It Was On The 23rd Of December, 1894, That We Left Liverpool In The
Batanga, Commanded By My Old Friend Captain Murray, Under Whose Care
I Had Made My First Voyage.
On the 30th we sighted the Peak of
Teneriffe early in the afternoon.
It displayed itself, as usual, as
an entirely celestial phenomenon. A great many people miss seeing
it. Suffering under the delusion that El Pico is a terrestrial
affair, they look in vain somewhere about the level of their own
eyes, which are striving to penetrate the dense masses of mist that
usually enshroud its slopes by day, and then a friend comes along,
and gaily points out to the newcomer the glittering white triangle
somewhere near the zenith. On some days the Peak stands out clear
from ocean to summit, looking every inch and more of its 12,080 ft.;
and this is said by the Canary fishermen to be a certain sign of
rain, or fine weather, or a gale of wind; but whenever and however
it may be seen, soft and dream-like in the sunshine, or melodramatic
and bizarre in the moonlight, it is one of the most beautiful things
the eye of man may see.
Soon after sighting Teneriffe, Lancarote showed, and then the Grand
Canary. Teneriffe is perhaps the most beautiful, but it is hard to
judge between it and Grand Canary as seen from the sea. The superb
cone this afternoon stood out a deep purple against a serpent-green
sky, separated from the brilliant blue ocean by a girdle of pink and
gold cumulus, while Grand Canary and Lancarote looked as if they
were formed from fantastic-shaped sunset cloud-banks that by some
spell had been solidified.
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