Brazil and La Plata: The personal record of a cruise

by C. S. Stewart

Rio de Janeiro.

November 2d.—This is “All Souls day,” an anniversary of the church of Rome in commemoration of the dead, when masses are specially said for the repose of their souls; or, as an Irish servant, in explaining its character to me, says, “the day when all the dead stand round waiting for our prayers.” It is one on which here, as in other Catholic countries, the living also visit the tombs of their departed friends. As the observance is universal, and all the churches are open, we thought it a good opportunity, not only for viewing the interior of the principal edifices themselves, but also for observations of the people; and a party left the ship for this purpose early after breakfast.

The number of churches in the city amounts to forty-five or fifty. Scarce a half dozen of them, however, are worthy of notice either for their external architecture or internal decorations in sculpture and paintings, especially to those familiar with the treasures, in these respects, of the churches of Italy, Spain, and other European countries. The imperial chapel and a church adjoining it, formerly belonging to the barefooted Carmelites, and now a cathedral; the church of the Candelaria, so named from its being the chief place for the consecration of candles on Candlemas Day; and that of San Francisco de Paulo at the head of the Rua de Ouvidor, are the principal.

Having been told that the Emperor and Empress would attend mass at the church of San Antonio, where the remains of their infant children are deposited, we made our way first there. This church is attached to the convent of that name, and forms one end of the extensive and imposing establishment which so conspicuously crowns, with its lofty and massive walls, and terraced gardens and shrubberies, the hill to which it gives name in the centre of the city. The broad platform in front of the church and convent, paved and parapetted with stone, commands magnificent views of the city and bay; as does the entire front of the convent. This is three stories in height, with a tier of balconied windows running the whole length of each. Within, each story opens upon a cloistered quadrangle; while the church with two or three smaller chapels, various vesting rooms, sacristies and corridors form another end of the pile. Every part of the building on this occasion was open to inspection. The floors of the corridors surrounding the quadrangle, and those of the churches and chapels are formed of loose planks, six feet in length and of the width of a grave; each being fitted with a mortised hole at one end, that it may be the more readily lifted for the deposit beneath of body after body of the dead: so that none walk here without literally

“Marking with each step a tomb.”

That which first arrested the eye on entering was the range, on either side through the church, chapels and corridors, of miniature cabinets, urns and sarcophagi of ebony and other valuable wood, containing the bones of the dead thus preserved, after having been freed from the flesh by the action of quicklime. These receptacles are of various sizes, forms and degrees of elaborate workmanship. Each bears a plate of silver or gold with an inscription, and is furnished with a door which gives access to the ghastly memorials. They were arranged—some on rich tables and platforms and others on the pavement and floor—with more or less display of ornament: lighted wax candles in massive candlesticks of silver, interspersed in some instances with other pieces of silver plate, were clustered around them, and the whole garlanded and festooned with wreaths of the purple globe amaranthus and other flowers of the tribe “immortelle.” Each cabinet, or urn, was in charge of a well-dressed negro servant or other humble domestic of the family to whom the relics appertained. I was forcibly reminded by the scene of the custom of the Sandwich Islanders, in their heathen state, of preserving the bones of the dead in a similar manner. It was this usage, and the care and veneration with which the relics of their monarchs and chiefs were guarded, that enabled Rihoriho—Kamehameha II—to restore to England, on his visit to that country in 1825, the skeleton of Captain Cook. After his assassination the principal bones of his body were prepared according to their custom, and placed with those of their race of kings.

The principal church and the adjoining chapels were decorated profusely with artificial flowers, and with hangings of silk and velvet, and of gold and silver tissue; the high altars, shrines, tribunes, and organ-lofts of all were one blaze of wax lights. One of the chapels is covered throughout with elaborate carvings in wood trebly gilt. In the centre of this a lofty catafalque was erected, surmounted by a colossal sarcophagus covered with a superb pall. A mass was in progress as we entered; after which a procession of monks headed by a party of ecclesiastics—each bearing a wax candle of the size and length of a stout walking stick, and all vociferating a chant—marched slowly from chapel to chapel, and from shrine to shrine, through the corridors lined with the memorials of the departed, stopping at various points to scatter incense and utter prayers for the dead. Every spot was thronged with spectators; but I could detect no feeling of devotion, no sensibility in the affections, no solemnity in any one. The only object of the assemblage seemed to be to witness a show, and to examine with the curiosity observable at a fair, or the exhibition of an institute, the varied ornamental display. Three fourths of the crowd were negroes, male and female. Here and there, in two or three instances, I recognized a party of ladies in full dress in black with mantillas of lace, but a majority of the Brazilians and Portuguese present was evidently of the lower orders. We afterwards entered the churches of San Francisco de Paulo, the Candelaria and the Carmelites, where the bishop of Rio was officiating, but without witnessing any thing essentially different from what we had already seen.

