmouth town station). Their somewhat bulky luggage would convey an idea that these were no ordinary local travellers, and the address written conspicuously on most of the packages would have completed the evidence: "John Blank, passenger to Auckland, N.Z., per ship St. Leonards, via East India Docks, London."

Arrived at London Bridge, cabs conveyed us to the docks. Fifty years ago the East India Docks presented an entirely different appearance from that which has prevailed during more recent years—the scene has been aptly described as being literally "a forest of masts." The vessels at the loading berths were moored alongside short jetties at right angles to the breastwork, over which the bowsprits (with jib-booms rigged in) protruded in a long parallel column with almost mathematical precision. Over the bows of each was suspended a large signboard, bearing the name, destination, etc, of the ship. About the third on the row from the main gates was one as follows: "For Auckland direct. This splendid iron clipper ship St. Leonards, 999 tons, (reg.) 100 Al at Lloyd's, Captain Petherbridge, will sail as above on June 17. For freight or passage, apply Shaw, Savill and Co."

Around and about the dock gates intending passengers loitered, they not being allowed on board until about 5 p.m. for the obvious reason that they would have been a menace to an army of carpenters busily engaged putting the finishing touches to the temporary berths, etc., erected in the "'tween decks," the scene somewhat resembling an exhibition the day preceding the opening—everything on top and nothing at hand, like a midshipman's chest. However, something like order was finally evolved out of chaos, and we sat down to our first meal. We went into the Basin the same evening, and were towed to Gravesend the next morning. On the Thursday a number of cabin passengers boarded us, and the tugboat hooked on again to take us another stage on the "long long trail." We fetched up in the Downs until the Saturday, when the tug took us to Beachy Head, and thence down Channel under sail. We had a light fair wind for a start. I remember passing St. Catherine's (Isle of Wight) on Monday evening (the 23rd) and seeing the illuminations at Spithead in honour of the Shah of Persia's visit to England.

Getting Our Sea Legs.

So far I think most of us were enjoying the entirely novel experience. We were fortunate in having a fair run down Channel, and thus had time to become more or less accustomed to our surroundings. The experience of many who had the misfortune to strike a head wind for a start was by no means an enviable one, especially at night. The ship is sailing close-hauled under all plain sail, and as much of it as she can stagger under, causing her to heel over to an angle of from 15 to 20 degrees. Many of the passengers are unable to sleep, children are crying, and strange creaking noises fill the 'tween decks. There was no electric light in those days to enlighten the gloom; just one solitary lantern of one candle power hanging near the hatch. The officer in charge decides to "go about," calling out in a voice that could be heard far beyond the limits of the ship, "All hands 'bout ship." This, of course, is unintelligible to most, especially the women, some of whom would be in a state of nervous terror under the impression that there must be something wrong, otherwise why should all hands be required about the ship. Orders follow each other in rapid succession, every order being repeated by the crew, not in unison, but just as the spirit moves the individual. Repeating an order immediately on receiving it is an invariable rule on ship board, as the officer giving it knows that he has been understood.

In Stays.

Putting a square-rigger "in stays" is a much more complicated process than is the case with a "fore and after." In a square-rigged-vessel the mainsail is hauled up. This is done to the accompaniment of much stamping and shouting, and the flapping of the canvas before it is got under control by the clew garnets and bunt lines adds to the anxiety of the novices. From aft comes the cry, "Helm's a lee," responded to from the fo'c's'le head, "Lee ho!" The head sheets are then eased off, and the ship comes up in the wind. She assumes an even keel, and for a few moments there is what my typical passenger would regard as an ominous silence. Then it is "main topsail haul." The braces are let go on what was the lee side, and those on what was the weather side are hauled on. When her head has payed off sufficiently we hear, "Let go the fore bowline!" The yards swing round faster than the watch can gather in the slack of the braces. If the manoeuvre is not likely to be repeated too frequently it is "Down main tack!" "Aft main sheet!" "Haul taut the weather braces!" and, most welcome of all to the watch below, "That'll do the watch!"

The vessel is now heeling over in the opposite direction, causing any articles not secured to roll down to "loo'ard," and adding to the commotion. In such cases it is as well to take the Irishman's advice, who just previous to a ship "going about" shouted out, "Lash your chests, this side'll be the other side, immajetely!"

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.

The After Guard.

Captain Petherbridge was a man whose first consideration appeared to be the safety of his passengers, and though no doubt desirous of making a good passage, or at any rate not a too protracted one, he took no risks. When in doubt his motto was "shorten sail," which I consider a much more commendable attitude than that adopted by would-be record-breakers. The chief mate, Mr. Bowline, was a much younger man than the captain. The second mate was a Scotsman named MacDonald, a burly, gruff old sea-dog. I say old, but I do not intend to imply that he was old in years, though to me at that time, a boy of fourteen, he appeared so. He was, however, a good-hearted man and well liked by his watch. At that time I knew nothing of the technicalities of the sea, but possessing a fairly retentive memory, I knew now that the men for'ard were as good a crowd as ever signed on before the stick for a deep water voyage.

In fine weather latitudes school was held for the young people. The school-master was a Mr. Gayne. He was an old soldier, who had been in Auckland during the Maori war, and was returning with his family. And so the days deepened into weeks and the weeks into months, and we were still on the track, making fair progress. We got a good slant for a few days when running down our easting, sailing by observation 1700 miles in five days. It was said that during that splendid run her maximum speed was 17 knots an hour by the log, the average being slightly over 14. We had a fairly good time in the high southern latitudes. I don't remember shipping any really heavy water, though we were battened down on two or three occasions.

Auckland Fifty Years Ago.

Up to Wednesday, September 24, we had not seen the slightest sign of land since we lost sight of the coast of Devonshire on Wednesday, June 25 (just 13 weeks), but it is proverbially "a long road that has no turning," and so at last our weary exile was approaching its end. About four bells (two o'clock) in the afternoon there was a shout of "land on the starboard bow!" Instantly the greatest excitement prevailed. The land proved to be the Three Kings. We passed to the northward of them. The following morning we were abreast of Cape Brett. The wind was light, about due west, and it was very pleasant sailing along the coast, with the wind off the land and abaft the beam. Friday morning found us well in the Gulf, off Tiri, about seven o'clock. An hour later we were boarded by Pilot Burgess. A lead through the channel and then, nearing Bean Rock, "'Bout ship!" A few boards up the harbour, then: "Clew up and haul down!" "Stand by the anchor!" "All ready, for'ard?" "All ready, sir." "Down helm!" Slowly she comes up in the wind and loses way. "Let go!" "Let go it is." The carpenter's maul descends; the anchor drops from the cathead, and we hear the music of the cable rattling through the hawsepipe. She swings to her chain, and lies peacefully at anchor in the "tranquil waters of the Waitemata."