BAY OF RIO.—SCENERY.—ASPECT OF THE CITY.—ROYAL PALACE AND CHAPEL.—LANCERS AND BABY.—MISERACORDIA.—AQUEDUCT.—MORNING RIDE.—BOTANIC GARDEN.—TEA-PLANT.—THE SABBATH IN RIO.—MUSEUM.—NUNNERY.—JEALOUSY OF HUSBANDS.—A POMPOUS FUNERAL.—THE PLYMOUTH.—HON. HENRY A. WISE.—SLAVE-TRADE.—MARRIAGES AND DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.—POLITICAL CONDITION OF THE BRAZILIANS.—TREATMENT OF THE SLAVES.—RELIGION.—WASHER-WOMEN.—SAN ANTONIO.—CLIMATE.—THE UNKNOWN COUPLE.—DIAMONDS.—FAREWELL TO RIO.
Land ho—from the mast-head swelling,
On the breeze its music throws,
Like the tones of angels, telling
Where the soul may find repose.
Sunday, Dec. 21. We found ourselves on Sunday morning off the harbor of Rio. The first object that here arrests the eye is a rocky isle swelling abruptly from the sea, and crowned with a pharos, that had thrown its light some thirty miles to us the night before. Between this and the main land on the left, soars another mass of rocks, while a corresponding one rises with a savage aspect on the right. These wave-encircled bastions resemble those posted by nature on either side of the Dardanelles, through which the grim spirits of Europe and Asia challenge each other.
RIO DE JANEIRO
Within the entrance on the left rise the steep sides of Sugar-loaf mountain, while on the right frowns the lofty fortress of Santa Cruz. Further in looms the fortified isle of Lagem, commanding the central passage, and throwing its protection over the romantic cove, from which Bota Foga looks out upon the waters. As the eye wanders further up the bay, it encounters the island of Cobras, buried under its frowning batteries, and the Ville-Gagnon with its castellated summits; while on the opposite side a giant rock has walked out into the waters, and taken up its lofty, independent position.
The bay, studded with picturesque islands, circles up bold and beautiful some thirty miles into the main land. The shore presents here a glittering beach, which retreats into the green recesses of a deep ravine, and is there overhung by some stupendous cliff, which throws its dark shadows below. The whole bay is like a resplendent lake looking to heaven amid Alpine pinnacles. High above all soars the steep Corcovada, where plays the first blush of morn, and where the dying day lingers; while the Organ mountains, with their sharp peaks, pour down the harmony of the winds. All between these lofty barriers and the quiet bay presents a forest of fantastic cones; while swinging depths of shade wave over the glad rills that leap down their sides, and make music at their base. It would seem as if some volcano had thrown up these hills in a frolic; or as if some Titanic spirit, imbued with a love of the wonderful, had been permitted to work out its conceptions in these wild shapes.