All observation of the day confirms me in the impression before received, that a great change has taken place, since 1829, in the respect paid by the people to the superstitious ceremonies of the religion of the country. There is now little in the general aspect of things in the streets, even on days of religious festivals, to remind one of being in a Romish city. A monk or even ecclesiastic is scarce ever met, and whenever I have entered a church during service, a few poor negroes, sick persons, and beggars have constituted the principal part of the assemblage.

November 4th.—I have just accomplished quite a pedestrian feat, in the ascent of the Corcovado. After two days of such rain as the tropics only often witness, the weather this morning was as fine as possible, the atmosphere clear and transparent, very like the most brilliant days of June in the Northern States, when the wind is from the north-west. Lieutenant R——, Mr. G—— (secretary of Commodore McKeever), Prof. Le Froy of the British flag ship, and I, were induced by it to attempt the excursion, though it was not in our power to set off before two o’clock in the afternoon—a late hour for the accomplishment of a walk of nine miles, to the top of a mountain, two thousand three hundred and six feet high, according to the measurement of Beechy, and two thousand three hundred and thirty-nine, by that of Captains King and Fitzroy.

The Corcovado is one of the lofty shafts of granite which, in a greater or less degree of isolation, are characteristic of the geological formation in this region. Its relative position to the range of mountains of which it forms so conspicuous a part, and the height to which it towers above it, can best be compared, perhaps, to a colossal buttress standing against a massive building, with a pinnacled top rising high above the adjoining roof. As looked up to, from its eastern base in a green valley by the seaside, it appears, as if there really is, an utterly inaccessible mass of perpendicular rock. On the west, however, it is so joined to an angle of the general range for two thirds of its height, as to be comparatively easy of ascent. The first half of the distance from the city may be made by either of two ways: the one, through the valley of the Larangeiras, and the other, by the spur of mountain along which the aqueduct descends into the heart of the town, near the nunnery of Santa Theresa. We chose this last. At the outset, the ascent is a sharp pitch, but after gaining a height of one or two hundred feet, is so gradual for four miles as scarcely to be perceptible. The way leads along the flattened ridge of the hill by a bridle path immediately beside the aqueduct, the refreshing sound of whose waters, as they murmur and rumble in their covered channel, is a pleasant accompaniment to the sea-breeze sweeping by. It is overhung by embowering trees which, while they form a screen against the sun overhead, are too lofty to interfere by their branches with a full view of the prospects on either hand. These, for the whole distance, surpass in beauty and variety any of a similar nature I recollect ever to have met. As we gradually gained terrace after terrace of the spur, the pictures opening immediately beneath us in the ravines on the right—up which the suburbs straggle in tasteful dwellings and blooming gardens; in the broad and bright valley of Engenho Velho beyond, thickly sprinkled with the country residences of the wealthy, and adorned by the imperial palace; in the city itself—the upper bay and its islands; the Organ Mountains and whole panorama, are beyond the powers of description. At the end of two and a half or three miles, the aqueduct, sinking to a level with the surface of the ground, crosses the ridge which it has thus far been following, and leaving the course of this, runs along the face of the mountain at an elevation of a thousand feet. The pathway follows it, and I can compare the suddenness in the change of the prospect to nothing that will give a better idea of it, than a new combination in a kaleidoscope, by a turn of the instrument. It is entire. By a single step, as it were, in place of the above pictures, which are at once lost sight of, you have the southern sections of the city—Gloria Hill, Flamengo, Catètè, Larangieras and Botafogo, the lower bay with its moving imagery, the Sugar Loaf and its companion at the entrance of the harbor, the islets in the offing and along the coast, and the boundless sea. The walk for a mile here, with this picture beneath you on one side, and the beautifully wooded mountain cliffs above, on the other, is a terraced avenue worthy of fairy land itself. Of it Dr. Walsh justly remarks—“Without exaggeration, it maybe said, that there is not in the world so noble and beautiful a combination of nature and art, as the prospect it presents.”