Voyage from Buenos Ayres to Santos—Tropical vegetation in Brazil—Visit to San Paulo—Journey from San Paulo to Rio Janeiro—Valley of the Parahyba do Sul—Ancient mountains of Brazil—Rio Janeiro—Visit to Petropolis—Falls of Itamariti—Struggle for existence in a tropical forest—The hermit of Petropolis—Morning view over the Bay of Rio—A gorgeous flowering shrub—Visit to Tijuca—Yellow fever in Brazil—A giant of the forest—Voyage to Bahia and Pernambuco—Equatorial rains—Fernando Noronha—St. Vincent in the Cape de Verde Islands—Trade winds of the North Atlantic—Lisbon—Return to England.

About midday on June 30, I took my departure from Buenos Ayres. The operation was not altogether simple or to be quickly accomplished. Jolting heavily over the ill-paved streets, a hackney coach carried me and a fellow-traveller with our luggage to the riverbank. The sight was very strange. It was a busy day, and there were literally hundreds of high-wheeled carts engaged in carrying passengers and goods out to the boats, which lay fully half a mile from the shore. When, after a delay that seemed excessive, we were installed in a boat, this was pulled in a leisurely fashion to the steam-tender, which lay more than a mile farther out. When the hour fixed for the departure of the tender was long past, we at length got under way, and finally reached the Neva steamship of the Royal Mail Company, about fourteen miles below the city, at five o’clock.

With iron punctuality dinner was served at the regular hour, although none of the passengers were ready, and the luggage was not brought on board till after dinner. There was, in truth, no reason for haste, as we were appointed to call at Monte Video on the following morning. My chief business at that place was to recover possession of the chest containing my botanical collections, which I had deposited at the custom-house.

Impressed with the attractions of Brazil, and feeling the strict limits of time to which I was bound, I asked myself if I should not have done better to have omitted a visit to the Plata region, and saved nine days by proceeding direct to Brazil in the Iberia, which started on the 22nd of June. I should certainly recommend that course to any naturalist travelling under similar circumstances at the same season; but I am sure that, if I had done so, I should have felt regret at having missed an opportunity, and should have fancied that I had lost new and interesting experiences.

At four p.m. on the 1st of July the big ship began to move from her moorings opposite Monte Video, and for about sixty miles kept a due easterly course. Somewhere near the port of Maldonado we passed a bright light on an island which shows as a bold headland. I was told that this is known as Cape Frio, because of the cold often encountered here by those arriving from Brazil. It may be supposed that the force of the south-west wind which prevails in winter is more felt as the wide opening of the great estuary is reached. During my own short stay, the wind never rose beyond a gentle breeze, and the temperature on land was no more than agreeably cool, usually between 55° and 60° Fahr. during the day.

The distance from Monte Video to Santos, which is reckoned at 970 sea miles, was accomplished in about three days and eighteen hours. The voyage was uneventful. On the 3rd we approached the Brazilian coast, but the land lay low, and no objects could be distinguished. The weather was all that could be desired by the most delicate passengers, the barometer remaining almost stationary at about 30·2 inches,42 and the temperature by day rising gradually from 57° at Monte Video to 62° in lat. 25° south. Before sunrise on the morning of July 5, we entered the bay through which the Santos river discharges itself into the Atlantic, and found ourselves in a new region. The richness of the green and the luxuriance of the foliage recalled the aspect of the coast at Jacmel, in Hayti, and as the morning advanced, while we slowly steamed towards the head of the bay, I had no difficulty in deciding on a course which had already suggested itself to my mind. I knew that Santos is connected by railway with SÃo Paulo (better known in the form San Paulo), the chief town of this part of Brazil, and that the railway between that place and the capital was also completed; and I accordingly determined to leave the steamer, and find my way by land to Rio Janeiro.

Santos is an ancient place which had long remained obscure, until the great development of coffee-cultivation in South Brazil, and the construction of a railway to the interior, have made it the most advantageous port for the shipment to Europe of that important product. It lies at the mouth of an inconsiderable stream that enters the head of the bay. Seen from the sea, it appears to be backed by a range of lofty, flat-topped hills, but, in truth, these are no more than the seaward face of the great plateau which extends through a considerable part of the province of San Paulo. Although Santos is placed a few miles south of the Tropic of Capricorn, the aspect of the vegetation is completely tropical; and if a stranger were in doubt, the fringe of cocoa-nut palms on the shores of the bay would completely reassure him. Although the thermometer on board ship did not rise above 67°, the air seemed to us, arriving from the south, very warm, and we were surprised to hear the company’s agent, when he came on board, complain that he had found the water in his bath uncomfortably chilly.

