maiden ladies, the Misses Hunt, who, with the doctor and his wife, the
captain and first-mate, comprised our cabin party. In the second-class
were three passengers--T. Smith, whose name will frequently appear in
these pages, and two brothers called Leach, going out to join a rich
cousin, a sheep farmer in Canterbury. Smith was the son of a wealthy
squire, with whom, it appeared, he had fallen out respecting some family
matters, and in a fit of pique left his home and took passage to New
Zealand. His funds were sufficient to procure him a second-class berth,
but on representing matters to the captain, who knew something of his
family, it was arranged that he should join us in the saloon, hence he
became one of our comrades, and eventually a particular friend.

The captain's name was Ashby, and he soon proved to be a most jolly and
agreeable companion. The first-mate, Lapworth, also became a favourite
with us all.

The doctor was usually drunk, or partly so, and led his wife, a kind and
amiable little lady, a very unpleasant life. The Misses Hunt were
elderly, amiable, and generally just what they should be.

Our cabins we had (in accordance with the usages of emigrant ships)
furnished ourselves, and they were roomy and comfortable, but I will not
readily forget the horror with which I woke up during the first night at
sea, with an indescribable feeling that I was being crawled over by
some loathsome things. In a half-wakeful fit, I put out my hand, to find
it rest upon a huge rat, which was seated on my chest. I started up in
my bunk, when, as I did so, it appeared that a large family of rats had
been holding high carnival upon me and my possessions; fully a dozen
must have been in bed with me. I had no light, nor could I procure one,
so I dressed and went on deck until morning. As a boy I was fond of