CHAPTER V

MONTEVIDEO TO PUNTA ARENAS

PUNTA ARENAS, Dec. 14, 1897.

The _Belgica_ raised her anchor and steamed out of the harbour of Montevideo Sunday, November 14, 1897. We were showered with the good wishes of the people, and loaded with the good things of the land. The entire Belgian colony followed us far out into the stream to bid us a final adieu, while the officers and men were kept closely occupied in answering the various signal salutations of the many neighbouring vessels as we passed. The deck strewn with provisions, hastily assembled at the last moment and alive with visitors, was a picture to send a thrill to the heart of a navigator about to encounter the worst sea on earth; but the happy disposition instilled by our congenial friends made us forget, for a time, all cares for the future. Soon we ploughed across the choppy waters of the River Plata under an uncomfortable series of squalls which seemed to come with a hiss and a force like bombs from a cannon. Before sunset we had left the low, blue line of hills which mark the northern banks of the river and the site of Montevideo, far under the northern horizon. We were again on our way to the snowy bottom of the globe, with intentions to stop by the wayside at the world’s jumping-off-place, Punta Arenas.

On the following morning a heavy sea was pounding our port-bow, giving a quick lift, and permitting a sudden fall, to which our stomachs seriously objected. The sky was clothed with gloomy clouds having hard, zigzag edges like the margins of torn sheets of lead. We were, to all appearances, far out in the open expanse of the broad Atlantic, but, in reality, we were still in the mouth of the River Plata,--which accounted for the warm humid winds driving over our starboard. Much of the day was spent in an examination and rearrangement of our newly acquired equipage and provisions. It was to me a matter of agreeable surprise to find among these so many of the fruits and vegetables common to the New York market; but this is explained by the fact that Uruguay is a land of perpetual summer, where winter frosts are nearly unknown. The time of our visit was the spring of the southern hemisphere, November 15th, in the south, corresponding to May 15th, in the north; and while fruit and vegetable products are plentiful through the year, they are particularly delicious at this time. We had strawberries, cherries, apples, lettuce, radishes, peas, beans, artichokes, new potatoes, cabbage, and a long list of other fresh productions. There is, however, one great anomaly in the food supply of South America; it is the difficulty of obtaining fresh milk and the impossibility of securing good butter.

This is particularly surprising in view of the fact that, in Uruguay and Argentina, cattle farming is at once one of the principal industries and a source of the principal wealth of the countries. That good butter and excellent milk could be made under competent management is unquestionable. At Buenos Aires several successful efforts have been made, and the best results have followed the efforts of a missionary who has taken to the management of cows in preference to the more difficult task of reforming Spanish American sins.

In the absence of butter one is, however, not so seriously disappointed after he is accustomed to the Spanish substitute, “_dulce de leche_,” a sort of confection of milk. Mrs. Huysman, the wife of a prominent Belgian of Montevideo, had presented the expedition with a liberal supply of this, and after one or two introductions it proved quite a delicacy. _Dulce de leche_ is a kind of sweet paste of the consistency of lard; at ordinary temperature it has a straw colour and no distinct odour. It is made of condensed milk, cane sugar and the marrow of the largest beef bones, the ingredients being worked together in a smooth homogeneous mixture, and then sealed in small tin cans. In this form it is much in use, and can be obtained throughout all of southern South America. The mixture is extremely nutritious, and aside from its position as a substitute for butter it has evidently special values of its own. I see no reason why it could not be introduced with advantage into the United States.

On the morning of the 16th, the sky was clear of the heavy clouds which descend with the stream of the Rio de la Plata. There was a little air, dry and pleasant, coming from the Patagonian pampas over our western horizon. The sea was a joy to behold. Its surface was like a sheet of silver, glassy and luminous, with long, easy and regular undulations. Through these the _Belgica_ steamed with a grace and ease quite befitting a pleasure yacht. Under the inspiration of the morning, we were prepared to deny the evil reports so often made of these waters. That such an easy sea, and such a heavenly sky could in a short time be transformed into a howling mockery by the storm demons, did not seem, to our innocent trust in nature, a possibility; but the afternoon brought with it signs of uneasiness. The steady air from the west ceased, and little breezes followed from all parts of the compass. The exquisite bright blueness of the sky changed to a smoky blue; but at two o’clock there were no clouds and nothing on the horizon to indicate danger. The atmosphere became quickly humid and heavy, making respiration seem difficult, while the barometer was spasmodically rising and falling. That there was some unusual phenomenon which we were about to witness, we felt convinced, but we were long in getting hints as to its nature.

