Notes of a naturalist in South America

by John Ball

The famous Bay of Rio Janeiro may properly be described as a salt-water lake, so completely is it landlocked and cut off from the open sea. About thirty miles long and twenty in breadth, it is large enough to allow of spacious views, yet not so large as to lose in distance the marvellous background that is presented in every direction by the fantastic peaks that surround it. Numerous islands stud the surface, the larger telling their history in piles of huge blocks, either simulating rude Cyclopean architecture, or lying in wild confusion—granite pinnacles, half-decayed or fallen into utter ruin. The shores are everywhere a maze of coves and inlets, in which land and water are interlaced; and over all—the mainland and the islands alike—the wild riot of tropical vegetation holds its sway, defying the efforts of man to tame it to trimness. Even within the limits of the city, which stretches for about four miles along the shore, four or five coves present a ceaseless variety of outline. Of necessity the plan is completely irregular. Where a space of level ground opens out between the shore and the rocks, the city has spread out; where the rocks approach the water’s edge, it is narrowed in places to a single street. In architecture, since the great era of Alcobaça and Batalha, the Portuguese have not achieved much, and their descendants in South America have done little to adorn the capital of their great empire. The largest building, the imperial palace, might easily be taken for a barrack. Nature has undertaken the decoration of the city, and, amid the palms, and under the shade of large-leaved tropical trees in the public walks and gardens, the absence of sightly buildings is not felt.

The suburb of Botafogo, which is the fashionable quarter, lies on the shores of the most beautiful of the coves round which the city has grown up. It mainly consists of a range of handsome villas facing the sea, each with a charming garden, and, in this season, must be a delightful residence. But it is generally admitted that the climate of Rio is debilitating to European constitutions. As compared with most coast stations in the tropics the heat is not excessive—the mean temperature of the warmest month (February) is not quite 80° Fahr., and that of the coldest (July) about 70°; but most Europeans, and especially those of Germanic stock, require to be braced by intervals of cold, if they are to endure a hot climate with impunity. The annual appearance of yellow fever in the city supplies a still stronger motive to many of the foreign residents for fixing their abode amongst the hills. The chief resort, which in summer is frequented by most of the wealthier classes, is the well-known Petropolis, in the Organ Mountains, or Serra dos Orgãos, that rise beyond the northern shores of the bay.

THE AVENUE OF PALMS.

From Botafogo I directed my steps towards the Botanic Garden, and, as usual among people of Portuguese descent, found great readiness in giving information to strangers. Following a road that turned away from the shore, I seemed to have left the city far behind, and be quite in the country; but presently another beautiful dark blue cove opened out before me, and again turning inland I reached the garden. I must confess to a feeling of something like disappointment at the famous avenue of palms. It has been correctly described as reproducing the effect of the aisle of a great Gothic cathedral, and the defect, as it seemed to me, is that the reproduction is too faithful. The trees of Oreodoxa regia, which are about a hundred feet in height, are all exactly of the same form and dimensions, so much alike that they appear to have been cast in the same mould, and it is difficult to persuade one’s self that they are not artificial productions. It may not be easy to say why the same uniformity which satisfies the eye in a construction of stone, should fail to do so when similar forms are represented by natural objects. I suppose the fact to be that in all æsthetic judgments the mind is unconsciously influenced by trains of association. Our admiration is aroused not merely by given combinations of colour or form—by the mere visual image formed on the retina—but is controlled by our sense of fitness. We should resent as a caprice of the architect an irregularity in a vista of arches: among objects endowed with life we expect some manifestation of the universal tendency to variation.

With an intention, never fulfilled, to make a second visit to the garden, and, under the guidance of the director, Dr. Glaziou, to make nearer acquaintance with some of the vegetable wonders there brought together, I returned to my hotel. Before reaching Rio, I had decided to devote most of my short remaining time to a visit to the Organ Mountains, and to make Petropolis my head-quarters. As there was no especial reason for delay, I started for that place on the morning of the following day, July 9.

I shall make no attempt to describe the beauties of the bay as they were successively unfolded during the short passage to and from Petropolis. From early youth the Bay of Naples has ever appeared to me so perfectly beautiful that I was very reluctant to admit the pretensions of a rival. Even now I can well understand that some may find the pictures presented to the eye on the charmed coasts of our Mediterranean bay more complete, and the tints of the shores and sea and sky more harmonious; but there could be no doubt as to the gorgeous vesture that everywhere adorns this land. The vegetation of the Mediterranean coasts seems but poor and homely after the eye has dwelt on the luxuriance of tropical life, as though one were to compare a garb of homespun with trappings of velvet and embroidery. The islands of the bay present a ceaseless variety. Some are mere rocks, on which sea-birds of unknown aspect stood perched. Many of the larger are inhabited, and one, as I heard, has a population of thirteen hundred souls, and several charming villas showed it to be a favourite resort.

THE ORGAN MOUNTAINS.

In about an hour and a half from the city, the little steamer ran alongside of a wooden jetty at a spot on the northern side of the bay facing the bold range of the Organ Mountains, which extend for over twenty miles in an easterly direction. Between the northern shore and the foot of the mountains is a level swampy tract, evidently filled up by the detritus borne down by the numerous streams, and beyond this the mountain range rises very abruptly from the plain. Somewhat to my disappointment, I ascertained that Petropolis lies at a considerable distance from the higher part of the Organ range to which my attention had hitherto been directed. It is towards its eastern extremity that the Serra shows that remarkable series of granitic pinnacles of nearly equal height, appearing vertical from a distance, that suggested the likeness to the pipes of an organ whence these mountains obtained their name. The height of the loftier part has been estimated at 7500 feet above sea-level. I do not think that any of the summits near Petropolis can surpass the level of 5000 feet.

A short train with a small locomotive carried passengers for Petropolis across the low tract to the point where the ascent abruptly commences, a distance of nine or ten miles. The marshy plain is doubtless fever-stricken, and we passed very few houses on the way to the terminus, which is appropriately named Raiz da Serra. The construction of a railway on the slope leading thence to Petropolis, up which trains should be drawn by a wire rope, had been commenced, but at the time of my visit passengers were conveyed in carriages, each drawn by six or eight mules. A well-kept and well-engineered road—by far the best mountain road that I have seen in any part of America—leads to the pass or summit of the ridge that divides Petropolis from the Bay of Rio. The views during the ascent, especially in looking back over the bay, were entrancing, and new and strange forms of vegetation showed themselves at each turn of the road. From the summit, a gentle descent of a couple of miles leads to the main street of Petropolis.

The place lies about 2900 feet above the sea, in a basin or depression amidst forest-covered hills. The abundant rains of this region have carved the surface into a multitude of little dells and recesses, separated by hills and knolls of various size and height, leaving in their midst one comparatively broad space, where most of the buildings are grouped. The streamlets that issue from every nook in the mountains are finally united in two streams that flow in opposite directions, but both, I believe, ultimately find their way northward to the Parahyba. The streamlets have been turned to account by the inhabitants, for on each side of the main streets a rivulet of crystal water serves to maintain the vigour of a line of trees supplying the one need of the long summer—shelter from the vertical midday sun. In the present season (mid-winter) only one hotel was open; but in summer, when all who can do so escape from the oppressive heat of Rio, two or three others are generally crowded. It is at once apparent that Petropolis is a place for rest and enjoyment, not for business. The few shops and hotels are all in the main street, Rua do Imperador; the other streets, or roads, lie between ranges of detached villas, each with a garden, and here and there some more secluded habitation is withdrawn into some nook on the margin of the forest.