RIO DE JANEIRO.
_December 10th._—The Congress has been a month at moorings here.
Nothing worthy of special notice has occurred on shore in the
interval. The court and church, by the customary pageants on gala
and fête days, have furnished the chief objects for sight-seeing,
and varied walks by the water side and on the mountains, my
principal sources of recreation. Our return to the metropolis was
welcomed, socially, by Mr. Schenck, the new minister, and by Gov.
Kent, the Consul, in elegant hospitalities to the officers of the
Congress; and Admiral Reynolds, relieved after long service by
Admiral Henderson, in the steam frigate Centaur, gave proof of his
continued friendship by a farewell dinner to us before putting to
sea, “homeward bound.”
The unity of my record, however, requires the brief notice of one or
two events on board ship. On the evening of the 25th ult. an outrage
was perpetrated by two or three of the crew, calculated to bring a
reproach upon our good name for order and discipline. I was on shore
with Commodore McKeever, when it was reported to him, that a
policeman of the city, who had taken a deserter on board, had been
knocked down on the deck when crossing the gangway, and, it was
feared, had been fatally injured. This seemed a daring outbreak
against the discipline of the service, and a serious offence against
the municipal authority of the city. Great excitement was produced
by it, and an investigation of the affair at once instituted. Two
chief offenders were discovered and confined in irons, in dark
cells, till a formal trial of the case should take place. At first,
the assault seemed so wanton, as to be inexplicable; and could only
be resolved into an act of unmitigated villainy. I was not long,
however, in gaining a clue to its solution, which, though it did not
excuse, explained the grounds of provocation, and very greatly
palliated the offence. The person attacked, instead of being a
policeman, was only one of those who are too well known among
sailors as land-sharks—a runner to a sailor boarding-house, who had
been in the habit of entrapping the men on shore, and imposing upon
them in various ways. On a recent occasion, he had decoyed one of
our crew—under peculiarly aggravating circumstances, and with
pretensions of kindness and friendship—into the hands of the police;
and had been guilty of a cowardly and abusive attack upon him
personally, afterwards, when he had no power to resent it. Great
indignation against him had thus been excited; and his unexpected
appearance on the deck of the Congress, led to a speedy
determination among a few, to seize what might be their only
opportunity for revenge. A crowd was quickly gathered at the
gangway, as if in mere curiosity, by which the opportunity of
tripping him up would be afforded, as he should leave the ship. This
purpose was successfully accomplished, and so quickly, that there
was no time for any one to interfere. The chief injury he sustained
was from striking his head upon the combings of a hatchway; but
nothing serious to him is likely to ensue; and the crew at least,
much as they regret the reflection upon the character of the ship in
connection with the affair, think he received only that which,
according to the sailor’s code of honor, was justly his due.
But this is a very trivial matter, in comparison with the chief
event which has happened: the loss to us of Captain McIntosh, as
commander of the Congress. The U. S. ship Falmouth, Captain Pearson,
of the Pacific squadron, came into port recently, homeward bound. An
exchange of commands took place; and Captain McIntosh left in the
Falmouth, on the 6th inst. To part with him thus unexpectedly, was
to others of the Congress, as well as to me, a severe trial. Every
officer felt it; and there was a general lamentation among all hands
of the crew. His reputation in the service is of the highest merit,
not only as an accomplished officer, but as a finished gentleman;
and, favored with his confidence—especially on the most important of
all subjects—and intimately associated with him, I deeply feel his
absence. Indeed, when his return to the United States was first
announced, I could scarcely be reconciled to it. All things,
however, are now going on promisingly under our new commander, who
comes to us with favorable antecedents, and high professional
character. The ship is in beautiful order; and general harmony and
contentment prevail, with every promise of a continuance of the
happy auspices which have hitherto marked our cruise.
One thing is very certain—that to me time flies with the velocity of
the wind. Each day is too short for its allotted routine of duty;
and Sabbath crowds upon Sabbath, as if the week were reduced to half
its length of days. Do you ask how this can be in such long and
distant exile? I answer, because I find varied occupation to
interest and keep me employed from morning till night. I will give
you the outline of a day on board. To begin at the beginning: while
every thing is still enshrouded in darkness, three loud and measured
beats upon a bass drum fall on the dead silence of the ship at the
hour, like the heavy tread—according to romance writers of old—of a
ghost in a haunted castle, at midnight. They are the signal for the
firing of the morning gun of thirty-two pounds, which occurs
simultaneously with the last stroke on the drum, and is followed by
the beating of the reveillé. This, however, is not intended, and, in
general has not the effect to waken the hundreds of sleepers on
board from their repose, but only to proclaim the first approaches
of the dawn in the east, or, in nautical phraseology, “to make
daylight.” It is not till half an hour afterwards that the
boatswain’s pipe, followed and joined by those of his mates, is
heard to echo shrilly round the decks, preparatory to the clear and
stentorian cry by him, “Up, all hands!” caught also by his mates and
bawled by them about the ship, in varied tones of voice, but all
very considerably above concert pitch. Then again in like manner,
“Up all hammocks!” and should it be a washing-day, of which there
are two or three each week, a third cry is heard, “All hands wash
clothes!” or “All hands wash hammocks!” as the case may be. Every
one springs at once from his hammock; all on board is bustle and
activity; and, for an hour or more, there is heard a universal
rubbing, and scrubbing, and scouring on deck, till the clothes are
all washed and hoisted fore and aft on lines in the rigging. Then
comes a dashing and splashing of water, and a thumping and bumping,
a pounding and grating of “holystones” over the sanded decks, that
would effectually break the slumber of any one but a naval officer.