At about four o’clock a sharp dark line, like a perfectly straight bar of iron, was seen over the southern horizon. It rose with wondrous rapidity and as it ascended above this central bar there swelled out a perfectly smooth and even roll of weirdly luminous vapour. Across the rounded surface were small, ragged films of intense white and steel gray passing with lightning haste, and this gave the upper line an awe-inspiring appearance. Under the central bar the cloud was of a dark steel gray, but we could at no time see the sky, or even the horizon under the advancing commotion. We were intensely interested in the sight, but it did not seem to us particularly dangerous, nor did it strike the sailors with the terror which I have seen less imposing sky-effects produce. The strangeness of the sight, however, put the officers on guard, and every surface of sail that could be taken in was at once furled. The sea now began to rise and it was strange to watch it. It first boiled, apparently without wind, into short waves. This the following wind straightened out like the wrinkles of a cloth under a smoothing-iron. Then other waves rose too high and too solid for the wind to flatten. These increased in size, and multiplied in numbers, and rushed towards us in huge coils of spray. The _Belgica_ pitched and tumbled in the resulting sea, but as yet no wind had struck her. The water and the air was lighted with a sort of vague pearly glow. At this time the strange line seemed just over our bowsprit, and extended entirely across the heavens from east to west, but only a little draught of air crossed the bridge.

I turned to watch the men who had suddenly left their work and were coming down from the rigging. All at once the bark was struck with terrific force, and stopped as suddenly as if she had struck a stone wall; this was followed by a howling, maddening noise as the wind passed through the ropes and spars such as I had never heard before or since. Everybody grasped a bar or a rope to keep from being swept overboard. The bark, after the first thud, raised her bow and drove her stern into the boiling sea, and then righted, seemingly prepared for the next assault. After a few other, but lesser, puffs, the wind came with a steady hiss--like steam from an exhaust pipe, and its force was expended with the same rapidity with which it fell upon us. From the commencement to the termination this strange onslaught occupied but fifteen minutes; but this was as much as I care to see of a hurricane of this sort, though they are sufficiently prevalent in this region to receive the special local name of _pamperos_. A _pampero_ is apt to leave a lasting impression on one’s mind, and on the _Belgica_ we date all of our events from the time of its occurrence.

For a few days following the _pampero_ we were gliding along the coast of Patagonia, but out of sight of land, under the most beautiful skies and in the most delightful weather imaginable. Pleasant weather, however, makes the life of a sailor monotonous and far from enjoyable, because it affords time and opportunity to mend and dress and polish the ship. Such was the work of the crew here. The tropical sun had brought out some of the oil and not a little of the fishy odour with which years of blubber hunting had filled her. The paint, also, which had been piled on in different colours, year after year, came off in large sheets like the bark of a dead tree. To mend and dress the _Belgica_, then, in a suitable garb for the perpetual frost of the south pole was a matter of considerable work.

The skin of the bark was scraped, and painted, and varnished, and polished, new sails were fitted, old ones repaired, and all of the sailing gear was strengthened for the expected blasts south of Cape Horn. Waterproof covers were made for the various bits of machinery and the instruments openly exposed on deck. Between decks the provisions were being examined and restored. Supplies and equipments were put aside for a wintering party in the antarctic. The cabins and the forecastles were to be cleared and altered for more prolonged habitation, and the hammocks were put away, not to be used again for a long time. Henceforth we must take to our berths, which are like hermetically sealed cans. These bunks have been made to fit each man, in length and breadth, according to careful measurement. The result is that the fit is like that of a snug boot, but the comparison is hardly admissible, since a neat-fitting boot flatters vanity, and pleases the eye; but where are the joys of a boot for a bed? I must hasten to add that such an economy of room was necessary; but, unfortunately, either the beds had shortened, or the men had lengthened, for two men presently complained that their bunks were now six inches too short.

