William Eleroy Curtis

THE spinal column of the hemisphere, extending from the Arctic to the Antarctic Sea, and called the Cordilleras, breaks suddenly at the foot of the Southern continent, and is divided by a narrow and deep ravine called the Strait of Magellan. Before the strait is reached, along the western coast of South America are numberless islands, cast into the sea by some convulsion of nature, like sparks flung from hammered iron. Few of these islands have ever been explored, but they all bear a close resemblance to the main-land in their geological formation, and it is believed that deposits of copper, silver, and other minerals, as well as coal, exist under their surfaces. On Chiloe, the largest of the Chili archipelago, mining companies are already operating to a small extent, but of the resources of the other islands little or nothing is known. They rise in picturesque outlines from the water, some of them to an elevation of several thousand feet, and the panorama presented to voyagers in what is known as Smythe’s Channel is beautiful and grand. This is a narrow fiord, named from its first explorer, scooped out, the geologists say, by the action of ice during the glacial epoch, running along the main coast, and protected against the violence of the ocean by the numerous fragmentary formations that line the shore. A glance at the map of Patagonia will show how many of these islands there are, and how slender is the thread of sea which separates them from the continent.

The water in the channel is deep and smooth, but the passage is avoided by navigators because of the powerful currents and the frequency of snow-storms, which prevail at all seasons of the year. Vessels that take this course are compelled to anchor at night, unless there is a very bright moon, and always lie up when the snow falls, because of the circuitous turns, and the danger of collisions with ships and icebergs. Smythe’s Channel is so narrow in places that two steamers cannot pass between the mighty rocks which rise on either side. Most of the steamships prefer to risk the storms which rage outside, where they can have plenty of sea-room, and shorten their voyages by sailing at night as well as by day. There is no more dangerous sailing in the world than off the west coast of Patagonia and around the Horn, and vessels bound southward from Valparaiso are very lucky if they enter the Strait of Magellan without catching a gale of wind.

CAPE FROWARD (PATAGONIA), STRAIT OF MAGELLAN.

The glaciers of Switzerland and Norway are insignificant beside those which can be seen from ships passing the Strait of Magellan. Mountains of green and blue ice, with crests of the purest snow, stretch fifteen and twenty miles along the channel in some parts of the strait. They are by no means as lofty as those of Europe, but appear more grand, rising as they do from the surface of the water in a land where winter always lingers, and where the sun sets at three o’clock in the afternoon. The line of perpetual snow begins at an elevation of only two thousand feet, and water always freezes at night, even in the summer-time. The highest mountains in Terra del Fuego are supposed to reach an altitude of seven thousand or eight thousand feet, but the eye of man has seldom seen them, covered as they are with an almost perpetual haze or mist, and presenting difficulties which the most ardent and experienced climber cannot surmount. The highest mountain known in this region is Mount Sarmiento, one of the most imposing of the Andean peaks, which rears a cone of spotless snow nearly seven thousand feet, almost abruptly from the water at its feet. It stands in what is known as Cockburn Channel, not far from the Pacific, and on clear days its summit can be distinguished from the decks of passing ships. The beauty of this peak is much enhanced by numerous blue-tinted glaciers, which descend from the snowy cap to the sea, and look, as Darwin the naturalist, who once saw it, said, “Like a hundred frozen Niagaras.” There are other mountains quite as beautiful, but they sit in an atmosphere which is seldom so clear as that which surrounds Sarmiento, and cannot often be seen by voyagers.

The Terra del Fuego Indians, the ugliest mortals that ever breathed, are always on the lookout for passing vessels, and come out in canoes to beg and to trade skins for whiskey and tobacco. The Fuegians, or “Canoe Indians,” as they are commonly called, to distinguish them from the Patagonians, who dislike the water, and prefer to navigate on horseback, have no settled habitation. They have a dirty and bloated appearance, and faces that would scare a mule—broad features, low foreheads, over which the hair hangs in tangled lumps, high cheek-bones, flat noses, enormous chins and jaws, and mouths like crocodiles’, with teeth that add to their repulsiveness. Their skin is said to be of a copper color, but is seldom seen, as they consider it unhealthy to bathe. They are short in stature, round-shouldered, squatty, and swelled, a physical deformity said to be due to the fact that most of their lives is spent in canoes. The women are even more repulsive in their appearance than the men, and the children, who are uncommonly numerous, look like young baboons. Their intelligence seems to be confined to a knowledge of boating and fishing, and they exercise great skill in both pursuits. Scientists who have investigated them say that they are of the very lowest order of the human kind, many degrees below the Digger Indians.

