Brazil and La Plata: The personal record of a cruise

by C. S. Stewart

Mr. M——’s house is situated on a natural terrace, twenty feet above the level of a beautiful meadow of alfalfa or Peruvian grass, which lies between it and the factory. A road on the bank of the river runs beside this, in front of the house and lawn; and is a perfect specimen of the “green lane,” in the English landscape. Smooth, straight, and turf-covered, with a hedge of mimosa on the meadow side, and embowering thickets of bushes and trees overhanging the river on the other, it forms a striking object in the scene: one harmonizing well with the rural quietude and simplicity of the whole. In the lawn, which is on a level with the meadow and lane, there is a fountain and fine jet d’eau, and upon the terrace above, another between the drawing-room windows and the grove of acacias. A garden of fruit and flowers on the opposite side of the house, is separated from it by an artificial stream, whose bed is so paved with rough stones as to produce a constant murmur of soft sounds, as the water glides over and around them. Every thing in sight, indeed, though the place is new, presents a picture of taste and rural beauty, that makes me think of the “happy valley” in Rasselas.

It is unnecessary to say that I was most cordially received by my friend, whom I found in all the freshness and bloom of American beauty, and that I felt at once at home in her neat and tasteful abode.

Dec. 16th.—At the end of three days even, I cannot resist a feeling of having been transported from Brazil to some mountain region at home. There is nothing in the general foliage, except here and there the tufted top of a palm, or the broad leaf of the banana, to forbid the illusion. The place, in its quietude, its bright meadow and green lane, edged with hedges, its river whispering over a stony bed, beneath thicket-covered and tree-embowered banks, reminds me of Landsdown; while the house, an importation in all its parts from the United States; the factory, of which the same is true; and the distant hum of its busy looms and spindles, present a picture as strikingly characteristic of New England.

The weather is charming: clear and bright, with an occasional cloud of snowy whiteness floating against the deep blue of the sky, while breezes of grateful elasticity fan down from the mountain tops in the mornings and evenings, and sweep back through the valley with coolness from the distant sea at noonday. The nights, in their utter silence, are in wide contrast with those to which I have of late been accustomed: not a sound is heard but the plashings of the fountains and the murmurings of many waters.

The Sabbath was a day of rest indeed. I officiated at a service held in the hall at 11 o’clock, and would most gladly have attempted to make the day one of spiritual good to the operatives of the factory, and the numerous dependants of the establishment, by public worship with them. With the exception of the foreman and one or two assistants, however, all these are foreigners—Portuguese and Germans, whose languages I do not speak, and who, moreover, are chiefly Romanists, not accessible to a Protestant by preaching. The greatest number of those who are employed in the factory are females—Germans from the Imperial colony of Petropolis: the male portion are Portuguese from Oporto and the islands of Madeira and Terceira. The house-servants, the waiter, coachman, gardener and under-gardener, are Portuguese; the chambermaid, cook, and laundress, free negresses.

There is a Romish chapel within three miles of the valley; but it is closed for the most of the year, and is not frequented by the work-people here. The parish priest, like most others in the country, is living in a state of open concubinage, and is in other ways unpopular as to his morals. In passing through Majé, we met a fine-looking young man, handsomely mounted, followed by two negroes on mules. I was struck with his appearance, and, remarking it, learned that he was a son of the padre of the place, the eldest of a large family. We saw the father shortly afterwards, and received a bow from him at a door, as he was about to mount his mule. This animal I observed to be one of the finest of the kind I had seen; and I was struck with the peculiar fashion of the stirrups of the saddle; they were of polished brass, richly wrought, and in the form of a Turkish slipper.

December 18th.—On Tuesday I took a ride of two miles or more on horseback, to the head of the little valley. This presents a most wild and romantic scene: making one feel, in gazing upon it,—while mountain piled upon mountain, and pinnacled rock rising above pinnacled rock, tower, almost perpendicularly, thousands of feet overhead,—as if you had not only passed beyond civilization, but had arrived at the outer edge of the world itself, where, by the inaccessible barriers in front and on either hand, it is more impressively said than even by the waves of the sea-shore, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.”

After passing Mr. M——’s place, the only road is a mule-path, wide enough for a single animal, and in all respects, excepting the tracks of repeated use, in the state in which nature formed it—not a stone removed, and not an ascent or descent, however abrupt and precipitous, smoothed or graded. A few scattered habitations formed of wattled sticks, plastered with mud, and thatched with grass, are seen here and there; but less comfortable, apparently, and less attractive as dwellings, than the meanest log cabins on the outskirts of pioneer life in the United States. A few patches of mandioca, and one or two of Indian corn, alone indicated any cultivation of the soil, or gave evidence of a pursuit of industry.

The course of the principal stream is a broad bed of wild and massive rocks, from one to another of which, ordinarily, you may step dry-shod; but, in rains, these are covered by rushing and foaming torrents, and the stream is impassable. The next morning Mr. M—— accompanied me in a second ride, up a valley branching to the west from this, called the Peak Valley, from a remarkable peak of granite, which rises at its head: one of those sugar-loaf shafts, so common in the geological formation of this region. This valley, too, is exceedingly wild, in its chief features; and is watered by a rapid stream called the Peak River, tributary to that on which the factory stands.

The only drawback to the entire satisfaction of my visit, for the first three days, was the concealment by thick clouds, of the pikes or fingers as named by some, and all the higher ranges of the Organ Mountains which immediately overhang San Aliexo. These had so often been the object of admiration at a distance, when visible from Rio, that I was impatient to behold them close at hand; but had been tantalized only, by an occasional, indistinct, and momentary glimpse, through the mist of an opening cloud, of a fantastic peak or shelving precipice, standing high in the heavens above us. Just at nightfall, last evening, however, the veil was entirely lifted, and I charmed beyond expectation by the scene thus disclosed: and not without reason, as even the imperfect sketch accompanying this will show.