ered by one of the
most beautiful mornings of this climate, when our pleasure in the near
prospect of a residence on this charming island was most painfully
interrupted by the accident of a sailor falling overboard. The rapidity
with which we were driving before the wind frustrated all our efforts to
save him, and the poor fellow met his death in the waves. Our
cheerfulness was now perfectly destroyed; and my regret for the accident
was increased by the fear of the evil impression it might make on the
minds of the other men.--Sailors are seldom free from superstition, and
if mine should consider this misfortune as a bad omen, it might become
such in reality by casting down the spirits so essential in a long and
perhaps dangerous voyage. A crew tormenting itself with idle fears will
never lend that ready obedience to a commander which is necessary for
its own preservation. The messmates of the unfortunate man continued to
gaze mournfully towards the spot where he had sunk, till the sight of
land, as we sailed about noon past the small rocky island of Salvages,
seemed to divert their thoughts from the occurrence; their former
cheerfulness gradually returned, and my apprehensions subsided.

This evening the island of Teneriffe became perceptible amidst the mist
and clouds which veiled its heights. During the night we reached the
high black rocks of lava which form its northern points; and at break of
day I determined to tack, in order to run into Santa Cruz, the only
place in the island where ships can lie at anchor.

The night was stormy, and the high land occasioned violent gusts of wind
from various directions. Towards morning the weather improved, but we
found that the current had carried us twenty miles to the south-east.[1]
These strong currents are common here in all seasons, and, to vessels
not aware of them, may in dark nights produce injurious consequences.
Having now passed the northern promontory, we steered southward for the
roads of Santa Cruz. The shore here, consisting of high, steep masses of
lava, presents a picturesque but desolate and sterile landscape, amidst
which the eye seeks in vain for some spot capable of producing the rich
wine of Teneriffe. Upon a point of rock about a thousand feet above the
level of the sea, we saw a telegraph in full activity, probably
announcing our arrival. The town next came in sight, and with its
numerous churches, convents, and handsome houses, rising in an
amphitheatr