... Night: steaming for British Guiana;--we shall touch at no port
before reaching Demerara.... A strong warm gale, that compels the taking
in of every awning and wind-sail. Driving tepid rain; and an intense
darkness, broken only by the phosphorescence of the sea, which to-night
displays extraordinary radiance.
The steamer's wake is a great broad, seething river of fire,--white like
strong moonshine: the glow is bright enough to read by. At its centre
the trail is brightest;--towards either edge it pales off
cloudily,--curling like smoke of phosphorus. Great sharp lights burst up
momentarily through it like meteors. Weirder than this strange wake are
the long slow fires that keep burning about us at a distance, out in the
dark. Nebulous incandescences mount up from the depths, change form, and
pass;--serpentine flames wriggle by;--there are long billowing crests
of fire. These seem to be formed of millions of tiny sparks, that light
all at the same time, glow for a while, disappear, reappear, and swirl
away in a prolonged smouldering.
There are warm gales and heavy rain each night,--it is the hurricane
season;--and it seems these become more violent the farther south we
sail. But we are nearing those equinoctial regions where the calm of
nature is never disturbed by storms.
... Morning: still steaming south, through a vast blue day. The azure of
the heaven always seems to be growing deeper. There is a bluish-white
glow in the horizon,--almost too bright to look at. An indigo sea....
There are no clouds; and the splendor endures until sunset.
Then another night, very luminous and calm. The Southern constellations
burn whitely.... We are nearing the great shallows of the South American
coast.