FUEGIANS VISITING A MAN-OF-WAR.

Although these people are in a perpetual winter, where it freezes every night, and always snows when the clouds shed moisture, they go almost stark naked! The skins of the otter and guanaco are used for blankets, which are worn about the shoulders and afford some protection; but under these neither women nor men wear anything whatever except shoes and leggings made of the same material, which protect the feet from the rocks. There is some little attempt at adornment made by both sexes in the way of necklaces, bracelets, and ear-rings made of fish-bones and sea-shells, which are often ingeniously joined together. The women will sell the skin blankets that cover their backs for tobacco, standing meantime as nude as a statue of Venus!

Their food consists of mussels, fish, sea animals, and similar sorts, which they catch with the rudest kind of implements. Their fishing-lines are made of grass, and their hooks of fish-bones. For weapons they have bows and spears, the former having strings made of the entrails of animals, and the latter being long, slender poles, with tips of sharpened bone. They also use slings with great dexterity, which are made of woven grass, and are said to bring down animals at long range. During the day they are always on the water in canoes or dugouts made of the trunks of trees, the whole family going together, and usually consisting of a man, two or three wives, and as many urchins as can be crowded into the boat. When night falls they go ashore and build a fire upon the rocks, to temper the frigid atmosphere. Around this fire they cuddle in a most affectionate way. The name of the islands upon which they live came from these fires. The early navigators, when passing through the strait, were amazed to see them spring up as if by magic all over the islands every night at sundown, and so they called them Terra del Fuego, or the Land of Fire. The English shorten the appellation, and thus the place is known as “Fireland.”

No one has ever been able to ascertain whether these people possess any sort of religious belief or have religious ceremonies. Across the strait the Patagonians, or Horse Indians, are of a higher order of creation, and perform sacred rites to propitiate the evil and good spirits, in which, like the North

A FUEGIAN FEAST.

American savages, they believe; but the Fuegians are too degraded to contemplate anything but the necessity of ministering to their passions and appetites. They eat fish and flesh uncooked, and appreciate as dainties the least attractive morsels. Their language is an irregular and meaningless jargon, apparently derived from the Patagonians, with whom they were, some time in the distant past, connected. Bishop Sterling, of the Church of England, a devoted and energetic man, who has charge of missionary work in South America, with headquarters on the Falkland Islands, has made some attempt to benefit these creatures, but with no great success. He has a little schooner in which he sails around, and has succeeded in ingratiating himself among the Fuegians by giving them presents of beads and twine, blankets and clothing. They use the first for ornaments, the second for fishing gear, but trade off the other things for rum and tobacco the first chance they get. As long as his gifts hold out he will be kindly received, no doubt, and his devotion will meet with encouragement, but if he should land among them without the usual plunder they would probably kill him at breakfasttime and pick his ribs for lunch. Towards the Atlantic coast the savages are of a higher order, and the bishop has established a missionary station in a little town in which they live. His assistants have succeeded in persuading the inhabitants of this village to wear clothing, and they run a primary school from which much good may come.

The Falkland Islands lie off the coast of Terra del Fuego about two hundred and fifty miles, and belong to the British crown. There is a town of about eight hundred inhabitants called St. Louis, where the Governor lives, and a coaling station is maintained for the benefit of English men-of-war. The chief use of the islands otherwise is sheep-raising, and the wool exports are becoming quite large. Nothing else grows there, however, because of the low temperature and the barrenness of the soil. One line of steamers touches at the Falklands once a month or so, carrying provisions to the colony and bringing away the wool.

One of the curious things about the Strait of Magellan is the Post-office. In a sheltered place, easy of access from the channel, but secluded from the Indians, is a tin box, known to every seaman who navigates this part of the world. Every passing skipper places in this box letters and newspapers for other vessels that are expected this way, and takes out whatever is found to belong to him or his men. All the newspapers and books that seamen are done with are deposited here, and are afterwards picked up by the next vessel to arrive, and replaced with a new lot. It is a sort of international postal clearing-house, and sailors say that the advantages it offers have never been abused during the half century the system has existed.

