American seamen, as a class, are fond of reading; and often, not only of reading such books as the Arabian Nights, trashy romances, tales of piracy and murder, and Munchausen stories, but books of history, biography, travels, and even poetry. Among the works ordered, is a set of Washington Irving’s writings: no volumes are more called for—especially the lives of Columbus and Mahommed, the Conquest of Granada, and the Sketch Book.
The most remarkable reader among the crew is an old main-mast-man of most trustworthy character. Religious works exclusively are his choice. The Bible is his constant companion; and, besides an entire set of the Evangelical library of the American Tract Society, which I brought with me for the use of any who would receive them, he has carefully read almost every volume of a theological and practical nature in my own library—including portions of Home’s Introduction, the whole of Dwight’s Theology, and the entire works of Archbishop Leighton. Of good countenance and personal appearance in general, sedate and quiet in his conduct, and scrupulously neat and particular in dress, he forms a study for an artist, as, seated near the main-mast, where he is stationed at sea, his knees spread with a piece of white duck—to keep all spots from his nicely covered volume—with spectacled nose, he pores over it hour after hour, so entirely absorbed by its contents as to lose all consciousness of the varied movements around him. He seems truly a good man, and sincerely interested in religious things; but when I question him in regard to personal faith and hope, he shakes his head negatively, as if he dare not presume to these; probably from the consciousness of an infirmity which he finds it difficult to overcome—the inability to resist indulgence in strong drink on shore. Aware of this he, for the most part, very wisely declines accepting the liberty of leaving the ship. There are other instances of like self-denial from the same cause, among some of our “best men,” in sea phraseology.
December 12th.—I recollect having stated, that the first sight which arrests the eyes of the stranger on landing in Rio, is the number, varied employments, and garb of the negroes. The first, and chief human sounds that reach his ears, are also from this class. Their cries through the streets vary with the pursuits they follow. That of the vegetable and fruit venders is monotonous and singular; but so varied, that each kind of vegetable and fruit seems to have its own song. The coffee carriers, moving in gangs, have a tune of their own to which they keep time, in an Indian-like lope, with a bag of one hundred and sixty pounds’ weight, poised on their heads. The bearers of furniture form a regular choir. One or two, with rattles of tin in their hands, resembling the nose of a watering-pot, perforated with holes and filled with shot, lead the way in a style truly African. To this is allied, with full strength of lungs, a kind of travelling chant, in which at times all join in chorus. It is full and sonorous, and rendered pleasant, if from no other cause, by the satisfaction from it visible, in the shining and sweating faces of the poor blacks. An effort was made by the authorities, some years ago, to put a stop to the unceasing vociferations and songs of the slaves; and a decree to that effect was issued. But on trial, it was found that the poor creatures drooped and faltered under their task, as they worked in forced silence; and soon moped in such melancholy and depression, that the attempt was abandoned. They now have full license to let out their musical voices; and the way some of them give utterance from their full chests, “to gigantic sounds, is a marvel to low-voiced humanity.” This is in direct contrast to the habits of the Brazilians. The chief and only sound you hear in the street from them, is a singular kind of softened hiss, the nearest resemblance to which the unpractised American could make, would probably be, according to a suggestion of Gov. Kent, in the effort to pronounce the word “tissue” by a quick and single action of the lips and tongue. This can be heard at a considerable distance, and seldom fails to attract the attention of the person to whom it is directed. No loud call—no halloo! to stop or to stand—no rough salutation or boisterous recognition is here heard, but all is quiet and calm. A beckon of the hand, as if you wished the person to approach, accompanied by a play of each finger, is the salute to a passer-by in a carriage, or one at too great a distance for the ordinary low tone of voice. The motion would be taken by a stranger for a beckon to come near, but when this is intended, the action is reversed, the back of the hand being towards the body, and the motion of the fingers a scoop inwards.
This sparing of the voice and this quiet action, indicate the general indolence of the people, induced by the debilitating influence of a tropical climate, and is characteristic of all their habits. It is a principle with them to sit at rest as much as possible, and when forced to move, to do so slowly and gently—to be calm and composed, quiet and noiseless. With this view of life, they eat, sleep, keep their temper and grow fat.
Public conveyances here, as elsewhere, afford good opportunities for studying some of the manners and habits of the people. Lines of omnibuses run in various directions through the city, and far into the suburbs. Gov. Kent has found it convenient during his residence here, to make much use of them, and says, that in so doing, he has been led to remark among other traits, the marvellous patience of the natives, and their utter disregard for loss of time. No matter how long, or however unaccountable the delay in starting, there is no inquiry made, no remonstrance uttered, no English or American fretting and scolding and threatening. The Brazilian passengers on such occasions appear as if they would sit for the day and the night, without a look or question of impatience. On one occasion, he was making a passage in a steamboat from the port of Estrella, on the western side of the bay of Rio. In crossing a shoal she grounded in the mud and remained fast for an hour; not a native passenger manifested the least curiosity or anxiety in regard to the detention. No one asked the cause or went forward to make any investigation, or to ascertain whether the tide was rising or falling. There was nothing on board either to eat or drink, except water; yet no one inquired how long the delay might be, but each taking out his tablets, or a newspaper, began writing or reading as if all were going on well.
Another trait strikingly exhibited in the omnibus, is the remarkable politeness and civility of the citizens, in some respects. Every man that enters the vehicle raises his hat to his fellow-passengers, who return the salute in the same manner. Sometimes in doing this, if the omnibus suddenly starts, there is an amusing struggle between politeness and the self-preservation which demands the use of both hands, ending at times in a stumble and fall, hat in hand, in the anxiety to do the accustomed honors. But no one thinks of yielding his seat after it is once taken, either to sex or age; and if the only unoccupied place should be at the furthest end of the carriage, the most delicate woman, on entering, must force her way to it as best she may. This is to be attributed to the national dislike to locomotion, and to the vis inertiæ incident to the climate. Men will often sit wedged together in a hot day, after vacancies on both sides have occurred, rather than move a foot for a more comfortable position.
The omnibuses are drawn by mules, and amusing scenes are often witnessed by the display of their characteristic obstinacy and ill-temper. As a friend remarks, in the language of some modern reformers, “from their unfortunate and misdirected organization, they exhibit, at times, great lightness of heel, and a savage desire to kick something.” The drivers, however, manage them admirably, and guide them skilfully, at a rapid rate, through the narrow streets. The carriages are strongly built—as they need to be; for the pavements are very rough. To this, however, the drivers pay little heed, and generally drive the most rapidly over the worst sections. In one respect the rate at which they move is an inconvenience to those wishing to take passage. The drivers have nothing of the “wide-awake” qualities of the Yankee jehus of the same vehicles at home. They never look out for passengers in the cross streets, and never behind them, but wait to be hailed by the native “hiss.” The foreigner may not be accomplished in the utterance of this; and when once the omnibus is well started, there is a farewell to all hope of a seat for the trip.
CHAPTER XXIII.
San Aliexo.