By the inexperienced, all this would be thought an effectual
substitute for the gong, in rousing one from his slumbers, and in
hastening him to the deck to enjoy the balmy land-breeze, and the
glorious coloring of the morning on the landscape. As to the morning
gun and the reveillé, I neither heed nor hear the sound of either of
them once in a month; and as to the beauty of the morning, and the
fresh air of the deck, woe to him who seeks them, unless prepared to
receive a shower-bath of dirty water, by the bucketfull, at every
hatchway he attempts to ascend, and to wade ankle-deep, in search of
some spot where he can stand for a moment, without being tripped up
by a “squill-gee,” or knocked off his feet by the thrashing about of
huge “swabs.”
This general ship-cleaning is not ordinarily finished till near 8
o’clock—the breakfast hour on board; when our flags are thrown to
the wind with a salute to them by “Hail Columbia,” or the
“Star-spangled Banner,” from the band. Breakfast is followed by a
change of dress in the crew; and the ship thus in the nicest order,
and the men in uniform clothes of pure white, with cuffs and collars
of blue, we are ready for both the duty and the pleasure that the
day may bring forth. Denied the fresh air and bright scenery of the
early day, by the comfortless state of the deck, I give the first
hour after breakfast to the enjoyment of these, and the rest of the
morning to study.
The arrival of the long-expected library for the crew has given
quite a literary aspect to their hours of leisure. I have
voluntarily undertaken the office of librarian; and a half-day twice
a week, is necessarily given to the record of the issue and return
of the books. Evening classes, to which I also voluntarily give a
general superintendence, have been formed among the adults for
improvement in reading, writing, and arithmetic; and six or eight of
the more ambitious and promising, receive occasionally from me in my
room, lessons of an hour or two, in the higher branches of
arithmetic and in navigation. Thus, with a couple of hours on shore
for exercise, and daily visits to the sick and imprisoned on board,
I find my time fully occupied. I say visits to the imprisoned; for,
since the abolition of the lash by act of Congress, it has been
found necessary to erect cells—as remote as can be from the ordinary
resorts of the crew about the decks—for solitary confinement. The
interviews which I am permitted to have with those under such
punishment have proved to be salutary in their effect in the
discipline of the ship; and I claim the liberty of access to them,
as a privilege of my office.
American seamen, as a class, are fond of reading; and often, not
only of reading such books as the Arabian Nights, trashy romances,
tales of piracy and murder, and Munchausen stories, but books of
history, biography, travels, and even poetry. Among the works
ordered, is a set of Washington Irving’s writings: no volumes are
more called for—especially the lives of Columbus and Mahommed, the
Conquest of Granada, and the Sketch Book.
The most remarkable reader among the crew is an old main-mast-man of
most trustworthy character. Religious works exclusively are his
choice. The Bible is his constant companion; and, besides an entire
set of the Evangelical library of the American Tract Society, which
I brought with me for the use of any who would receive them, he has
carefully read almost every volume of a theological and practical
nature in my own library—including portions of Home’s Introduction,
the whole of Dwight’s Theology, and the entire works of Archbishop
Leighton. Of good countenance and personal appearance in general,
sedate and quiet in his conduct, and scrupulously neat and
particular in dress, he forms a study for an artist, as, seated near
the main-mast, where he is stationed at sea, his knees spread with a
piece of white duck—to keep all spots from his nicely covered
volume—with spectacled nose, he pores over it hour after hour, so
entirely absorbed by its contents as to lose all consciousness of
the varied movements around him. He seems truly a good man, and
sincerely interested in religious things; but when I question him in
regard to personal faith and hope, he shakes his head negatively, as
if he dare not presume to these; probably from the consciousness of
an infirmity which he finds it difficult to overcome—the inability
to resist indulgence in strong drink on shore. Aware of this he, for
the most part, very wisely declines accepting the liberty of leaving
the ship. There are other instances of like self-denial from the
same cause, among some of our “best men,” in sea phraseology.
_December 12th._—I recollect having stated, that the first sight
which arrests the eyes of the stranger on landing in Rio, is the
number, varied employments, and garb of the negroes. The first, and
chief human sounds that reach his ears, are also from this class.
Their cries through the streets vary with the pursuits they follow.
That of the vegetable and fruit venders is monotonous and singular;
but so varied, that each kind of vegetable and fruit seems to have
its own song. The coffee carriers, moving in gangs, have a tune of
their own to which they keep time, in an Indian-like lope, with a
bag of one hundred and sixty pounds’ weight, poised on their heads.