Every time a vessel passes through the strait the Fuegian Indians come out in their canoes to show their sociability,

and trade what property they are fortunate enough to be possessed of for tobacco and rum. The steamer we were on ran through several fleets of dugouts, greatly to the danger of those who occupied them, as they paddled across our course in the most reckless manner. In each of the frail canoes were three or four people and several children, who screamed and gesticulated in the most violent manner. They came so near the ship that we could distinguish their features and hear their words, which were clamors for tabac (tobacco) and galleta (food). In one canoe stood an old hag with long gray hair, and a face that reminded me of Meg Merriles. A more weird and witchlike being never presented itself to human eye, and she did not have a thread upon her dirty skin from head to foot. Stark, staring naked she stood in the group around her, with the thermometer about forty degrees above zero, and, as she saw the vessel did not propose to stop, shook her wrinkled arms at us, and uttered curses loud and deep. There was a fire in the boat in which she stood, and around it huddled another woman, naked, but with a guanaco robe over her shoulders, and several children, while the father sat in the stern and paddled his own canoe, leaving the wife or mother, whichever she was, to do all the talking.

In another canoe stood a repulsive-looking man, who had taken off his guanaco robe, and stood naked, flapping it at us, and yelling like a lunatic. His companions were two naked women and several youngsters, and they all joined in the chorus with a vigor that we expected would split their throats, leaving the canoe to drift as it would, finally coming into collision with another, at which there was a good deal of scrambling, and an exchange of Fuegian compliments, the nature of which we could not understand. What they wanted was rum and tobacco, having acquired a taste for this pernicious weed from the sailors. For a plug of “Navy” they would exchange a guanaco blanket that could not be bought in New York for seventy-five dollars, as the guanaco is one of the rarest and finest of skins. The anger and disgust that was pictured upon the faces of these creatures when they found that the vessel was not slackening her speed would have furnished a model for the expressions on the souls that are lost. The passengers were about as much disappointed as the Fuegians, for having all read and heard of them, we anticipated much gusto, as the Spaniards say, in making their acquaintance.

Scientists have long differed as to whether the Firelanders were cannibals, but this point has been recently settled by a practical demonstration, and there is no doubt that they actually eat human flesh when they can get it, and pick the bones very clean. In October, 1884, during a snow-storm, the steamer Cordillera, of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company’s line, struck a rock in the Strait of Magellan, about forty miles west of Punta Arenas, and to save as much as possible of the ship and cargo the captain drove her upon the beach, where she now lies, almost within a stone’s-throw of passing vessels. The wreck was soon after abandoned by all but two men, who were left in charge until wrecking machinery could be brought from Valparaiso. One of these men was William Taylor, a quartermaster or petty officer of the ship, and his companion, an ordinary seaman. They were well armed, and it was supposed were capable of protecting themselves, but it turned out that they were not. One night I was sitting upon the rickety old dock at Punta Arenas, waiting for the purser of our ship to take me on board, when Taylor was introduced to me, and told his story in a most graphic way.

He said that when he and his partner were left in charge of the vessel, it was with the understanding that they were to be relieved on the 21st of December, and they were given food enough to last until that time. After the captain and crew had gone, and the two men were alone on the ship, the Indians made their appearance nearly every day, and bits of food were thrown over the side of the vessel into their canoes. Taylor and his companion each carried two revolvers, and were not at all alarmed, as the vessel lay very high on the sand, and it did not seem possible that the Indians could climb up its iron sides. Although several canoes hovered around the place daily, the savages made no unfriendly demonstrations, and no notice was taken of them further than to exchange salutations, and give them meat and bread now and then. One day the Indians traded them a string of fresh fish for a plug of tobacco, and at other times gave them furs for the same consideration. About noon on the 15th of December, while the sailor was cooking dinner in the galley, Taylor, who was at work below, heard several shots fired from a revolver on deck, with shrieks and other sounds, which proved that a fight was going on there. He drew both of his pistols, and rushing up-stairs, saw the bleeding body of his companion lying upon the deck, and one of the savages hacking at it with the cook’s knife. About twenty or twenty-five others were performing a war-dance around one of their number who lay dead, and a single glance at the scene convinced Mr. Taylor that he could find no pleasure in attending the