I landed with a young German fellow-traveller who, like myself, intended to proceed to San Paulo; and, as we found that the train was not to start for three hours, we occupied the time in ascending the nearest hill. It was now nearly three months since I had enjoyed a glimpse of true tropical vegetation in the forest of Buenaventura, and the interest and delight of this renewed experience can never be forgotten. It was clear that on the slopes about Santos the native forests had been cleared, but on all the steeper parts, not reclaimed for cultivation, the indigenous vegetation had resumed the mastery. Trees and shrubs in wonderful variety contended for the mastery, and maintained, as they best could, a precarious struggle for existence with a crowd of climbers and parasites. So dense was the mass of vegetation that it was impossible to penetrate in any direction farther than a few yards, and there was no choice but to follow the track that led to the summit of the slope, on which stood a pretty house with an adjoining coffee-plantation. Among the many new forms of vegetation here seen, the most singular was that of the Tillandsia.43 Long, whitish, smooth cords hang from the branches of the taller trees, and at eight or ten feet from the ground abruptly produce a rosette of stiff leaves, like those of a miniature pine-apple, with a central spike of flowers. But the most brilliant ornament of this season was a species of trumpet-flower (Bignonia venusta, Ker = Pyrostegia ignea, Presl), which, partly supporting itself, and partly climbing over the shrubs and small trees, covered them with dense masses of brilliant orange or flame-coloured flowers.

Laden with specimens, I returned to the town just in time for the afternoon train to San Paulo. The railway was constructed by an English company, and is so far remarkable that a somewhat difficult problem has been solved in an efficient and probably economical fashion. The object is, within a distance of a few miles, to raise a railway train about 2500 feet. This is done by four stationary engines. The line is laid on four rather steep inclines, with nearly level intermediate spaces, each ascending train being counterpoised by one descending in the opposite direction, and the loss of time in effecting the connections is quite inconsiderable.

On every map of Brazil that I have seen, the Serra do Mar, which we were here ascending, is represented as a range of mountains running parallel to the coast, and extending from near Rio Janeiro to the Bay of Paranagua in South Brazil, apparently dividing the strip of coast from the low country of the interior. Most travellers would probably have expected, as I did, that on reaching the summit we should descend considerably before reaching San Paulo, and it was with surprise that from the summit I saw before me what appeared to be a vast level plain, with some distant hills or mountains in the dim horizon. It is true that the drainage of the whole tract is carried westward and ultimately reaches the ParanÀ; but the slope is quite insensible, and I do not think that, in the space of about sixty miles that lay between us and San Paulo, the descent can exceed two or three hundred feet. There was a complete change in the aspect of the vegetation, and open tracts of moorland recalled scenes of Northern Germany.

Night had closed before we reached the station at San Paulo. There was a difficulty about a carriage to convey us to the hotel. Perhaps the demands were unreasonable, or perhaps we were too unfamiliar with the coinage of Brazil, which is that of the mother country; but on hearing from the driver a demand for several thousand rees, we indignantly resolved to walk, and engaged a man to convey our luggage to the hotel. We were favourably impressed by the appearance of this provincial capital. In the space of a mile we passed through several good streets, well lighted with gas, and better paved than any I had seen in South America. Many handsome houses with adjoining gardens were passed on the way, and, on reaching the Grand Hotel, nice clean rooms, and good food provided for the evening meal, further conduced to favourable first impressions of Brazil.

My young German companion, a traveller for a commercial house, was returning from a visit to the interior of Brazil. By steamer on the ParanÀ and Paraguay he had gone from Buenos Ayres to CuyabÀ, the capital of the province of Matto Grosso, a vast region with undefined boundaries, probably larger than most of the European states. I have often been struck by the results of superior education among Germans engaged in business, as compared with men of the same class in other countries. It is not that they often merit the designation of intellectual men, and still more rarely do they show active interest in scientific inquiry; but they retain a respect for the studies they have abandoned, are ready to talk intelligently on such subjects, and, as a rule, have a regard for accuracy as to facts which is so uncommon in the world, as much because the majority are too ignorant to appreciate their importance as owing to deliberate disregard of truth. I did not learn much as to the progress of inner Brazil, but my fellow-traveller mentioned a few particulars that had struck him as singular. He found the civil population of CuyabÀ solicitous in their adherence to European fashions in dress, and, as a special note of respectability, the men always appearing in what are vulgarly called chimneypot hats. The current coin in all but small transactions consisted in English sovereigns, but he was unable to explain how these have reached a region which can have so few commercial relations with this country. He departed on the following morning, while I resolved to spend a day in visiting the neighbourhood of the city.

Although San Paulo lies exactly on the southern tropic, the winter climate is positively cool, and at sunrise on July 6 the thermometer stood at 58° Fahr. On a rough estimate from a single barometric observation it stands about 2400 feet above the sea. Its appearance was altogether unlike that of all the towns seen in Spanish America. The somewhat wearisome monotony of regular square blocks gave place to the irregular arrangement of some of the provincial towns in England, several streets running out into the country and ending in detached villas. The general impression was that of comfort and prosperity. Several well-appointed private carriages were seen in the streets, and the shops were as good as one commonly sees in a European town of the same class.

