Before reaching Dunedin we cross the Clutha, one of the largest of the New Zealand rivers, as it drains three lakes among the mountains, and these in their turn are fed from the snows of the southern Alps. The river flows for the most part through a narrow rock-bound channel, in hilly country, and so has no broad valley for settlement; but its sands are rich in alluvial gold, and we may perhaps catch sight of an 22 ugly floating dredger, moored in the stream. Much of the gold in New Zealand is alluvial, and dredging for it in the river-bed is one of the most common and profitable methods of mining. This part of Otago owes its population and prosperity almost entirely to its gold and the sheep which are scattered everywhere over its rolling downs; in the west, as we have already seen, it is occupied by mountain, fiord, and forest, and is scarcely inhabited.
Dunedin, the Edinburgh of New Zealand, is the most important commercial city in the South Island. It is much larger than Invercargill and has many fine buildings of the Oamaru stone, the best building stone to be found in the island. Here was the original Scottish settlement in 1848, and the natural outlet of the rich gold and pastoral district behind. The city lies at the head of a long inlet, Otago Harbour, which 23 is formed by a narrow peninsula connected only by a small neck with the mainland. The peninsula and the surrounding hills together make a kind of funnel through which sweep the winds from the north-east or south-west. It is always cool and breezy here, a fit place for a strong, healthy, and energetic race; but people coming from the warmer regions of the North Island do not always appreciate the change. Here we have a wide view of the town and harbour, looking northwards, 24 from the Town Belt, a fine stretch of public land on the hillside encircling the city. Here is a nearer view from which we can gain some notion of the size 25 and character of the city itself. Notice the church spires, the tall factory chimneys, the warehouses and offices. Dunedin has its flour mills, its woollen mills, its manufactures of boots and clothing. Here is the interior of one of the large woollen mills, showing the 26 combing and spinning machines; we might easily imagine ourselves in Yorkshire. Another picture gives us a glimpse of one of the many beauty spots on the 27 coast within a short distance of the city.
Just as the ocean trade of Invercargill was carried on at Bluff, so the outlet for Dunedin and the usual landing-place for large steamers is at Port Chalmers, 28 some miles further down the inlet; though a recently dredged channel now enables them to reach the wharves of Dunedin itself. Here we see the port from the west, looking towards the sea. Dunedin is the headquarters of the largest steamship company in the southern hemisphere; the company trades especially with the coast ports of New Zealand and with Australia. It is a curious accident which has given us a fine harbour in this position. The east coast, like the west, takes the form of long, smooth bights, with very few natural harbours. The peninsula which forms Otago Inlet is volcanic in origin, as is the larger Banks Peninsula further north. There are no live volcanoes in South Island; but these interesting relics of past activity have proved of the greatest value to settlement. They even attracted here the Maoris, who confined themselves for the most part to North Island.
We must now resume our journey, by the trunk 29 line of railway, which follows the coast all the way, with occasional branches running inland between the south-eastern spurs of the central mountain chain. We pass Oamaru, whence comes the stone for many of the public buildings of New Zealand, and stop at Timaru, where we change trains. We are going up one of the branch lines to visit another district of magnificent scenery, though quite different from the southern lakes and fiords. This is the district of the New Zealand Alps, the Switzerland of the southern hemisphere. At Fairlie the railway ends and we must once again trust to a motor car. In the distance, as we start in the early morning, we see a great mass of snow-capped mountains: this is our goal.
Our road at first lies across a flat plain, with sheep and cattle, and here and there a field of corn or a clump of trees and an isolated homestead. Then we reach Burke’s Pass, with its firs and poplars and little group 30 of houses. Mount Cook, the highest peak in the island, is just visible in the distance. We are crossing over one of the long spurs which spread eastward from the main chain. Soon we find the mountains, with snow peaks, closing in on either side, as well as in front, and so we come down to Lake Tekapo. 31
Here we cross the end of the lake by a suspension bridge; notice how the light is reflected from the snow on the summit of the mighty range in front of us. Next we come on a sight peculiar to the country; this is a boundary dog, a lonely sentry chained up at a 32 point where the boundary of a sheep run crosses the road and there is no gate to prevent the sheep from straying. Around him is a heap of bones, the remnants of many meals. Then we reach another lake, Pukaki, with its chalky-looking water; and in the distance up 33 the lake we have a view of the great mass of Mount Cook. We drive along the lake side right into the heart of the mountains, and in the evening reach the Hermitage at the foot of Mount Sefton. Here is a view 34 of Mount Sefton and here are the Hermitage and the mountain as we should see them in winter. 35
We sleep at the Hermitage, and in the morning start with a guide and the usual equipment of the climber in Switzerland. We cross the Hooker River by a 36 suspended cage; the water looks quiet enough now, but here it is in flood; a very different picture. All 37 along the west coast there are mountain streams of this kind; and we can easily imagine what a serious barrier they offer to movement from north to south across the line of their channels.
It would be impossible, without a large scale map and plenty of space, to describe the wonders which we can see on a two days’ walk, sleeping at Ball Hut, a long way up the mountain slopes. But we may gain some notion of the different kinds of scenery to be found. All around us are snow-clad peaks, with great glaciers flowing down the valleys between and ending in long moraines—masses of rock and debris with chalk-white streams flowing out from beneath them as in the picture before us. This is the Mueller Glacier with 38 Mount Sefton; and the river coming out from the terminal face is the Hooker, which we crossed earlier 39 at a lower point in its course. Here again we are looking up the famous Tasman Glacier, towards the Minarets, and here is the wonderful scene at the head of the 40 glacier. On the same glacier we find a beautiful specimen of the ice river; and not far away, on the 41 great Hochstetter, we see some magnificent ice falls. In the background is Mount Silberhorn. The picture 42 suggests the origin of the name. Finally we have a view of Mount Cook, the Aorangi of the Maoris, with 43 its topmost peaks rising into the clouds. It is the highest mountain in Australasia, and we have already seen it in various aspects from a distance. Here is 44 the summit, twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea, or nearly three times the height of Ben Nevis. Mount Cook is worthy to stand by the side of the giant peaks of the Alps, and even in Switzerland it would be difficult to find scenery grander than that of these southern mountains.
We must not spend too much time here, so we make our way back to Timaru. Timaru is a small but busy town and port, with flour mills, meat-freezing works, and steamers loading at its wharves. We must pause here for a moment as we are entering on a new region in South Island, very different from those which we have visited. Timaru is the chief outlet for the centre and south of the province of Canterbury. The eastern part of the province consists of a strip of level or gently undulating country, a hundred and fifty miles from north to south and from thirty to forty from east to west. This plain slopes gently from the foothills of the western mountains, and has been built up largely of alluvium brought down by the rivers which now flow across it in shifting channels through wide belts of shingle. It is a sharp contrast to the forest regions of the west: a land of comparatively small rainfall, with pastures, hedgerows, and open cornlands; treeless except for scattered clumps, planted by the settlers. Dropped suddenly in this district we might easily imagine that we were somewhere in the Midlands of England.