“The river moving on its ceaseless way,
The verdant reach of meadows fair and green,
And the blue hills that bound the sylvan scene,—
These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,—
Proclaim the eternal architect on high,
Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.”
—Longfellow.
The afternoon preceding our arrival at Puerto Limon, the captain of our steamer called our attention to a wonderful mirage due south of us. High above the water—apparently midway between the sea and the sky—was suspended one of the islands of the Caribbean that stand off from the Panama coast. So far away was it from our course that, had it not been for the peculiar atmospheric conditions then prevailing, it would have been quite invisible, even with the aid of the most powerful glass. A beautiful, fantastic shape it exhibited as, seen through the trembling and shimmering air, it seemed to float in the hazy atmosphere. At first it was of a pearly-gray tint, then of a fustian-brown, and finally, as it became more distinct in outline, it shaded into a dark olive green. The apparition lasted for nearly an hour, when it gradually disappeared.
“The Vanishing Island of St. Brendan,” exclaimed a young Celt who had been admiring the scene. And then he read for us what John Sparke, a companion of Hawkins in the voyage of 1564, writes:
“Certaine flitting ilands, which haue beene oftentimes seene, and when men approched neere them they vanished, ... and therefore it should seeme hee is not yet borne to whom God hath appoynted the finding of them.”[1]