“We got here two weeks ago. The Captain thought he was going right off again, but you never saw such a lazy set, as the people are here. Jackson says he and I could do as much as twenty Portuguese. I go on shore almost every day. She doesn’t lie at a dock as she did in New-York, for they do not have any docks. It seemed so queer at first, to see all the vessels anchored out in the bay, and the little boats pulling around them. Just think—there have been twenty-two vessels put in here this last month, from the United States, to refit. The reason is, so many were like ours, not fit to go to sea at all, they say, and too much loaded. I think the owners must be bad men to risk people’s lives for the sake of making a little more money. Don’t you?
“Father knows a great many people here, he’s got acquainted with them off the different vessels, and keeps very busy.” Good hearted Sam! he had puzzled half an hour over that sentence, lest he should betray his father’s faults, but Mr. Gilman well knew with all his caution, what he intended to conceal.
“I do not know whether he will find time to write home by this ship, but he means to”—the letter went on to say; for Sam had seen how writing had been put off from day to day, and wished to soften his mother’s disappointment, if no letter came.
“So I go round by myself, and see enough curious things. Why I could not tell you half in ten years. Just think! they are all Catholics in Rio; and have great big churches, that you could put two or three of our meeting-houses right inside! They don’t have any pews, but anybody kneels right down on the stone floor, and says their prayers. I guess our girls wouldn’t like it, with their Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses on! The ladies here don’t seem to mind it at all, but they don’t wear the same kind of clothes. Abby could tell you more about their rigging in ten minutes, than I could in a whole week, so I guess I won’t try. The priest (that’s like our minister) sings all the prayers, in Latin. I guess the folks don’t know much what he means. There are pictures all round some of the churches, and I like to go to hear the music—not singing, like our choir, but real bands of music, that play lively tunes.
I got acquainted with another boy, a real splendid fellow, last week; he came from Boston in the Mermaid, and the Captain is his father. We have great times. There isn’t many boys, going to California. His name is John. Well, John and me did think it was so queer to see real slaves at first. There’s hundreds, and hundreds of them in the streets, and the streets aren’t a bit like what I thought they were going to be—more like little narrow alleys, such as I saw in New-York. (I’m all out of breath with such a great long sentence, so I guess I’ll stop and rest a while.)”
The next page was written with blue ink, and dated two days later.
“Dear mother, I’ve seen such beautiful things this morning, that I must sit right down to tell you before I forget it. I wish Abby had been with John and me this morning. His father took him there yesterday, and he took me there to-day. I mean to the great flower-shop, which is enough handsomer than Squire Merrill’s garden. I thought just as much as could be they were all real flowers, and wondered how they kept them so fresh, without any water; and John laughed, and laughed when I said so! John is most as good a fellow as Ben—he knows all about navigation, his father is teaching him; I told Jackson yesterday I wish I had known him before I finished Ben’s letter. Just tell Ben that the sun doesn’t stop, when it’s just noon,—I thought it did a minute; but it begins to go down the minute it gets in the middle of the sky, and then the Captain knows when it’s exactly noon. Ben’s letter tells about it, if you want to know.
Oh, about the flowers. They were artificials. Abby would go out of her senses to have a bunch for her straw bonnet. If father and me stops here on our way home, I will bring her and Hannah, and Julia Chase, a bushel. They are made out of feathers, bird’s feathers, and colored shells—the littlest things! you ever saw, the shells are; and a good deal brighter and handsomer than real flowers are. I mean New Hampshire flowers. Rio flowers are splendid—tulips and dahlias ain’t nothing to them, tell Abby. Why, geraniums grow right along the road, as high and big as a great mustard bush—and that prickly, green-looking thing like a snake, Julia used to have in a flower pot. The cactuses are nothing but weeds here—not half so scarce as white clover in a hay-field.
Then they have whole farms out back of the city, where nothing but coffee grows! I haven’t seen it growing, but John has, he rode out with his father and some gentlemen. The slaves, (there, I meant to tell you about the slaves,) they bring it in on their heads in great bags, and trot along like old Prince, singing something or other, way down in their throats, and one of them has a rattle, something like Mrs. Chase’s baby’s. I don’t mind the slaves at all now,—it seems just as natural to see them all along the streets, or curled up going to sleep in their big baskets, on the door-steps. John says he’d rather be a nigger than go to sea before the mast, tell Ben. There are great high mountains all around Rio, not like the White Mountains look from our house, but right up sharp and steep, as a bare rock. They don’t have wells here, with buckets and a sweep, the acqueducts (I believe I’ve spelt it right) brings the water along in pipes from one of the mountains, and it spouts up in fountains all over the city. Then the slaves come and get it, and carry it home on their heads, like the coffee.—John says that he thinks they must have wooden heads, or very thick skulls to stand it. I should think so too. I told Jackson, and he said they didn’t have any feeling; any way, Jackson can’t learn ’em anyhow, he says he’d show ’em how to step ’round!
I guess, now, I must tell you about what we are going to do. Just as soon as the vessel is ready, we are going to sea, and bear right down for the Cape. Jackson has been round the Horn twice, and says we must look out for squalls. We are going right down to Staten Land, that’s an island, and perhaps through the strait, Le Maire, not Magellan. Our ship is too large for them. Then we come up to Valparaiso, and hope to get to San Francisco, the middle of June. I expect I shall be glad enough by that time. Father has just come on board, and says he will write by the “Racer” that goes out next week. He says he supposes I told all the news, and sends his love to you and the girls. I wish—well, I do wish that Colcord was in Jericho, and I can’t help it, there, if it is wicked. I’ve told John about my sisters, and Julia Chase, and he’s told me about his. We have real good times. Give my love to Mrs. Chase and Julia, and all inquiring friends. No more at present, from your affectionate son—