On the southern side of the Tagus are to be seen scattered here and there pleasantly enough among the green hills various white-walled quintas, or country farm-houses and villas. There is also, facing Lisbon, a small town of three or four thousand inhabitants. A little lower down toward the sea, on the same side, is the new Lazaretto, or building for quarantine—a certainly not very inviting abode, all white and yellow, without a particle of verdure or a square inch of shade about it. The harbor or bay, four or five miles wide, contains ships of almost every nation; but chiefly British, for Portugal is now little better than a colony or dependency of England. The Magdalena had no sooner cast anchor than two of the respected clergy of the English college—the college dos Inglesinhos, (of the dear English,) as the people call them—came on board to welcome me. I accompanied them ashore, and visited the college, situated on one of the highest spots of the city. On my way through the custom-house I saw a piece of impertinence committed by one of the underlings in the absence of his principal, which too well indicated the little respect which is now paid to the holy see in that once so Catholic kingdom. A secretary of the Brazilian nunciature, on his way to Rio, had landed with a small bag containing despatches sent by Cardinal Antonelli to the nuncio at Lisbon. Ambassadors' papers are privileged everywhere; nevertheless, in spite of the secretary's remonstrances and mine, the said underling broke open one of the sealed packets, and would doubtless have proceeded further had not Padre Pedro, of the English college, at that moment arrived, and threatened the insolent douanier with the loss of his place. I don't know if the nuncio took any notice of the affair; but where could such a proceeding have taken place save in Lisbon, or perhaps in Florence?
Facing the harbor, in the Praça do Commercio, is a handsome bronze statue of one of the former kings of Portugal, whose proud and commanding attitude half recalled the times when Portugal was mistress of the seas, and her adventurous navigators pioneered the way through unknown oceans to discoveries of stupendous magnitude.
The English fathers, the Revs. ——, showed me more than ordinary politeness: one of them accompanied me to present sundry letters of introduction I had brought with me to some notable personages of the capital. I was very cordially received everywhere, and could have wished that all the Portuguese resembled these worthy representatives of former national greatness. The Marqueza de F——, among others, appeared to me the model of a hidalgo's wife, full of grace and dignity, yet of amenity and practical good sense. I was particularly struck with her fervid piety, worthy of better times. At the house of the Marquess de L——, brother to the Portuguese minister in London, I met the newly consecrated Bishop of Oporto, who, to an ardent zeal and piety, joined the precious experience of thirty years' apostolate in China as a Lazarist missionary. He has since made his voice heard to some purpose in the upper house of the Lisbon parliament, strenuously resisting and combating the antichristian measures of the Louié ministry.
Some of the churches, of course, I visited, as far at least as the shortness of time allowed. They bore for the most part traces of the magnificence and gorgeous piety of other days; but were generally ill kept, and but too empty of worshippers. The chapter mass was being chanted when I entered the Primatial church; there were very few people assisting; near the door stood some poor women with dead babes laid on benches; they did not seem to be noticed by any one.
If the exterior aspect of Lisbon is truly magnificent, a nearer view of that capital takes away all illusion. I afterward found this to be the case also with many of the Brazilian cities. Nature has done wonders for most of these towns, but man seems to have made it his especial purpose to sully and disfigure everything. If we except some really very fine buildings and noble historic monuments, all in Lisbon is squalid, neglected, and ruinous. Most of the streets, rebuilt so lately as eighty years ago, after the great earthquake, are narrow, tortuous, ill-paved, and more than ordinarily dirty and fetid. The same may be said of the houses, even of palaces of great noblemen, in which, in spite of imposing architectural splendor, and traces of former sumptuousness, the olfactory sense is frequently annoyed by indescribable odors of stables or worse things. Sanitary commissions would assuredly be driven mad if at work in that city for any time. The noisy bustle of a great capital always gives, more or less, an appearance of energetic life to its indwellers; but after London, Paris, or even Madrid, Lisbon appears dead. It is the torpid metropolis of a degenerate people.
On the 21st at sunrise we cast anchor in the fine bay of St. Vincent, one of the Cape de Verde Islands, and a coaling station for steamers. It is a volcanic rock of frightful sterility, but possesses a wide, deep, and secure harbor of considerable resort for ships navigating on the African coast. Everything is brought thither from the neighboring island of Sant' Antonio—water, oranges, bananas, yams, sugar-canes, and other productions—for the place yields absolutely nothing, save a little brackish water in a couple of wells. Its sole inhabitants are a few score of starving-looking negroes, a few lean pigs, fowls, and goats. I saw, soaring high among the mountains, a kind of vulture with a large yellow beak, but wondered where that bird and its possible fellows would find anything to eat, unless it came across from the neighboring islands. For there is no sign whatever of vegetation or of wild animal life on this spot, where it is said never to rain. The soil is reddish, and perpetually calcined by the intolerable fierceness of an almost equatorial sun. He ought not to complain of heat in Europe who has once visited St. Vincent. One of my voyaging companions, the secretary of nunciature at Rio, the Rev. Monsignore ——, who had come directly from Rome, was sighing and groaning under the oppression of that fiery clime. The good man had, by some mischance, left his baggage behind, and had no other clothing to wear but a long black coat of a coarse and thick texture that would have done him fair service amidst the snows of Canada—but here in St. Vincent! He must have had a vivid anticipation of purgatory, I am sure; his distress was very comical, and he could not relieve it by lighter clothing until we reached Bahia. Far more at their ease were the dozen or two of little blacks, perfectly naked, who played on the smooth sandy shore, jumping and tumbling in and out of the waves, just like our own children in the new-mown hay at home in the summer-time.