The pleasant dispositions and the regular daily occupations, which come with continued fair weather, were abruptly set aside on November 26th. Our eyes in the morning opened under a sky dark, gray, and gloomy. This was soon enlivened by wildly moving cloudy streamers, under which the sea tumbled in huge cliffs, and our stomachs raised in long reaches. _Mal de mer_ was the openly acknowledged pastime of the hour, and it seemed to be in evidence in direct proportion to the mental development of the personnel. The Captain, for example, was the first victim, and he was followed by the most capable sympathisers of the _état major_. These were followed by the ordinary seamen, the man of lowest mental development being usually the last to loosen the gastric bonds. Let this be a comfort to victims of Neptune.

The wind poured upon us in hard, steady blasts from the south-west for nearly two days, which gave us, on our growing menu, a taste of the normal weather of the “roaring forties”--a relish which a heavy lumbering sealing craft is apt to impress upon the memory. We were hungry for the sight of land, which the Captain had been promising us as an appetiser from hour to hour; for we had been a fortnight without seeing anything but the blackness and blueness of the Patagonian sea, and anything in the form of land would have been a feast to our eyes.

Early in the morning of November 29th a low straight line, like a huge beam of wood, appeared to separate the grayness of the sky from the soft blue waters in the south-west. It proved to be the northern cape of the eastern entrance of the Strait of Magellan,--Cape Virgins. The name is fascinating when one feels he is at the world’s end, and land in any form in this locality is an encouragement, but there is nothing about the topography of Cape Virgins which would arouse much admiration. It is a long, sandy cliff one hundred and thirty-five feet high, its base descending perpendicularly into the sea with the interruption of an occasional shingle point, where it appears as if a boat might make a landing. Its colour varies much with the position of the sun, the character of the atmosphere, and the cloudiness of the sky. As we approached, it at first appeared nearly white, with occasional dark shadows when the surface was uneven, and the entire wall was crested by a thin but smooth line of green grass. At this time the direct beams fell upon the coast from the sun, still low on the eastern skies. A few hours later, when we were nearer and the sun was under a light cloud, the cliff appeared like a wall of terra cotta. The cape is the seaward termination of a long range of low hills extending across Patagonia.

Cape Virgins is one of the most important landmarks on the Atlantic seaboard, and its discovery marked the beginning of the most important period of maritime adventures in the history of navigation. Before we pass it, and enter the now famous Strait, permit me to give a few incidents in the story of the discovery of this cape and the hard-earned but triumphant entrance into the narrow path which permitted the first circumnavigation. The credit belongs to a Portuguese, Fernão de Magalhães, and the honour belongs to Spain, for the expedition was under the patronage of the Spanish crown.

Magalhães assembled his fleet at San Julian on the Patagonian coast, Easter Eve, in the year 1520. Here he spent the few months of southern winter, from April to October. During this time he first saw, and his historians first described, the pampa Indians whom, because of their loosely booted feet, they gave the ill-fitting name of Pata-gones: a name which all the world of women should detest, for it means clumsy-hoofed. From this first designation given to the people the entire country from the Plata to the Strait, has been given the name of Patagonia. Patagonia, then, fully translated, means the land of the clumsy-hoofed people. This is unkind when, in reality, the Indians of this region have feet which are not only smaller, but far neater in shape than those of Europeans of the same size and weight. At this anchorage Magalhães had some trouble with his officers who committed the unpardonable crime of differing from him in their opinions. To one of these men a letter was sent with a messenger who had instructions to stab him while reading. Other officers were executed with similar despatch. Magalhães was evidently a good representative of the saints of his day, upholding the church with one hand, and committing the blackest deeds of Satan with the other.

[Illustration:

OSGOOD ART COLORTYPE CO., CHI. & N. Y.

