[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.]