Nor would anybody here go into hysterics should he marry a woman whose skin should be a shade whiter than his own. It is for us Americans to preach up humanity, freedom, and equality, and then turn up our blessed noses if an African takes a seat at the same table on board a steamboat. Even in our churches he is obliged to look out some obscure nook, and dodge along towards heaven as if he had no business on the “narrow way.” The misery is, that they who preach equality the loudest, are generally the last to practice it. They are generally for levelling downwards; but give me the man who tries to level upwards. Give me the man whose smiles are like the rays of the sun—if they strike the loftiest objects first, it is only that they may glance to the lowest.
Tuesday, Jan. 6. The religion of the Brazilians, as seen in their legislative policy, is less trammelled by superstition than in most countries where Papacy prevails. The Pope, a few years since, sent a legate to this court. It is expected, in such cases, that the salary of the legate will be paid by the country to which he is accredited. But the Brazilian legislature, not having the fear of the Vatican before their eyes, voted that his holiness might pay his own representative. He was of course recalled. Such has been the abuse here of ecclesiastical supremacy, such its interference in political affairs, and such its onerous pecuniary exactions, that there has been a sweeping reaction, and the civil power of the Pope is openly set at defiance.
As for the priests here, should they attempt to set up any secular authority, they would only expose themselves to derision. There is vastly more reverence for the decisions of the Papal see among the Roman Catholics of our country, than there is among the Brazilians. Were a bishop here to interfere at an election, it would cost him his episcopate. It is for us Americans to submit to such an outrage on the sanctity of the ballot-box.
Wednesday, Jan. 7. I encountered to-day, on a large public square within the environs of the city, a washing-scene, which was rather primitive. The square is carpeted with green grass medallioned with flowers, and shaded here and there by clusters of forest trees. In the midst stands a fountain, from which the water falls in light showers into an immense basin. In this basin some two hundred females, of every age, clime, and color, were dashing their clothes, and rubbing them on the great sweep of the curb-stone. Their apparel, what little they had on, was fastened above the knee; the water in the basin was a pool of foaming suds, and they were jumping about in it like the Nereids of the Nile. The younger ones were full of mischief, and displayed their agility in tripping each other up. The fall of one into the suds was followed by a general shout. How they escaped having their clothes inextricably mixed up in this general melée of the great wash-tub, was a mystery to me.
On the green were hundreds of others occupied with their clothes. Some were snapping them in the wind; some spreading them on the grass to dry; some folding them up and depositing them in baskets, to be transported on their heads home; and others were under the shade of the trees asleep. Some trick, however, such as a dash of water from the bowl, was sure to await the dreamer; and then another laugh would be thrown on the wind. As twilight came on, all this panorama of life, with its breathing forms, its triumphs in laundry, and its merriments, disappeared. Nothing but the whisper of the leaf, or the bubble which still floated on the fountain, remained to tell where such a bustle had been.
What a magnificent wash-tub one of our great western lakes would make! It would hold all the clothes, clean and unclean, which cover the human race. There is only one difficulty in the way of this arrangement: it would be a little awkward to have the lake freeze over in the dead of winter. This, however, might be prevented by introducing under it the volcano of Vesuvius, which is of no use where it now stands. This done, and Whitney’s railroad to the Pacific finished, and we shall truly be a great nation. But our women will never consent to have the small clothes perilled in Lake Superior; so there is an end to the whole business.
Thursday, Jan. 8. Rambled on shore to-day with Lieut. Gray, and returned several calls. Every family in Rio, where superstition asserts her sway, has two things, an image of St. Antonio and a whip. If the saint, after being duly invoked, still refuses to grant the boon craved, he is taken down from his niche and soundly whipped. This chastisement is repeated till the prayer is answered, or some priest interferes, and consoles the disappointed with the persuasion that the blessing sought has been, or will be, conferred in some other form. This compulsory process with a saint, accounts for the maimed state in which you always find poor Antonio here. There is something unique and interesting in this mode of obtaining benefactions. If a saint wont shell out, when he has the power, why should he not be whipped as well as a sinner?
We encountered to-day a Brazilian lady of rank in her palankeen. She was carried by two sturdy slaves, and followed by a retinue of servants. She was evidently bound on a visit to some female acquaintance, with whom she expected to spend the day. Her attendants must also be provided for. Such an arrival in a quiet family would turn the whole house topsy-turvy. The further we get from the heart, the more bustle we make. The forms of fashionable etiquette, like feathers in a lady’s bonnet, are full of flare and flutter.
Friday, Jan. 9. On shore to-day with Lieutenant Tilghman, rambling through the environs of the city, and on the green hills which overlook the bay. Capt. Wilkes, in his history of the exploring expedition, calls this place St. Salvador. The Brazilians laugh at the misnomer, and enjoy it the more as the captain’s comments are deemed by them censorious and unjust. It was an unfortunate slip of the pen to write St. Salvador for St. Sebastian, and still more unfortunate to stereotype it into immortality.
The primitive name of this splendid bay is Nitherohi, which means concealed water, and is beautifully significant of its phenomena, as they unroll their wonders on the eye. And what a liquid name is that Nitherohi! it fairly melts on the tongue. It is Indian in its origin, and should never have been dropped for any saint in the calendar. But in Catholic countries, Eden itself would soon cease to go by its proper name.