circus. The Indians did not see him, and he crept quickly below and stowed himself in a large coil of rope in the forward part of the hold. The space in the centre of the coil was large enough to contain his body in a stooping position, and making the hatchway as fast as he could, he piled bags of beans around the sides and on the top of the rope, so as to entirely conceal it. For two days he hid himself here, feeding upon dry uncooked beans and a box of sea-biscuits, which he fortunately found in the hold; but he was entirely without water. The third day, fearing that he would die of thirst, he crept out and drew a bucket of water from a cask on the second deck, which he carried back to his place of concealment. On this excursion he neither heard nor saw signs of the Indians, and after two days more had passed, screwed his courage up to the point of making an exploration. Arranging everything so that he could make a hasty retreat if necessary, and using bean-bags to make a rifle-pit from which he could defend himself if pursued, he crept quietly into the saloon of the vessel, where he found that the Indians had been indulging in “a high old time.” Glasses and crockery were smashed, mattresses were dragged from the cabin, and everything that was movable lay scattered helter-skelter over the dining-tables and floor. It was evident that a search had been made for him, as doors which were locked had been broken open, although no attempt had been made to remove the coverings from the hatchways which led into the hold. Only one deck presented signs of a search, and above all was perfectly quiet. Going up-stairs, Taylor found human bones, picked clean, scattered around the galley. He did not touch them, because to look at them gave him the “shivers,” he said, but he saw enough to convince him that not only had the body of his companion been eaten, but also that of the savage who had been killed in the fray. It was evident that the savages had enjoyed a long and lively picnic, for there were several places on the deck where fires had been built. It was a wonder to him that the vessel had not been burned to the water’s edge. While hunting around for food, he found the head of his companion with the neck chopped off close to the jaws, the eyes punched out, and the fleshy part of the cheeks cut off. The sight of this was so horrible that he abandoned further exploration, and returned to his place of confinement so faint and bewildered that he could scarcely find his way. That night he crept out again, and finding some canned meat and fruit, lowered himself overboard and swam ashore, concluding that the Indians would return to the vessel, and that he would be safer in the rocks and bushes. Here he concealed himself for several days, awaiting the vessel that was to arrive from Valparaiso on the 21st of the month. The 25th passed without any sign of relief, and on the morning of the 26th he started on foot for Punta Arenas, where he arrived two days after. Here he told his story, and instead of being welcomed with hospitality, was arrested and thrown into jail, charged with the murder of his companion. A boat was sent down to the wreck, and such evidence was found there as to convince every one of the truth of his statement; whereupon he was released, and is now at Punta Arenas, in the employment of the Steamship Company, on an old hulk which lies in the harbor and is used for the storage of coal.

I have not told the story in as graphic a manner as it was related to me by William Taylor that night under the antarctic stars, but have given only the facts of his narrative, without embellishment of sailors’ slang and oaths. He lives in the hope of “steering within hailing distance of some of the savages, when he proposes to give them something worse than a rope’s-end.”

It is believed there is much gold in Terra del Fuego, as nuggets have been discovered by the missionaries in the streams. The Argentine Government proposes to make an exploration soon, and sanguine people think the time is not far distant when the islands of the archipelago will be filled with successful prospectors. Seals and other fur-bearing animals are plenty, but many skins are not sent to market for the reason that supplies can be obtained cheaper elsewhere.

There used to be a State called Patagonia, and one can still find it referred to in old geographies, but by the combined efforts of Chili and the Argentine Republic it has been wiped off the modern maps of the world. The United States ministers at the capitals of the two republics named assisted in dissecting the territory, and were presented with beautiful and costly testimonials as tokens of the artistic manner in which it was done. It was agreed that the boundary-line of Chili should be extended down the coast and then run eastward, just north of the Strait of Magellan, so that the Argentines should have the pampas, or prairies, and Chili the strait and the islands. The map of Chili now looks like the leg of a tall man, long and lean, with a very high instep and several conspicuous bunions.

