city, and the wickedness of mankind. But to return to the voyage.

On the 16th of November we came in sight of Madeira, and entered the tropics on the 21st. The heat increased after this every day, till we passed the equator, or the line, as it is generally called at sea. For two or three weeks at that period, the thermometer ranged from 75 to 82 in the shade, and the nights, in particular, were very oppressive.

The commanding officer of our ship, Captain John Hemery, from the Island of Jersey, was a handsome young man of good address, and though said to be opulent, preferring a sea life to any other,—a singular choice I must admit. He had some faults, and who has not; but he was an excellent seaman; very sober and attentive to the duties of the ship, and a strict disciplinarian. He was disposed to be somewhat haughty in his deportment,-keeping very much aloof from us all; but this, I am inclined to think, arose, in a great measure, from the situation in which he found himself placed; and really, when we consider his youth, and the difficult part which he had to act, amidst the jarrings and quarrels that invariably occur in emigrant ships, I cannot help thinking that this feeling was highly commendable. Every Sunday when the weather permitted, we had divine service performed upon deck to the whole passengers and crew, by the Rev. Mr. M'Farlane. After service on the first Sunday, he distributed amongst us copies of a Pastoral Address by the Presbytery of Paisley, of which he had been a member, to the First Scottish Settlers of New Zealand, which concludes thus :—

"And now, dear countrymen, we sympathise with

you in your feelings, which are no doubt tender, on leaving the land of your fathers, it may be for ever, and are persuaded that, as Scotsmen, you are not likely soon to forget your last view of its rocky shores, as these fade and disappear in the distant horizon. Other lands, rich and sunny though they be, will, to those of you who have reached maturity, still want the tender associations of early life, and the hallowed recollections of a Scottish Sabbath, with its simple but affecting accompaniments. We have no need to be ashamed of our common country, comparatively barren though it be, and however ungenial our climate. Scotland has proved the nurse of many adventurous sons, whose conduct in other parts of the world reflects honour on the land of their birth; and you will not forget that you, also, are now to be enrolled among her expatriated children, and that she expects you will be distinguished amongst the natives of other lands for your high moral bearing, your honest and persevering industry, and your habitual reverence for God, and the things of God.

Our

"And now, brethren, we must bid you adieu! first meeting will probably be around the judgment seat of Christ; but then we will not be as now, in the attitude of addressing, and of being addressed; the world itself will then have passed away-time will have ceased to be counted by the revolutions of seasons and of centuries-eternity will have begun-the sentence will then have gone forth :" "He that is unwhich is filthy,

just, let him be unjust still; and he

let him be filthy still; and he that is righteous, let

him be righteous still; and he that is holy, let him be holy still."

On the 10th of February, 1840, we came in sight of the middle island of New Zealand; and when coasting along its shores for nearly a hundred miles, were wonderfully struck with the enormous height of the ridge of snow-clad mountains, which, being near to the west coast, we had almost constantly in view. Matthew, in his work entitled "Emigration Fields," in alluding to these, says, "the mountains themselves, the sublime southern Alps, more elevated than the highest of the Alps in Switzerland, upheaved from the depths of the great South Sea, in some places to more than three miles of altitude, and from their volcanic character, of the boldest and most abrupt outline, are perhaps unequalled in the world."

The first place at which we landed was at D'Urville's Island, on the west entry of Cook's Straits; but not finding, as we had reason to expect, any of the Company's officers to give us directions in regard to our future operations, we remained there only two hours. During that time, a family of natives paid us a visit in their canoes, the first we had seen, but a worse specimen of them cannot well be imagined. It was when off this Island that I composed the following poem, under these circumstances. Mr. M'Farlane offered a prize for the best poem, and though I believe that mine, upon the whole, was considered the best, yet our reverend friend contrived to keep the money in his own pocket in a very ingenious way; asserting that it did not come up to what, according to his views, a prize poem ought to be. But though rejected by this eminent divine, who must have been a bad judge of poetry, it does not follow that it must also be rejected by you.

SCENE-On board of the Bengal Merchant, at Ten o'Clock at night, off D'Urville's Island, Cook's Straits, New Zealand, on 11th February, 1840.

The bell tolls four, the knell of parting day,

The night watch sings "let lights extinguish'd be ;"
Save where the cuddy darts its glimm'ring ray-
The only light that now remains at sea.

No more the fiddlers play their wonted airs,
No more the dancers trip the highland fling;
No more the Doctor banishes our cares,

With stories told amidst th' accustom'd ring.
Oh sleep, thou harbinger of peace below,
Thou only refuge from the children's scream;
Thou only leveller of friend and foe,

And emblem of thyself without a dream.†

The cry of water dealt with wine-like care,
Awakens those still lull'd in " Murphy's" arms;
And chance of finding breakfast boards laid bare,
Soon rouses those quite dead to other charms.
Once more the hubbub on the deck is heard,

Once more the sextant fills the Captain's hand;
Once more the gallant Lawyer‡ mounts his guard,
Prepar'd for fight in yonder savage land.

And now the Butcher takes his wonted stroll,

'Midst pigs and fowls that know full well his tread; Or stopping, listens to some story droll,

Tho' not before his num'rous flocks are fed.

* Dr. Graham Tod, of Glasgow, an emigrant, who died at New Zealand a few months after his arrival.

The Emperor Napoleon compared death to sleep without a dream.

R. Strang Esq. late Solicitor in Glasgow, who used to drill the passengers, to be ready for battle, in case of being attacked by the New Zealanders.

And now the Doctor goes his daily round,

And feels the pulses of his children dear;
And tells them that the best relief is found

In soups and salts, and sicklike good old cheer.
At night we offer up our prayers sincere,

To him who doth the mighty deep command;
That he would bless the friends we've left so dear,
And guard us still through our adopted land.
And when the cry of "Land" was heard at last,
How eager all that land were to explore;
Though some shed tears on scenes for ever past,
Far, far away on Caledonia's shore.

And now that we have plough'd the stormy deep,
And anchor'd safely on a foreign strand,
Let's sing the praises of the gallant ship,
That's wafted us unto this smiling land.

There is one thing connected with a sea life which I have seen noticed only by one author, and that is, the effect produced upon the temper,-those with good tempers on shore, becoming often irritable at sea. This author asserts, that too close a conjunction of human beings without relaxation, tends to beget selfishness; and states his conviction, that if twenty philosophers were shut up in one cabin during a six month's voyage, they would all come to hate one another by the end of it.

On board of our ship we had one or two quarrels, but nothing compared to those that occurred in some of the others. On board of the Adelaide, in particular, they were so numerous, and of so deadly a character, that the ship actually put in at the Cape of Good Hope for no other purpose but to fight duels, the captain himself being one of the number. One of the combatants, however, became so much alarmed for his personal