We saw no whales as we went south, and we approached the Strait of Magellan under what seemed to be favorable auspices. The weather was fair, the sea was tranquil and the scenery was picturesque. The strait is three hundred and sixty miles in length, and from five to thirty miles in breadth. Patagonia is to the north, and the island of Tierra del Fuego to the south. As we entered the strait and, for a good many miles as we proceeded, we saw lofty ranges covered with snow and immense glaciers, and between them patches which looked like dark forests. The third day the weather changed, and navigation became more difficult. The fog set in and, though we had seen no vessels, the captain deemed it wise to be cautious, and we made only about three or four knots an hour. In the late afternoon the fog lifted, and the captain made for the shore of Tierra del Fuego. The sea became more boisterous, the sky assumed a threatening aspect, and the captain gave orders to throw the lead. When four fathoms was reported, he gave orders to heave to, to take in sail and put out two anchors. In the meantime the sky grew blacker, and we all worked with a will to have the ship snugged up and ready when the storm broke. [Illustration: The sea became more boisterous, and the captain gave orders to throw the lead.] When it came, it was more like a hurricane than a squall, and it came without any warning other than the troubled aspect of sea and sky. It seemed as if all the wind in the world were gathered in one terrific blast and that, too, for our especial benefit. It nearly swept the men off their feet and drove them to cover; it fairly shrieked as it swept through the rigging, and the only good thing about it was that it lasted less than half an hour. Kreelman said to me, “I rather think after all that the old man knows his business. I believe he’s made the voyage through here before and he knows just what to do and when to do it. By the way, Fancy Chest, who was that man Magellan they call the strait after, was he a Nantucket whaleman?” “Oh, no. He lived a hundred years before the _Mayflower_ came over. He was a Portuguese, but sailed for a Spanish king. In 1520 he made the passage through this strait from east to west, and was the first white man to cross the Pacific Ocean. He gave it the name of Pacific, stopped at the Philippines and was killed there by the natives.” “He had some grit, didn’t he? If he hadn’t been killed, I rather think he would have returned by the way of the Horn.”