It was a diplomatic stroke on the part of Chili to get control of the Strait of Magellan, that great international highway through which all steamers must go; and the archipelago along the western coast, comprising thousands of islands which have never been explored, and which are believed to be rich in what the world holds valuable, also fell to her share; but the Argentines got the best of the bargain in broad plains, rich in agricultural resources, rising in regular terraces from the Atlantic seaboard to the summits of the Cordilleras, whose snowy crests stand like an army of silent sentinels, marking the line upon which the two republics divide—plains as broad and useful as those which stretch between the Mississippi River and the ranges of Colorado, and as good for cattle as they are for corn.

It was a rather unusual proceeding, this partition of the Patagonian estates. It is commonly the custom to divide property after the owner’s death; but in this instance the inheritance was first shared by the heirs, and then the owner was mercilessly slaughtered. They called it a grand triumph of the genius of civilization over the barbarians, and the success of the scheme certainly deserved such a designation; but in this case as in many others the impediment to civilization was swept away in a cataract of blood. General Roca, the recent President of the Argentine Republic, was the author and executor of the plan of civilizing Patagonia, and he did it as the early Spanish Conquistadors introduced Christianity into America, with the keen edge of a sword. His success won him military glory and political honors, and made him what he is to-day, the greatest of the Argentinians.

There were originally two great nations of Indians in what was known as Patagonia, but the Spaniards called them all Patagonians, because of the enormous footprints they found upon the sand. The early explorers reported them to be a race of giants. The first white man that interviewed these people was Magellan, the great navigator who discovered the strait which bears his name, and who was the first to enter the Pacific Ocean. He had with him a romancer by the name of Pigafetta, who gave the world a great amount of interesting information without regard to accuracy. All the navigators who followed Magellan felt in duty bound to see and describe as amazing things as their predecessor had witnessed, and even went much further in their endeavors to keep up the European interest in the New World. Hence, in the sixteenth century, fables which are still repeated, but have no more foundation than the tales of the warrior woman who gave a name to the greatest stream on earth, found their way into history.

This man Pigafetta, for example, says that the Patagonia Indians “were of that biggeness that our menne of meane stature could reach up to their waysts, and they had bigg voyces, so that their talk seemed lyke unto the roar of a beaste.” In order to secure credit for courage, the early navigators told astonishing yarns about the fierceness of these Indians, who still have a reputation for fighting which, no doubt, is well founded. Rum and disease have, however, made sad work among the race, which is in its decadence; and the ambition of the Patagonian now is only equal to that of the North American Indian—that is, to get enough to eat with the least possible labor. They hang around the ranches to pick up what is thrown to them in the way of food, stealing and begging, and occasionally they bring in skins to the settlements to exchange for fire-water.

Later explorers discovered that there were two distinct races among the aborigines: first, the canoe Indians of the coast; and, second, the hunters of the interior, who are expert horsemen, raise cattle, and resemble the Sioux of the United States or the Apaches of the Mexican border. The two nations spoke languages entirely different, and had no resemblance in their manner or habits of life. Those of the south, who extended over into the curious islands of Terra del Fuego, are uglier in appearance, fiercer in disposition, and are believed to be cannibals. In fact, there is a recent instance of man-eating in the Strait of Magellan which appears to be authentically reported. The canoe Indians are called Tehueiche, and the horsemen of the north—the plains or pampa Indians—are called Chenna. The latter appear to be closely allied to the Araucanians of Chili, a race which the Spaniards were never able to subdue, but with which they have intermarried extensively, and produced the present peon of Chili, who has all the vivacity and impulsiveness of the Spaniard united with the muscular development, the courage, and the endurance of the Indian. The frontier of the Argentine Republic, until a few years since, was constantly harassed by the Chennas—murder, arson, and pillage were the rule—and the development of the nation was seriously checked, until General Roca was sent out with an army to exterminate them.