There may be at St. Vincent four or five score of so-called houses of most wretched appearance, a set of stone-built barracks tenanted by a company or so of Portuguese soldiers, and a small fort on a hillock, overlooking and commanding the bay. Three or four sickly-looking palm-trees, brought from Portugal, endeavor to grow in front of the government house. A small church has recently been built, and is served by a black priest, who managed to raise the funds for its erection by begging on board every ship which came into the harbor. To the right on entering the harbor is a mountain of somewhat fantastic form. American imagination has found in its outline some resemblance to Washington's profile, and it has in consequence been called "Washington's Head." Right in the middle of the entrance of the bay, and darkly outlined against the frowning cliffs of Sant' Antonio, is a tall conical rock of remarkable appearance. It is a capital landmark, being seen seaward at a very great distance. When we entered the harbor, we found at anchor, among other vessels, a large Federal steam-frigate, which had been there four months watching the arrival of the famous Alabama. Within the spacious bay disported two whales, mother and cub, which were pursued for several hours, but in vain, by the native fishermen.
We most gladly bade farewell to the desolate isle of St. Vincent, and fairly sailed away for the New World, yet distant from us six or seven hundred leagues. The heat now began to be terrific, especially at night in the narrow cabins; but it was moderated most days by a gentle breeze, which made lolling on deck in the evenings truly luxurious. About a day's sail from St. Vincent I first noticed shoals of flying-fish, though I believe they are to be found in a much more northerly latitude, and in another voyage I saw some off the isle of Palma. They rise from the sea, chiefly in the early morning and when the surface is freshly rippled, in flocks of ten to sixty or more, and fly close to the surface, often tipping the crest of the wavelets, and skim along with great velocity for the space of five or six hundred yards, when they plunge again into the deep, raising a speck of foam. These small fish, which are said to be of excellent flavor, are about the size of herrings, and of silvery-gray color. I once or twice saw some much larger and almost white on the coast of Brazil, between Bahia and Rio de Janeiro. They are said to be constantly pursued by the bonita, a large fish of the dolphin species, whose hungry maw they try to escape by rising out of the water. But although their flight is exceedingly rapid, their relentless enemy cuts its way through the subjacent waves with equal swiftness, and is ready for the tiny victims as they drop exhausted into the sea. There appear to be prodigious numbers of them all over the ocean; and nearer the coast of Africa the sea is sometimes covered for miles and miles with their spawn lying on the smooth surface like the duck-weed of our ponds. In this latitude, and for many days, I also noticed swimming along in the smooth transparent waters the gay-looking dorado, a large fish vividly reflecting the sun's rays from its scaly back, all over green and gold. Sharks I was anxious to see, but none appeared throughout the voyage; scared away, I should imagine, by the noise and turmoil of the paddle-wheels.
We had fallen into the region of the trade-winds, which blew steadily from the north-east, wafting us rapidly over the middle Atlantic; we were eight days reaching Pernambuco. I was surprised to meet with so few ships on the way, yet we must have crossed the high road of a great multitude of vessels outward or homeward bound. This apparent scarcity of ships gave me a vivid idea of the immensity of the ocean, on whose pathless surface so many sail wander, lost like imperceptible specks of dust on the plain. In this great solitude, life on board ship is monotonous enough, and by its wearisomeness almost justifies the snarling saying of Dr. Johnson: "Sir, I would rather be in jail than on board of a ship, where you have the confinement of a prison together with the chance of being drowned." Want of space, even in the largest vessels, the impossibility of applying one's self to serious occupation, to study, or to prayer, for want of quiet solitude, and also on account of the rolling of the ship, which greatly fatigues the head—all this makes one sigh for the end of the voyage, and find a lively interest in the most trifling occurrences—the passing of a distant sail, the flight of a bird, and so forth. It is especially in the evenings—and they are long ones in the tropics—that time appears heavy, unless one be inclined to enter into all the frivolous and noisy amusements set on foot to beguile weariness. The passengers dance, play games, improvise concerts, and especially eat and drink enormously, and almost all day long. How wearisome former sea-voyages must have been, which lasted many months, sometimes even several years! It is related, for example, in Captain Cook's voyages that some of his crew once lost their wits for joy on seeing the land they had not beheld for eighteen months.