On September 20th, in a luxurious temperature of 78°, at a table decorated with heaps of glorious purple figs, richly ripe mulberries, bowls of fragrant honey, cups of chocolate whipped up into froth displaying all the colours of the rainbow, &c. &c., we took breakfast in Orotava, our minds in a state of perfect ease that we had long been strangers to. And why? every one was safe down from the mountain, and all our goods and chattels as well. The last mule loads had arrived without accident the previous night, and were now under lock and key close to us.

The sun came out with almost oppressive warmth amongst broken clouds; the air was steaming and hot, feeling like a vapour bath; papau and banana trees waved their fine fronds before the window, amid passion-flowers climbing everywhere. The barometer might be standing at thirty inches, but we did not feel so capable or so inclined for exertion as in the thin, dry and cold air of Alta Vista. From early autumn, we had suddenly returned to the height of sultry summer. There was more in this, than at first met the eye; more than mere difference of elevation would account for; and various changes had occurred since we were last here.