THE FALLS OF TOMBOS IN THE STATE OF RIO.
CHAPTER XXIII
“A City of Paradise”
RIO has one of the most enviable positions in the world. The only other site occupied by a city of any magnitude that can compare to it is that of Sydney, in New South Wales. But Rio harbour has perhaps superior claims to loveliness than that of Sydney by reason of the endless mountain peaks that encompass its vast waters. The innumerable islands that rise up out of the rippled surface are richly clad with all the varieties of a tropical vegetation. The views are endless, each seeming to challenge comparison with any rival. Language almost fails to describe the beauty of the scenery. The infinite variety of the shapes and contours of its bays and islands as seen from the summit of Corcovada is an ever fruitful source of charm. Ships are but mere dots upon its surface when viewed from the distant heights of the surrounding hills, battleships but tiny specks and smaller craft invisible to the naked eye. The harbour is one of the largest and safest in the world, with an entrance nearly a mile in width. This entrance lies between a rugged mountain chain that encircles all the bay and two forts, the São Joã and the Sante Cruz, guard the passage into these bewitching waters. All around are the eternal hills, grotesque and strangely shaped, and covered with the lively greens of tropical verdure. No artist’s eye is required to appreciate the concentrated splendour under the changing lights and shadows, the marvellous panorama is veritably superb, and the islets in the great bay might well be those imagined by Tennyson, “Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea.” The landscapes could only possibly be properly delineated by a panorama on a gigantic scale, but even the most perfect would fail to excite the mind in any degree approximating to the actuality. The subtle aspects of exotic
ENTRANCE TO RIO HARBOUR.
growth and vegetation, the wild, disordered beauty of nature’s arrangements, the rich-growing wilderness of tropical greenery that springs up everywhere is past belief. When examined closer, the vegetation upon the islands and the mountain slopes is bewildering in its profusion. The colour of all nature, under the tropical sun which shines through the misty haze of the moist heated atmosphere, is full of mystery and charm. The forms that the giant trees assume, with innumerable parasites clinging to them, are indescribable. Tall palms, feathery bamboos wafted by the gentlest breezes, give a sense of life even on the calmest days. Rio is a fitting mistress for an exuberant poet, for he could never weary of versing her charms, extolling her exceeding beauty, or revelling in her enchantment. Its shores and its mountain slopes, the fascination of their varied aspects, provoke his enthusiasm at every turn. They possess wonders that can never stale, charms that can never tire. Even if this world-famed harbour is entered when night has hidden the wonders of its mountains from view, the scene is most impressive; the countless lights from the houses that twinkle like ground stars along the shores of Rio and Nictheroy, up the hill-sides and from the hundreds of boats that lie scattered in the bay, form an arrangement of singular loveliness. The lights on the shore follow the lines of the new esplanade, Avenida Beira-mar, from the city right out to Botofogo, and on the other side of the bay, those of Nictheroy twinkle back to them. Small steam launches, distinguishable only by their lights, rush about, and the air is filled with the shrieking of their whistles and sirens. The arrival of a mail steamer at night is the occasion for this nocturnal activity on the part of boatmen ever on the look-out to pick up a good fare, and as the mail steamers lie far out from the landing stage, passengers have no choice but to avail themselves of these harbour pirates, whose craft flock round the gangways as soon as the ship comes to anchor. Fire balloons float in the air, and rockets hiss and leave their trail of sparks behind them, as they rush on their upward flight.
It was on New Year’s Day, 1502, that Goncalo Coelho and his crew sailed into this silent bay. Theirs were not the first eyes to behold its wonders, for they found its shores peopled by a wild, savage race, who lived in their rude villages set amongst the fairest of surroundings. The bay was christened by the Portuguese “Rio de Janeiro,” or “River of January.” This name, which is in no way applicable to the bay, which has no river near it, is a matter for some surprise. The investigations of the Portuguese must have been of a very cursory nature, for they do not seem to have remained long enough to grasp the extent of the harbour they had discovered. They named it, however, and the name has stuck, and even the natives of Rio to-day are called “Fluminenses,” after the river that does not exist. The flat ground which winds round the foot of the hills, and upon which the city now stands, was formerly a mangrove swamp, of which nothing remains to-day. The city now covers an area of eight to nine square miles, and has nearly a million inhabitants. For centuries almost, indeed, until the beginning of the present one, the city, although in such beautiful surroundings, was extremely dirty and badly laid out. The streets were mean and shabby, for even the fashionable and prosperous Rua do Ouvidor is a mere alley. During the early part of the last century the city was proverbial for its filthiness, but it
THE SUMMIT OF CORCOVADA, RIO.