Crowds of Cape pigeons and albatrosses accompanied us all across the
South Pacific. These birds never seem to tire and but rarely rest on the
water, except when they swoop down and settle a moment to pick up
something that has been thrown overboard; this is quickly devoured, and
they are again in pursuit. The albatrosses, some white, some grey, and
some almost black, are huge birds; some that we shot, and for which the
boat was sent, measured nine feet from tip to tip of wings.

On August 1st we rounded Stewart's Island, the southern-most of the New
Zealand group. It is little more than a barren rock, and was not then
inhabited, whatever it may be now. Although it was the winter season,
and the latitude corresponded to that of the North of England, we
remarked how mild and dry was the atmosphere in comparison. Indeed the
weather was glorious and seemed to welcome us to the land we were coming
to.

On the 3rd of August we sighted the coast of Canterbury, and at daylight
on the 4th we found ourselves lying becalmed about 12 miles off Port
Lyttelton Heads, from whence the captain signalled for a pilot steamer
to take the ship to harbour. In the clear rare atmosphere, and the pure
invigorating feeling of that glorious morning, we were all impatient of
delay. A couple of fishing boats were lying not far off, and we begged
the captain to let us row out to them and he permitted us,
conditionally that we returned and kept near the ship, because
immediately the tug arrived we would start. We rowed to the boats and
obtained some information from the fishermen, with whom were two of the
natives, Maori lads; indeed, I think the boat partly belonged to the
Maoris, for these people do not take service with the white settlers.
They pointed out to us where the entrance lay, and told us that Port
Lyttelton was some five miles further down a bay.