The dividing line between the Argentine Republic and what was known as Patagonia was the river Negro, which flows along the forty-first parallel, about nine hundred miles north of the Strait of Magellan. The greater portion of this country is well-watered pampas, or prairies, that extend in plainly marked terraces, rising one after the other from the Atlantic to the Andes; but towards the south the land becomes more bleak and barren, the soil being a bed of shale, with thorny shrubs and tufts of coarse grass, upon which nothing but the ostrich can exist. The winters are very severe, fierce winds sweeping from the mountains to the sea, with nothing to obstruct their course. These winds are called pamperos, and are the dread of those who navigate the South Atlantic. During the winter months the Indians were in the habit of driving their cattle northward into the foot-hills of the Andes for protection; and, leaving them there, they made raids upon the settlements on the Argentine frontier, killing, burning, and stealing cattle and horses. Terror-stricken, the ranchmen fled to the cities for protection; so that year by year the frontier line receded towards Buenos Ayres, instead of extending farther upon the plains.

President Roca was then a general of cavalry, and had won renown in the war against Lopez, the tyrant of Paraguay. He was sent with two or three regiments to discipline the Indians, and he did it in a way that was as effective as it was novel. While the Indians were in the mountains with their cattle he set his soldiers at work, several thousands of them, and dug a great ditch, twelve feet wide and fifteen feet deep, from the mountains to the Rio Negro, scattering the earth from the excavation over the ground with such care as to leave nothing to excite the savages’ suspicions. Then, when the ditch was completed, he flanked the Indians with his cavalry and drove them southward on the run. Being ignorant of the trap set for them, the savages galloped carelessly along until thousands of them were piled into the ditch, one on top of the other—a maimed, struggling, screaming mass of men, women, children, and horses. Many were killed by the fall, others were crushed by those who fell upon them, while those who crawled out were despatched by the sabres of the cavalrymen.

Those who were not driven into the ditch fled to the eastward hunting for a crossing, which the soldiers allowed them no time to make, even if they had had the tools. Shovels and picks and spades were unknown among the Patagonians, and as they are the wards of no nation, muskets and ammunition had never been furnished them to do their fighting with. It was very much such a chase as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perces gave General Howard in the North-west a few years ago, and finally ended in General Roca’s driving the Indians into a corner, with the impassable Rio Negro behind them, where the slaughter was continued until most of the warriors fell. The remainder were made prisoners and distributed around among the several regiments of the Argentine army, in which they have proven excellent soldiers. The women and children were sent to the Argentine cities, where they have since been held in a state of semi-slavery by families of officials and men of influence. The dead were never counted, but were buried in the ditch which encompassed their destruction.

Northern Patagonia was thus cleared of savages, and civilization stretched out its arms to embrace the pampas, which are now being rapidly populated with ranchmen. The grass is very similar to that of our own great plains, but water is more plentiful and regular than in the South-west Territories of the United States. Towards the Andes there is some timber, and the foot-hills are well wooded. Grazing land in this country is sold at a nominal price by the Argentine Government, or is leased to tenants for a term of eight years, in lots of six thousand acres, at a rental of one hundred dollars per year. Locations nearer the cities, of course, cost more money, and are hard to get, as they are already occupied by people who secured titles to the land years ago by “concessions” from Congress or other means.

Not long ago the United States Consul at Buenos Ayres received a letter from a New York capitalist, in which the latter proposed that they should pool their issues and secure a “concession” from the Argentine Government to gather up the wild cattle on the pampas. The capitalist, who had been overhauling his geography, discovered that “immense herds of wild horses and cattle are roaming ownerless upon the pampas of the Argentine Republic and Patagonia,” and thought it would be a good scheme to take a lot of Texas cow-boys down and corral them, if the permission of the Government could be obtained. He proposed that the consul should obtain such permission, while he would furnish the cow-boys and the necessary capital, and the two would become partners in the Patagonia cattle trade on an extensive scale.

The astonished consul did not answer the letter. It was a tempting scheme, but there were several obstacles in the way of its success, the first being that there were no wild cattle on the pampas, and never had been. The Indians had large herds, which were “absorbed” by prominent officials when General Roca concluded his scheme of extermination; but it would be quite as reasonable to make such a proposition to the Governor of Colorado. There are about thirty million cows, five million horses, and one hundred million sheep grazing on the pampas of the Argentine Republic and Patagonia, but they are all properly branded, and valued at something like four hundred millions of dollars. The annual number of beeves slaughtered reaches nearly four millions, and about ten million sheep are turned into mutton each year.