Fuegian Boys]

On October 21st, Magalhães entered the Strait for which he had searched and, though he had killed some of his officers but a short time previous in a manner which would now be considered premeditated murder, he honoured the saints by calling the channel Canal de Todos los Santos--Canal of all the Saints. The cape on his starboard, as he entered, was named the Cape of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, in honour of the day on which it was discovered, St. Ursula’s day. Succeeding generations have thought less of the saints and more of Magalhães, and have named the canal in honour of its discoverer, but even the discoverer’s name has changed with time, for to-day we write Strait of Magellan, and not Magalhães. The cape has also suffered a change by the later and less religious geographers. Eleven Thousand Virgins, even as a name, is too flowery for a Cape Horn sand-bank, and furthermore it was the hunting ground of a people among whom the term virgin would be useless. Just at present this point of land is charted Cape Virgins, and its virgin soil is being broken by thrifty gold diggers.

Returning to our present voyage and to the less sentimental, and less brutal, but I fear less religious modern times, the _Belgica_ has not only no one to fill the chaplain’s duties, but, so far as I know, only one Bible (which is kept under cover) and no prayer book. Religion is apparently not one of our missions. But then I must hasten to add that on expeditions of this kind land pilots are more necessary than “sky pilots.”

At noon we rounded the low sandy bar extending southward from Cape Virgins terminating in Dungeness Point, and entered the historic Strait of Magellan. The eastern beach was strewn with fragments of iron from the hull of the iron vessel _Cleopatra_, which was one of the many vessels wrecked here. The skeleton of the _Cleopatra_ was still fighting the sea some distance off shore, and presented a picture which would run into delight under the brush of an artist. The western shore of the point was strewn with fragments of wooden vessels, and two hulls well ashore rocked like cradles, but were apparently not much injured. This point seems to be a convenient graveyard for marine crafts.

To our south under a dark bank of cumulus clouds was the white cliff of Cape Espirito Santo, which, like Cape Virgins, is the termination of a long range of hills on Tierra del Fuego. The waters were alive with innumerable forms of life, many of which were new to us. Whales, seals, porpoises and penguins were darting about in the sea like birds in the air, while resting on the glassy surface, hovering over the land, rushing over and around the _Belgica_ were strange members of the feathered tribe; among these, albatrosses, gulls, petrels, ducks, and geese were most numerous. The profusion of animal life around us, the blackness of the lowlands to each side, and the encouraging prospect of the channel before us, furnished a sort of wild fascination which is probably as great in our day as in the time of the early pioneers.

Passing westward we had, by midnight, reached the entrance of the first narrows. Here we anchored for the night. For three long months we had gone steadily and persistently southward in one general direction; such a monotony of course draws the Atlantic out into an unimaginable length, but now we were headed westward, away from the Atlantic with its fickle winds to the more friendly Pacific; and our course in the future will be more varied--a circumstance which seems to arouse an agreeable train of thoughts. These thoughts, with the peculiar and continual interest of the scenes around the ship, kept us awake for a large part of our first night in the Strait.

From time to time I left my bunk and paced the poop that I might better see the wide panorama under the varying shades of the night. There were marvellous changes in colour and in the general aspect of the land, with imperceptible changes of light. This I had noticed earlier in the day and it continued throughout the night; but of this I can hope to give only a crude outline, for the delicate shades of colour and the infinitesimal grades of light cannot be spread out with black and white under a quill. As the sun sank behind the hazy outline of the Cordilleras Mountains, over the Patagonian pampas, the grassy surface everywhere assumed a bright yellow tint, in harmony with the gold which is now scraped from the ground. The sandy cliffs which walled the shores were inky black on the north, and bright gray or brown on the south. The water retained its dark green hue until the semi-luminous, semi-liquid, purple of the long twilight flooded the whole scene. Then followed the short blackness of the night which again blended into an exquisite purple morning. As the sun rose over the cliff of Cape Virgins, the vast treeless plains were marked into sharp figures of brown and yellow and red. Hence these regions, like tastefully dressed women, have a special dress for every part of the day, and this garb changes the appearance of landmarks in such a manner that at times they are difficult of recognition. I will not force the parallel--but thus in one of the elements of beauty in this Strait, lies one of its greatest dangers to navigation.