The bearers of furniture form a regular choir. One or two, with
rattles of tin in their hands, resembling the nose of a
watering-pot, perforated with holes and filled with shot, lead the
way in a style truly African. To this is allied, with full strength
of lungs, a kind of travelling chant, in which at times all join in
chorus. It is full and sonorous, and rendered pleasant, if from no
other cause, by the satisfaction from it visible, in the shining and
sweating faces of the poor blacks. An effort was made by the
authorities, some years ago, to put a stop to the unceasing
vociferations and songs of the slaves; and a decree to that effect
was issued. But on trial, it was found that the poor creatures
drooped and faltered under their task, as they worked in forced
silence; and soon moped in such melancholy and depression, that the
attempt was abandoned. They now have full license to let out their
musical voices; and the way some of them give utterance from their
full chests, “to gigantic sounds, is a marvel to low-voiced
humanity.” This is in direct contrast to the habits of the
Brazilians. The chief and only sound you hear in the street from
them, is a singular kind of softened hiss, the nearest resemblance
to which the unpractised American could make, would probably be,
according to a suggestion of Gov. Kent, in the effort to pronounce
the word “tissue” by a quick and single action of the lips and
tongue. This can be heard at a considerable distance, and seldom
fails to attract the attention of the person to whom it is directed.
No loud call—no halloo! to stop or to stand—no rough salutation or
boisterous recognition is here heard, but all is quiet and calm. A
beckon of the hand, as if you wished the person to approach,
accompanied by a play of each finger, is the salute to a passer-by
in a carriage, or one at too great a distance for the ordinary low
tone of voice. The motion would be taken by a stranger for a beckon
to come near, but when this is intended, the action is reversed, the
back of the hand being towards the body, and the motion of the
fingers a scoop inwards.
This sparing of the voice and this quiet action, indicate the
general indolence of the people, induced by the debilitating
influence of a tropical climate, and is characteristic of all their
habits. It is a principle with them to sit at rest as much as
possible, and when forced to move, to do so slowly and gently—to be
calm and composed, quiet and noiseless. With this view of life, they
eat, sleep, keep their temper and grow fat.
Public conveyances here, as elsewhere, afford good opportunities for
studying some of the manners and habits of the people. Lines of
omnibuses run in various directions through the city, and far into
the suburbs. Gov. Kent has found it convenient during his residence
here, to make much use of them, and says, that in so doing, he has
been led to remark among other traits, the marvellous patience of
the natives, and their utter disregard for loss of time. No matter
how long, or however unaccountable the delay in starting, there is
no inquiry made, no remonstrance uttered, no English or American
fretting and scolding and threatening. The Brazilian passengers on
such occasions appear as if they would sit for the day and the
night, without a look or question of impatience. On one occasion, he
was making a passage in a steamboat from the port of Estrella, on
the western side of the bay of Rio. In crossing a shoal she grounded
in the mud and remained fast for an hour; not a native passenger
manifested the least curiosity or anxiety in regard to the
detention. No one asked the cause or went forward to make any
investigation, or to ascertain whether the tide was rising or
falling. There was nothing on board either to eat or drink, except
water; yet no one inquired how long the delay might be, but each
taking out his tablets, or a newspaper, began writing or reading as
if all were going on well.
Another trait strikingly exhibited in the omnibus, is the remarkable
politeness and civility of the citizens, in some respects. Every man
that enters the vehicle raises his hat to his fellow-passengers, who
return the salute in the same manner. Sometimes in doing this, if
the omnibus suddenly starts, there is an amusing struggle between
politeness and the self-preservation which demands the use of both
hands, ending at times in a stumble and fall, hat in hand, in the
anxiety to do the accustomed honors. But no one thinks of yielding
his seat after it is once taken, either to sex or age; and if the
only unoccupied place should be at the furthest end of the carriage,
the most delicate woman, on entering, must force her way to it as
best she may. This is to be attributed to the national dislike to
locomotion, and to the _vis inertiæ_ incident to the climate. Men
will often sit wedged together in a hot day, after vacancies on both
sides have occurred, rather than move a foot for a more comfortable
position.
The omnibuses are drawn by mules, and amusing scenes are often
witnessed by the display of their characteristic obstinacy and
ill-temper. As a friend remarks, in the language of some modern
reformers, “from their unfortunate and misdirected organization,
they exhibit, at times, great lightness of heel, and a savage desire
to kick something.” The drivers, however, manage them admirably, and
guide them skilfully, at a rapid rate, through the narrow streets.
The carriages are strongly built—as they need to be; for the
pavements are very rough. To this, however, the drivers pay little
heed, and generally drive the most rapidly over the worst sections.
In one respect the rate at which they move is an inconvenience to
those wishing to take passage. The drivers have nothing of the
“wide-awake” qualities of the Yankee jehus of the same vehicles at
home. They never look out for passengers in the cross streets, and
never behind them, but wait to be hailed by the native “hiss.” The
foreigner may not be accomplished in the utterance of this; and when
once the omnibus is well started, there is a farewell to all hope of
a seat for the trip.
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