With this reflective introduction of our auramentee, we will ask you to picture him in meditative mood leaning against a huge pile of coffee-filled bags, waiting in the shadow they cast upon the wharf to witness the variegated effects of light imparted from the rays of the declining sun upon the beautifully environed waters of the harbor bay of Rio de Janeiro. The surface of the water, with its deeper blendings of green and blue, were tinted with the yellow light, while the rippled wavelets, gently moved by the waft of the evening breeze, sparkled in bright effulgence as their crests toppled and broke in foamy succession.
As the sierra peaks of the des Orgoaes began to cast their long shadows over the distant foliaged and villa-fringed bay of Jurbajuba, he was attracted from his reveried meditations by the distant strains of music, in harmonious accord with his mood. The instrumental combination in trio was so blended in harmony that he failed to recognize their individual characteristics, until a near approach enabled him to distinguish the movements of the performers. While yet distant his attention was impressed with the beseeching undertone of melancholy that pervaded the apparently improvised variations of familiar melodies, as if in wailing supplication for sympathy. As the boat approached the wharf, within its shadow, the awning was retroverted to admit of the upright position of a harp, supported by a woman yet young, but the resemblance of her features to a boy and girl, sitting upon either side of the stern thwart, proclaimed the relationship of mother. The children were yet within their first decade of years, but had advanced to the stage that rules with its impressions the after course of Giga life, in act, for good or evil. Their instrumental prelude had attracted all within hearing to the wharf, for the unusual tones of sad sweetness proved alike irresistible to the troglodyte negro and more insensate sea-monster of brutality, the slave-ship’s captain. The eyes of the mother, whose face was overshadowed by the broad brim of a Tuscan hat, moved with a quick glance from face to face of the gathered assemblage upon the wharf, while she directed the concerted movement of her children’s musical appeal, from violin and dulcetina, by touching in timed lead the strings of the harp. When all accessible to her sight had been passed in review, her eyes became suffused with the sad mists of disappointment, which were imparted to her children’s, upraised with hope. Drawing her veil to screen her emotions, she commenced a plaintive refrain, her fingers imparting to the strings of the harp an anguished tone of petition, so evident in its pleadings, that the uncouth negroes reverentially removed the turbaned bandas from their heads in recognition of the woful strains, and for the moment were raised above the grovelings of their debased condition. After the third repetition, the instrumental air was changed into an accompaniment for their voices, which in song preferred the following petition in Italian and English:—
“Father dear, art thou near?
Then listen without fear;
We came not to reprove,
But erring steps to soothe.
“Italy, dear land of our birth,
Though exiled, the choicest of earth,
Truly, thou wast cherished for love,
With only one object above.