We tipped our anchor in the morning and advanced to the mouth of the second narrows, where we anchored at 4 P.M., December 1st. Here we learned from the latest budget of the French coast-pilot that there was a French settlement, and from the _Belgica_ a number of farm-houses were visible, which seemed to confirm the information. We accordingly prepared to pay the occupants a visit, and also to search the surrounding territory for specimens. Landing in the bend of Gregory Bay with a corps of scientific collectors, hunters and sailors, all of an adventurous turn of mind, we soon spread over the grassy pampas in every direction. Three of us who went to visit the farm-houses soon discovered that the coast-pilot’s information was not up to date. The Frenchmen in question had disappeared about ten years previous, and the entire region, practically everything within sight, belongs to a very wealthy Chilean sheep farmer, by the name of Menendez.

At the first farm-house we found a couple of Scotch shepherds who informed us that the main station of the farm was a few miles east, and to reach this they offered us horses. The Captain and I accepted and were soon mounted, but before we returned we had some regrets. The animals objected to their burdens from first to last, and I might add that we objected to their manners at once and for all times. Like all Patagonian horses, they are trained to take their direction by the throw of the reins, and not by the traction of the bit. If the rein is thrown against the left side of the neck, the horse goes to the right, and _vice versa_. It is hard to adopt the method at once without a certain amount of traction on the bit to which one is accustomed; but this lateral traction the pampa horses will not permit. If you will hold a tight rein you must hold it with equal tension on both sides, and hold it steadily, or the animal will stop at once, and perhaps with such suddenness as to make you test the hardness of the ground. The horse also has a motion and a gait which is absolutely peculiar to the pampas. These peculiarities soon drive chagrin to the heart of a northern horseman.

We galloped eastward in a beaten path close to the placid waters of Magellan Strait. To our left were a low series of hills--the Gregory Range--and behind these the sun had fallen, throwing its parting rays on the shore-line of Tierra del Fuego opposite, and over the distant Fuegian mountains. The novelty of the ride and the fascination of the scenery helped us to forget the bruises and accumulating pain--of which, however, we were forcibly reminded later. In an hour we reached our destination and had an opportunity to see, for the first time, one of the end-of-the-century wonders,--the re-discovery of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego by the sheep farmers. Here were the men by whom, and the method by which, the hopeless sterility of the end of the continent has been turned into a field of industry with a farming profit perhaps equalled in no other part of the world.

A young man with a sporting air advanced from one of the buildings to meet us. He was Alexander Menendez, the chief of the place, and the son of the Cape Horn Vanderbilt. Spanish is the official language of this region, but neither the Captain nor I spoke it, and thus we were a little anxious to know the tongue in which we might interchange ideas. We could handle between us French, Flemish, English, German, and Eskimo, and we rather flattered ourselves that the man who could not converse with us in one of these tongues could have few ideas worthy of exchange. We had no need for anxiety, however, for our new host spoke English and German and some French, in addition to his national tongue. Indeed, English seems to be the general language of the sheep farmer. Mr. Menendez took us to his little home, a one-story wooden building, with three or four rooms. Our mission was hardly more than a formal visit, but pampa customs are such that one immediately enters into the inner life of the ranchmen from which it is difficult to separate quickly.

Here we found a sheep ranch in its youth, but its proportions were already such as to startle most North American farmers. Upon a treeless waste of 90,000 acres, spread out in easy undulations along the Magellanic waters, were 120,000 sheep. The climate and the grass are such that the animals require no shelter and no extra feeding, not even during the coldest winter months, and they are so nearly self-supporting that one shepherd manages a herd of 2,000 animals. When sheep thus thrive and multiply at next to no expense, and on ground which was first obtained for the asking and taxes, it is not difficult to understand the success of Patagonian farmers.

[Illustration: Indian Mission Huts.]

[Illustration: Part of Punta Arenas.]

