MARTIN’S BAY.
CHAPTER IV.
HERE are a few memoranda—the shreds and patches of one’s recollections of Milford Sound—which must be disposed of before reference is made to the agreeable, and, it should be added, the practicable surroundings of Martin’s Bay. Those of us who had gone to gaze upon the waterfall, when satiated with the sight of it, crossed to the southern side of the basin in which the “Geelong” lay, and joined the others upon the delta formed by the outflow of the two rivers which fall into the Sound—the Arthur and the Cleddow. It was a trifling matter, but of the first objects which attracted our attention were some extraordinary footprints on the sandy beach. “Would that they were only the footprints of the Moa,” was the wish of the Barnum of the party, who would, no doubt, have dug them out, as proof-presumptive of the existence of the mysterious bird; but, unfortunately, they bore a striking resemblance to the marks which are made by the hoofs of a horse, only that they were of mammoth size. It was suggested that some poet who had come hither in search of the picturesque had here mounted his Pegasus, and that these were its footmarks as he took his last flight. The practical man had nothing better to say than that they were the marks of the “flippers” of a seal, and it is just possible that he was right. I do not believe he knew anything about it; but there was none of us competent to contradict him.
By the time we had a good look around this locality, waiting for those who had gone further and were faring worse, the eye became more accustomed to the grandeur of the scenery, and we could contemplate it with less of that shrinking, shuddering feeling, which instinctively overcame one when in closer proximity to the mountains, and in a position to realise more acutely their magnificent presence. This may sound extravagant, but there were some among us who were destitute of neither nerve nor pluck, and if I misrepresent the quality of their feelings in the presence of the surroundings of Milford Sound, they are quite at liberty to say so. My impression is that the opportunity was an excellent one for Superintendents or any one else realising their individuality, and ascertaining the relative proportions of themselves and the world at large. What I was saying was, that we could now look upon the scene more calmly. Yet it had not lost any of its elements of grandeur. There were mountains to the right, mountains to the left, mountains in front, mountains behind—I should not like to say where there were not mountains, for there were some of them almost above, overhanging with an attitude of impending vengeance which was almost as useful as going to confession. One of the quaintest forms was the peculiarly-peaked summit of the Mitre,