The Argentinians think that their country is to be the greatest of all the world in cattle and wool production, and the figures loom up very much like it, as the increase within the last twenty years has been about four hundred per cent. At present the Argentine Republic has more sheep than any other nation, but the value of the wool product is less by one-third than that of Australia, because the fleece is so much lighter. The clip per animal in Australia is worth about one dollar, while in the Argentine Republic it sells for about fifty cents.

The capital of Patagonia, if the territory of that name may be said to have a capital, as there is only one town within its limits, is Punta Arenas, or Sandy Point, located about one-third of the distance from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in the Strait of Magellan. It belongs to Chili, and was formerly a penal colony; but one look at it is enough to convince the most incredulous that whoever located it did not intend the convict’s life to be a happy one. It lies on a long spit which stretches out into the strait, and the English call it Sandy Point, but a better name would be Cape Desolation. Convicts are sent there no longer, but some of those who were sent thither when Chili kept the seeds and harvests of her revolutions still remain there. There used to be a military guard, but that was withdrawn during the war with Peru, and all the prisoners who would consent to enter the army got a ticket of leave. The Governor resides in what was once the barracks, and horses are kept in what was used as a stockade. Hunger, decay, and dreariness are inscribed upon everything—on the faces of the men as well as on the houses they live in—and the people look as discouraging as the mud.

They say it rains in Punta Arenas every day. That is a mistake—sometimes it snows. Another misrepresentation is the published announcement that ships passing the strait always touch there. Doubtless they desire to, and it is one of the delusions of the owners that they do; but as the wind never ceases except for a few hours at a time, and the bay on which the place is located is shallow, it is only about once a week or so that a boat can land, because of the violent surf. Our arrival happened to be opportune, for the water was smooth, and we landed without great difficulty, the only drawbacks being a pouring rain and mud that seemed bottomless.

The town is interesting, because it is the only settlement in Patagonia, and of course the only one in the strait. It is about four thousand miles from the southernmost town on the west coast of South America to the first port on the eastern coast—a voyage which ordinarily requires fifteen days; and as Punta Arenas is in about the middle of the way, it possesses some attractions. Spread out in the mud are two hundred and fifty houses, more or less, which shelter from the ceaseless storms a community of eight hundred or one thousand people, representing all sorts and conditions of men, from the primeval Indian type to the pure Caucasian—convicts, traders, fugitives, wrecked seamen, deserters from all the navies in the world, Chinamen, negroes, Poles, Italians, Sandwich Islanders, wandering Jews, and human drift-wood of every tongue and clime cast up by the sea and absorbed in a community scarcely one of which would be willing to tell why he came there, or would stay if he could get away. It is said that in Punta Arenas an interpreter for every language known to the modern world can be found, but although the place belongs to Chili, English is most generally spoken. There are a few women in the settlement, some of them faithful mothers and wives, no doubt, but the most of them have defective antecedents, and are noted for a disregard of matrimonial obligations.

There are some decent people here—ship agents and traders who came for business reasons, a consul or two, and among others an Irish physician, Dr. Fenton, who is the host and oracle sought for by every stranger who arrives. Occasionally some yachting party stops here on a voyage around the world, or a man-of-war cruising from one ocean to the other, and steamers bound from Europe to the South Pacific ports, or returning thence, pass every day or two; so that communication is kept up with the rest of the universe, and the people who live at this antipodes, where the sun is seen in the north, and the Fourth of July comes in the depth of winter, are pretty well informed as to affairs at the other end of the globe. The latitude corresponds to about that of Greenland, and if you tip the globe over you will see that it is the southernmost town in the world, farther south than the Cape of Good Hope or any of the inhabited islands. The emotions that come with the contemplation of the fact that you are about as far away from anywhere as one can go are quite novel; but in the midst of them you are summoned to confront the fact that the world is not as large as it looks to be, for here is a man who used to live where you came from, and another who once worked in an office where you are employed. There is a news-stand where you can purchase London and New York papers, often three or four months old, but still fresh to the long voyager, and shops at which Paris confectionery and the luxuries of life can be had at Patagonia prices.