The same enterprising Menendez has several other farms, the most promising of which is across the Strait, and to this our eyes were directed with considerable pride by our host. This farm occupies the lowlands of north-eastern Tierra del Fuego, which is said to be the best sheep land of the entire region. Here, upon about 120,000 acres, there are 150,000 sheep turning wool into gold faster than any gold mines could be expected to offer yellow metal.

Mr. Menendez, however, like all managers of great enterprises, had his troubles: “Sheep farming is very profitable,” said he, “but we have one great difficulty--it is to secure good help.” This ought to be a cheerful notice to the unemployed thousands of Europe and America, but it should be accepted with a proper appreciation of the life and work in question. A Patagonian shepherd lives the life of a wild man. In the saddle he roams about on the pampas with his sheep, and at night he makes camp like an Indian. But there are many men who enjoy just such a life, and for such there is plenty of room in this region. The usual pay is about thirty dollars (gold) per month, but expenses are next to nothing, and an additional income is added to the regular pay by the products of hunting, such as ostrich feathers, guanaco skins, etc. The men at present employed are mostly Scotch shepherds, but some of the best ranchmen have been made from ordinary seamen. In the newer methods of shearing and other improved mechanical contrivances, machinists and other artisans are in demand. Many of the men who have come here as workmen are now ranch-owners themselves, and few who have once tasted the elixir of pampa life ever leave it again for the noise and the strife and the gilded glitter of the upper world.

When we again mounted our horses to return, we were somewhat disposed to lay aside polar exploration and become sheep farmers, but this idea was soon dissipated by our efforts to return to the _Belgica_. The purple twilight was just deepening into the darker shades of night as we left the little group of buildings which constitute the headquarters of the Menendez ranch. The horses seemed more than ever opposed to their inexperienced riders, and our discomfort was such that we did not hurry them. We preferred to leave to them the selection of the path, and the rate of progress, while we drank in the sharp antarctic air and enjoyed the glory of the night scene. It was nearly midnight when we reached our canoe. Here we found our companions impatiently waiting for us, some seated on boulders, others stretched out on the grass, and a few chatting with the shepherds in the nearest hut. But we were somewhat dejected as we gazed upon the sight before us; the water had run out with the tide to such an extent as to leave our boat high and dry some three or four hundred feet from the nearest launching-place. Every foot of this distance had on it a covering of a soft semi-liquid mixture of clay, sand, small stones, and shellfish. The _Belgica_ must start with the tide at daybreak, and her whistles were already tooting the signal to hasten on board. To wait for the tide was impossible, so we started our canoe over the debris. If the surface had been tar it could not have offered more resistance, nor could it have caused more discomfort. After an hour of almost superhuman effort we reached the water, but we were covered with slime and mud and perspiration from head to foot, and we agreed that our first Patagonian debarkment was a decidedly expensive luxury.

We reached the _Belgica_ as the eastern skies brightened with the coming morning twilight. The anchor was raised immediately, and while our aching muscles were resting, we were transported through the second narrows to Elizabeth Island. In three hours we were opposite the island and accordingly prepared for another debarkment. Our object in stopping here was principally to obtain a supply of the wild geese for which this island is noted. We landed in a cave near a lonely shepherd’s hut, and scattered over the island, being careful to leave two men to keep the canoe afloat that we might not renew our experience of the previous night.

We found the geese extremely numerous, but either they were too well acquainted with firearms, or our workmen had been too long seasick, for, from the result of our hunt, we were able to produce only a dozen birds. Elizabeth Island, like all of the grassy ground of this region, is devoted to the interests of sheep-farming. It is upon this notable island that the first Magellanic sheep-farming experiment was made. Mr. H. I. Reynard, an Englishman living in Punta Arenas, first conceived the idea early in the seventies. Perceiving that sheep and cattle thrived in the Falkland Islands, whose climate and vegetation was in most respects similar enough to that of Elizabeth Island to warrant the expenditure necessary for a proper trial, he accordingly established here the first sheep colony. The sheep took so kindly to their new home, and multiplied so rapidly that, though the island is eight miles long and two miles wide, it was very quickly so thickly stocked that numbers of the sheep were transferred to the mainland. From this experiment in farming Mr. Reynard was reported, in 1894, to be enjoying the princely income of a hundred thousand dollars annually.

