The pyramidal hills on the eastern side of the channel are less lofty and less wild than these, but impressive in their massiveness, and beautiful in the verdure of various growth clinging to their steep sides and mantling their summits. Together they form a portal to Rio worthy, not only the city, but the vast and magnificent empire of which it is the metropolis.
There was full leisure for the enjoyment of the scene, for the sea-breeze did not set in, with sufficient strength to enable us to get under way, till after mid-day. In the mean time I secured a drawing, while a thorough ship-cleaning was going on, both inside and out. This was so satisfactorily accomplished by four hundred busy hands, before the breeze would allow of taking our anchor, that, with the crew freshly dressed in a uniform of white and new summer hats, we looked, on taking our position among the men-of-war at anchor, more like a ship on a gala-day in port, than one just arrived from sea.
The width of the entrance is a mile, though the loftiness of the granite shafts by which it is formed, gives the impression of its being much narrower. The Sugar Loaf on the left—the naked peak of a mountain of rock whose broad base lies far below in the great deep—rises, with a slight leaning westward, to an elevation of twelve hundred and ninety-two feet according to the measurement of Captain Beechy. The corresponding mass on the eastern side, less isolated and more rounded, is six or seven hundred only. At the base of this, upon a tongue of rock projecting into the channel, is the strong and massively built fortress of Santa Cruz, against whose Cyclopean foundations the swell from the open sea beats heavily. Its white walls and embattled parapets, pharos lantern and telegraph fixtures, with the imperial flag of green and gold flaunting in the breeze, are the first features of civilization meeting the eye: all else along the coast looks as primitive and untamed as on the day it was first discovered.
From the point at which we were at anchor, little within the harbor could be seen: a small fortified islet or two, the tall masts of the shipping at the man-of-war anchorage, distant five miles, and the faint outlines of the Organ mountains in the far north. But on passing the Sugar Loaf and fort the bay opens, and the extent and magnificence of its leading features are rapidly disclosed. The mountain group, which so impressed us in the morning and seemed to belong exclusively to the outside, is found to constitute in new aspects and relative positions, the grand outline of the western side within.
To these aspects of nature there was soon added the charm of art. Long lines of imposing edifices edge the shores; white cottages and villas sprinkle the hill-sides and crest the mountain ridges; while church steeples and convent towers and the thickened masses of building in the city gradually rise to view.
As our ship moved gently onward the effect was like the unfolding of a panoramic picture. First came the land-locked bay of Botafogo, backed and overhung by the lofty peaks of the Hermanos and Gavia—its circular shores and sweeping sand-beach being embellished with a palace-like hospital and numerous suburban residences of the aristocratic and wealthy. Then the green and picturesque valley of the Larangeiras, with cottages hanging like birds’ nests on its hill-sides, beneath the wooded cliffs and naked summit of the Corcovado; followed quickly by the bay of Flamengo, the Gloria hill, the hills of Santa Theresa and San Antonio crowned by their convents, Castle hill with its Capuchin monastery and old bastions, the hill of San Bento, and the entire city overtopped by the mountainous range and bell-shaped peak of Tejuca.
While these objects on the left successively absorb the attention, on the right a precipitous range of granite hills, extending two or three miles northward from the fortress of Santa Cruz, falls sheer into the water like the Highlands of the Hudson. It terminates in a bold promontory which divides a deep, circular inlet, called the bay of St. Francis Xavier, from the chief harbor, and which from some points of view is strikingly in the form of a colossal lion couchant, with the head settled backward in stateliness upon the shoulders. At the further distance of a mile a picturesque cliff-bound little islet—evidently once a part of the adjoining mainland—marks the northern entrance to this inner bay. Surmounted by a white chapel facing the sea, dedicated to “our Lady of good voyages,” the special patroness of the sailor, it is a conspicuous and interesting feature in the topography, the first and the last upon which the ignorant and superstitious among voyagers and seafaring men, have long been accustomed to fix their eyes on entering and on leaving port. Beyond this, upon a widely sweeping beach, stretch the populous rural suburbs of Praya Domingo and Praya Grande, immediately facing the city. These terminate in a lofty rounded hill, partly under cultivation and partly in wood, which cuts off all further view northward, except clusters of islands on the distant waters, and the far-off mountains rising six thousand feet against the sky. The whole was seen by us under the strong lights and shades of the afternoon, as with a light sea-breeze we floated gently up and dropped anchor abreast the city, midway from either shore. A cluster of men-of-war were moored inside of us, from whose mast-heads floated the national flags of England, Portugal and Brazil, but none bearing the stripes and stars of the United States.
Towards night the coloring thrown over mountains and valleys, city and bay, was most gorgeous. A light haze, like that of Indian summer at home, characterized the atmosphere; through this, the sun shone in fiery redness, empurpling the mountains, gilding dome and steeple and convent tower, and spreading a crimson glow over the entire bay. I have been thus minute in the description of the panorama surrounding us, because these winding shores and curving beaches, these verdant hills and towering mountains, are for many months in two or three successive years, to be the objects of hourly observation and the haunts of my daily rambles. The Sugar Loaf and the Corcovado, the Gavia and the Peak of Tejuca, Gloria hill, Botafogo, Praya Grande and the Organ mountains, will become in my communications to you, familiar as household words.
Admiration of the natural scenery was not the only feeling of which I was conscious, in advancing up the harbor. Remembrances of the past came unbidden to my mind and heart. With the first opening view of the Praya Flamengo, I was quick in my search with a glass among its mansions, for the dwelling which during my former visit had been to me a happy home. It was easily distinguished in its unchanged exterior. But where was the brilliant and accomplished diplomatist, whose genial spirit and polished mind gave such charm to its hospitalities? Long a tenant of the tomb! and I could not but recall the fact, that, with him, every one whose acquaintance I had here made—an acquaintanceship which, in some instances, from after intercourse, ripened into mature friendship—was also in the world of spirits: Tudor, Otway, Inglefield and Walsh, all gone. A generation had well-nigh passed away; and all was changed. A new Emperor was on the throne—a new Bishop over the see: there was no one to meet, and no one to look upon, whom I had ever seen before.
It was the predominance of feelings such as these that led, in my first visit on shore, to a solitary pilgrimage to the former Embassy, to look once more upon its familiar portal—now in possession of strangers,—and on my return at eventide through the embowered pathways of the Gloria hill, to think what a dream is life, and how vain as an abiding good, the highest attainments and most honored positions gained by man on earth.