There is a curiosity-shop near the landing, which is kept by an old fellow who was once a sailor in the United States navy, and fought under Admiral Farragut at Mobile—at least he says he did, and he speaks like a truthful man. Here are to be purchased many interesting relics; and passengers who are fortunate enough to get ashore, go back to their ship loaded down with Indian trifles, shells and flying fish, tusks of sea-lions, serpent-skins, agates from Cape Horn, turtle-shells, and the curious tails of the armadillo, in which the Indians carry their war-paint. But the prettiest things to be bought at Punta Arenas are the ostrich rugs, which are made of the breasts of the young birds, and are as soft as down and as beautiful as plumage can be.

The plumes of the ostrich are plucked from the wings and tail while the bird is alive, but to make a rug the little ones are killed and skinned, and the soft fluffy breasts are sewed together until they reach the size of a blanket. Those of a brown color and those of the purest white are alternated, and the combination produces a very fine artistic effect. They are too dainty and beautiful to be spread upon the floor, but can be used as carriage robes, or to throw over the back of a couch or chair. Sometimes ladies use them as panels for the front of dress skirts, and thus they are more striking than any fabric a loom can produce. Opera cloaks have been made of them also, to the gratification of the Æsthetic. They are too rare to be common, and too beautiful to ever tire the eye.

This town of Sandy Point is quite a market for other sorts of furs, which are brought in by the Indians of Patagonia from the mountains. Several large houses in Valparaiso and Buenos Ayres have agents there, and the shipments to Europe are quite large. The chief articles of export in this line are ostrich feathers and guanaco (pronounced wanacko) skins.

The fur-bearing animals of South America are numerous, and some of them are very fine. The mountains of the lower half of the continent abound with vicuÑas, guanacos, alpacas, and chinchillas, while the archipelago of Chili and Terra del Fuego, with its thousands of islands, fairly swarm with seals. Very many furs are shipped to Europe, but the seals are seldom touched except by the native Indians, who use their flesh for food and their skins for garments. The supply of seals is practically inexhaustible. They are found in large numbers as far north as Guayaquil, on the west coast, and the passengers on the steamships passing up and down are entertained by their antics. The seals have helped the sea-birds to create the supply of guano upon the Peruvian coast, and this valuable fertilizing material is largely composed of decayed seal flesh and bones, as well as the remnants of the fishes they have dined upon for thousands of years.

The skins of the northern seals are worthless, but farther south, as the archipelago is reached, a colder climate exists, the fur is thicker, and the skins have value. If the reader will take the map of South America, and examine the configuration of the continent south of the fortieth parallel, he will see how numerous these islands are, and every one of them is swarming with seals. There have been some attempts at seal-fishing in Terra del Fuego, but the Indians are so fierce as to make it dangerous for small parties to visit the islands, and only a few skins are shipped from Punta Arenas.

The guanaco skins are considered very fine. These are the wearing apparel of the Indians, and with the ostrich rugs constitute the chief results of their chase. In Patagonia ostriches are not bred, as at the Cape of Good Hope, but run wild, and are getting exterminated rapidly. The Indians chase them on horseback, and catch them with bolas—two heavy balls attached to the ends of a rope. Galloping after the ostrich, they grasp one ball in the hand, and whirl the other around their heads like a lasso coil. When near enough to the bird, they let go, and the two balls, still revolving in the air if skilfully directed, will wind around the long legs of the ostrich, and send him turning somersaults upon the sand. The Indians then leap from the saddle, and if scarce of meat they will cut the throat of the bird and carry the carcass to camp. If they have no need of food, they will pull the long plumes from the tail and wings, and let him go again to gather fresh plumage for the coming season.

The bolas are handled very dexterously, and well trained Indians are said to be able to bring down an ostrich at a range of two or three hundred yards. But it is not often necessary to draw at that distance. Horses accustomed to the chase can overtake a bird on an unobstructed plain; but the

birds have the advantage of being “artful dodgers,” and as they carry so much less weight, can turn and reverse quite suddenly. The usual mode of hunting them is for a dozen or so Indians to surround a herd and charge upon it suddenly. In this way several are usually brought down before they can scatter, and those that get away are pursued. As they dodge from one hunter they usually run afoul of another, and before they are aware they are tripped by the entangling bolas. People who are passing through the strait often stop over and await another steamer at Punta Arenas to enjoy an ostrich chase. They can secure trained horses and guides at moderate rates. One who has never thrown the bolas will be amazed, the first time he tries it, to find how difficult it is to do a trick that looks so easy.