Among our collections from this island were a number of flint arrows and spear points, which seem to be abundant in the numerous heaps of mussel shells and other sites of old Indian encampments. But the island has long been deserted by the Indians, for, even at the time of its discovery by Drake, three hundred years ago, none are mentioned. The discovery and naming of this island is thus described by the old records: “The 24th of August (1578) being Bartholomew’s day, we fell in with three islands bearing trianglewise one from another; one of them was very fair and large and of a fruitful soil, upon which, being next unto us, and the weather very calm, our General with his gentlemen and certain of his mariners then landed, taking possession thereof in her Majesty’s name, and to her use, and calling the same Elizabeth Island.” The other islands are those now known as Santa Marta, and Santa Magdalena Islands, upon which Drake found penguins so numerous, that, in one day, not less than three thousand were taken and subsequently used as food.

[Illustration: The Wind-swept Rocks of the Western Fuegian Islands.]

We left Elizabeth Island at 10 o’clock in a mist of cold, drizzly rain and steered westward close to its low sandy cliffs. The mist occasionally raised and gave us a glimpse of the land. There is a ridge of small hills running parallel to its length through the centre, the highest of these being one hundred and eighty feet above the sea. The hills were made more conspicuous by various clusters of a bluish shrub, but aside from these there were no trees and nothing but the hardy pampa grass to cover the sandy soil; nevertheless, with its shepherds’ huts, and its vast herds of sheep, Elizabeth Island is not without an air of attractiveness.

At noon the atmosphere had cleared and the ever-present dark, feathery clusters of vapour shaded the water and gave it a despairing blackness. Over our port bow a low buff-colored point extended far out into the widening strait. This was our first sight of the famous Sandy Point, whose notoriety is sure to reach the ears of every South American voyager. Here also we noticed a striking change in the topography of the land and in the character of the vegetation. We had left the smooth, treeless pampas behind us, and before us appeared a wild rugged country, the lowlands covered by a dense forest, and the highlands white with snow. These were the the foot-hills of the terminating Andes, a place well calculated to shelter the Cape Horn capital from the never-ceasing stormy blasts.

Early in the afternoon we rounded the point and at four o’clock we anchored in Sandy Point Road. The harbour presented an air of thrift quite out of proportion to the barrenness, sterility and gloomy wildness of the region. Five large ocean liners were at anchor, and many small coasting steamers, with a host of lighters and small crafts, were scattered about on the unruly waters; but the town from its distant appearance was a disappointment. One hears so much about this settlement, its rapid growth, and marvellous development, that one naturally expects to see a substantial city. “Thirty years ago,” said a native, “we were less than two hundred settlers here; to-day we number six thousand, and you have before you a good-sized city. Don’t you think our growth has been remarkable and quick?” One must naturally answer in the affirmative, and to the average European the phenomenon is wonderful; but to an American it is wonderful in quite another direction. The town is in most respects a miniature reproduction of the mushroom town of the western states: a wilderness of low wooden and sheet-iron huts which are quickly and cheaply constructed and as quickly destroyed. Punta Arenas has been building for thirty years. Towns of the western United States of a similar nature spring up in as many days. A Yankee, then, wonders not at the reported rapid growth, but asks, “Why has it taken so long?”

[Illustration: Terminating Ridge of the Cordilleras, Beagle Channel.]

After we became accustomed to this appearance of cheapness and unstability which characterised the place, we found much of interest and some things absolutely astonishing. Punta Arenas has a character and a life which mark it at once as one of the most peculiar towns on the globe. We were boarded long before we came to anchor by agents of provision houses, boarding-houses, hotels, saloons, and health officers; but strangely enough no custom officers paid us even a friendly visit. Our business arrangements and not a few social arrangements had been made by Mr. Racovitza, who had preceded us, and shortly after we came to anchor we made our headquarters in the little French Hotel where a welcome bag of correspondence awaited our arrival.

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