of the screw, and when fairly in the Guia narrows we were able to stop and admire it a little more at our leisure, Mr. Bingham making some sketches, while I took some photographs.  To describe the prospect in detail is quite impossible.  Imagine the grandest Alpine scene you ever saw, with tall snowy peaks and pinnacles rising from huge domed tops, and vast fields of unbroken snow; glaciers, running down into the sea, at the heads of the various bays; each bank and promontory richly clothed with vegetation of every shade of green; bold rocks and noble cliffs, covered with many-hued lichens; the floating icebergs; the narrow channel itself, blue as the sky above, dotted with small islands, each a mass of verdure, and reflecting on its glassy surface every object with such distinctness that it was difficult to say where the reality ended and the image began.  I have seen a photograph of the Mirror Lake, in California, which, as far as I know, is the only thing that could possibly give one an idea of the marvellous effect of these reflections.  Unfit Bay, on Chatham Island, looking towards the mountains near Pill Channel, and Ladder Hill, which looks as if a flight of steps had been cut upon its face, were perhaps two of the most striking points amid all this loveliness.

All too soon came the inevitable order to steam ahead; and once more resuming our course, we passed through Innocents and Conception Channels, and entered Wide Channel, which is frequently blocked up with ice at this time of year, though to-day we only met with a few icebergs on their way down from Eyre Sound.

[Illustration:  Unfit Bay]

I have already referred to the extraordinary shapes assumed by some of the mountain peaks.  That appropriately called Singular Peak—­on Chatham Island—­and Two-peak Mountain and Cathedral Mountain—­both on Wellington Island—­specially attracted our attention to-day.  The first-named presents a wonderful appearance, from whichever side you view it; the second reminds one of the beautiful double spires at Tours; while the last resembles the tapering spire of a cathedral, rising from a long roof, covered with delicate towers, fret-work, and angles.  In Wide Channel we felt really compelled to stop again to admire some of the unnamed mountains.  One we christened Spire Mountain, to distinguish it from the rest; it consisted of a single needle-like point, piercing deep into the blue vault of heaven, and surrounded by a cluster of less lofty but equally sharp pinnacles.  This group rose from a vast chain of exquisitely tinted snow-peaks, that looked almost as if they rested on the vast glacier beneath, seamed with dark blue and green crevasses and fissures.

[Illustration:  Two-peaked Mountain.]