standing to the westward, and sloping on the one side into the Sound, and on the other into a deep barren ravine, where the snow had slid to a level unusually low. The most attractive—and the one upon which the mind would dwell the longest, if the eye were only equal to the task—was Pembroke Peak itself, covered with a constant coating of snow, so brilliant under the mid-day sun as to dazzle the sight. From the snow-field near its summit there was an extensive slip, or glacier, if you like, which came down to a lower level than, with the intervening bush, we were capable of seeing. From the placid water in which the “Geelong” had anchored, and almost parallel with her funnel, a hill stood up more than 5000 ft. high.
Once or twice a dull rumbling sound was heard, like that of distant thunder, and we thought our hopes of a continuance of fine weather were to be disappointed. But the cause of the sound was discovered when it was repeated, for, before it reached our ears, some of us happened to notice the snow on one of the mountain-tops slipping from its place, and coming down the side with a velocity that made one wink again, until it settled on a broad terrace, and sent up a huge cloud of snowy spray. The sound produced by one of these, mistaken for the echo of the firing of the steamer’s gun, brought back Mr Wright and others who had gone up the river; and, as our time was up, we started to return to the anchorage of Anita Bay. Before doing so, we landed some of the Acclimatisation Society’s rabbits on the level ground between the rivers, with good wishes towards them and their multiplication; and it took us some time to pick up the anchor, for it had embraced a snag at the bottom of the Basin—a stout black pine, apparently recently deposited by the stream. We neglected to do one thing—to add a small record of our visit to the few other records carved on trees near Cemetery Point, or scratched on superannuated soup-and-bouilli tins, fixed at the same place.
As we steamed down the Sound, we could not but observe Harrison’s Cove as presenting an opening in the country towards Martin’s Bay; and I have ascertained, from those who visited Little Martin’s Bay (or Kaipo Bay of the map), that a valley extends from that place towards Milford Sound, with its probable termination at Harrison’s Cove. But Harrison’s Cove, or any other part of Milford Sound, I fear, is never very likely to become a harbour for loading and discharging shipping; although, perhaps, in the “high-faluting” mood in which one comes away from its scenery, it is scarcely safe to hazard that opinion. In the humour in which one writes, it would almost seem sacrilege for anything less than the “Great Eastern” to enter there.
It was almost dusk before the “Geelong” anchored in Anita Bay. This bay, though recognised as part of the Sound, is properly outside—the ante-room of its grand interior. The land which forms its shelter is a comparatively low peninsula, the outer projection of which is named Ann’s Point. The bay is a favourite anchorage with vessels running along the coast, when caught in a S.W. gale; but there must occasionally be a considerable “range” of sea, even within its shelter, the beach being steep. Its shelter would, apparently, be most deficient in a N.W. wind, but the Sound itself is not a bad, rather a better, substitute. The bay is well marked by a small island, or shrub clad
