At 4 p.m., on July the 10th, my wife and I rode into Orotava. We knew that we were now comparatively close to the Peak, but it was concealed from view by strata of mist, descending so low as 3000 feet, and extending over the greater part of the sky. The air was nearly calm; for the N.E. Trade-wind, the tyrant of Canarian seas, cannot blow home to this huge mountain, that, unlike the lower crests of Anaga, towers high above the influence of polar currents.

The streets were trafficless, and quiet reigned everywhere. The only noise, beyond the clattering of our horses' feet on the pavement as we passed along, was the pushing open of a trap in each wooden window, to allow of the protrusion of some curious head; and then the falling to again of the little panel when curiosity was satisfied. Our two attendants, the Spanish grooms, running alongside the horses, after having, in pride of their city, taken us up and down as many of the streets as possible—concluded by a grand career through the principal square, and a spirited entry into the courtyard of the inn, awakening all the echoes of the place. This could not be the inn! but “Si, senor,” they answered, it was the inn, the hotel, the grand hotel, and that whereat we were expected; and away they vanished with our tired steeds.