THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 171 
dicularly from the foaming waves, cut and seamed 
into dark chasms and ravines, through which rocky 
torrents find a noisy course, while here and there 
a little stream is poured over the very summit of the 
precipice, the cascade descending in a white narrow 
line, conspicuous against the dark rock behind, until 
the wind carries it away in feathery spray, long be- 
fore it reaches the bottom. The sunlight throws 
the prominences and cavities of the cliffs into broad 
masses of light and shadow, which, ever changing 
as the ship rapidly alters her position, give a magic 
character to the scene. Here and there, on the 
sides of the hills farther inland, the lawns and fields 
of lively green, speckled with white villas and ham- 
lets, and relieved by the rich verdure of the orange- 
groves, present a softer but not less pleasing pros- 
pect. Other islands of this interesting group gradu- 
ally rise from the horizon, all of similar character, 
but diverse in appearance from their various dis- 
tance; some showing out in palpable distinctness, 
and others seen only in shadowy outline. But there 
is one which, from the singularity of its shape, arrests 
the attention. A mountain, of a very regularly 
conical form, seems to rise abruptly from the sea, 
with remarkable steepness, verdant almost to the 
summit; it is almost like a sugar-loaf, with a rounded 
top, crowned by a nipple-like prominence, which is 
often veiled by clouds. It is the Peak of Pico, 
seven thousand feet in height, second in celebrity, 
as in, elevation, only to the Peak of Teneriffe. A 
recent visitor has thus described the picturesque 
beauty of this oceanic mountain :—“ The hoary head 