I was much interested by the short country excursion, which occupied most of the day, and by an aspect of vegetation entirely new to me. The plants, with scarcely an exception, belonged to genera prevailing in tropical America, many of them now seen by me for the first time; but the species were nearly all different from those of the coast region, and the general aspect of the flora still more markedly different. There was no trace of that luxuriance which we commonly expect in tropical vegetation; monocotyledonous plants, except grasses, were very few, and, in place of the large ferns that abounded at Santos, I found but a single Gleichenia, allied to a species that I had gathered in the Straits of Magellan.

Although a fair number of plants were still in flower, I soon came to the conclusion that night frosts must be not unfrequent at this season, and that a considerable proportion of the vegetation must be annually renewed. I found several groups of small trees, chiefly of the laurel family, and for the first time saw the Araucaria brasiliensis, possibly in a wild state; but none of the trees attained considerable height, and I doubt whether in a state of nature this plateau has ever been a forest region. I was rejoiced to see again, growing in some abundance, the splendid Bignonia venusta, and was led to doubt whether its real home may not be in the interior, and its appearance at Santos due to introduction by man.

We possess a fair amount of information as to the climate of the Brazilian coasts, but our knowledge of the meteorology of the interior provinces is miserably scanty. I was led to conjecture that, although the district surrounding San Paulo is not divided by a mountain range from the neighbouring coast region, the climate must be very much drier, and that the rainfall is mainly limited to the summer season.

In the course of my walk, I unexpectedly approached a country house about three miles from the town, and was somewhat surprised by meeting a carriage with ladies on their way to the house. As far as my experience has gone in the country parts of Portugal or Spain, such an encounter would there be regarded as a very unusual phenomenon.

The railway from San Paulo to Rio Janeiro appears to be a well-managed and prosperous concern, paying to its shareholders dividends of from ten to twelve per cent. The distance is about 380 miles, and the trains perform the distance in about thirteen and a half hours. Leaving my hotel in the dark, I found at the station a crowd of passengers contending for tickets; but good order was maintained, and we started punctually at six o’clock. For some way the line is carried at an apparent level over the plain, with occasional distant views of high hills to the north, and crosses two or three inconsiderable streams, whose waters run to the ParanÀ. A slight but continuous ascent, scarcely noticed by the passing, traveller, leads to the watershed which, in this direction, limits the vast basin of the ParanÀ. After a long but very gentle descent, we reached a stream flowing westward. I at first supposed it, like those already seen, to be a tributary of the ParanÀ which made its way through some depression in the low ridge over which we had passed; but I soon ascertained that this was an error. Near the spot where the railway crosses it, the stream makes a sharp turn, and thenceforth proceeds in a direction little north of east for about four hundred miles, till it falls into the Atlantic at SÃo JoÃo da Barra, north-east of Rio Janeiro. This is the Rio Parahyba do Sul, not to be confounded with the Rio Parahyba north of Pernambuco, nor yet with the more important river Paranahyba in the province of Piauhy.

For the greater part of the way to Rio the railway runs parallel with the river. As laid down on the maps, the valley lies between a mountain range called the Serra da Mantiqueira on the left, and a minor range, which divides the upper course of the river from the middle part, where it flows in the opposite direction. The appearance of the country through which I now passed forcibly suggested to me views respecting its geological history, which were confirmed and extended by what I afterwards saw in the neighbourhood of Rio, and by all that I have since been able to learn on the subject.

I had already been struck by what little I had seen of the plateau region of the province of San Paulo. Beneath the superficial crust of vegetable soil, the plateau appears to be formed of more or less red arenaceous deposits, such as would result from the erosion and decomposition of the gneiss or granite which is the only rock I had seen in the country. In the valley of the Parahyba, the connection was unmistakable. Every section in the valley showed thick beds of the same coarse-grained, red arenaceous deposits, and on the slopes the same material lay at the base of whatever masses of granite we approached. But what especially struck me were the forms and appearance of the mountains on either hand, if that designation could properly be given to them. I saw nothing that would elsewhere be called a mountain range. The outlines were in most places rounded and covered with vegetation, but at intervals occurred steep conical masses, of the same general type as the sugar-loaf peaks surrounding the Bay of Rio Janeiro. However steep, the rocks nowhere showed angular peaks or edges, these being always more or less rounded.

It would be rash to generalize from the partial observations of a passing traveller; but the broad outlines of the geology of Brazil, or, at least, of the eastern provinces, have now been well traced,44 and some general conclusions may safely be drawn. It is true that large districts of the interior have been but partially explored, and remain blanks on the geological map; but the eastern half of Brazil is undoubtedly ancient land; presenting no trace of secondary strata except in small detached areas near the coast, and where more recent tertiary deposits are to be found only in a portion of the great valley of the Amazons. A mountain range, having various local designations, but which may best be called the Serra da Mantiqueira, extends from the neighbourhood of San Paulo to the lower course of the Rio San Francisco, for a distance of twelve hundred miles, and this is mainly composed of gneiss, sometimes passing into true granite, syenite, or mica schist; and the same may be said of the Serra do Mar, a less considerable range lying between the main chain and the coast. The southern limits of the Serra do Mar do not appear to be well-defined, but we may estimate its length at from five to six hundred miles. The other mountain systems of the empire are less well known; but I believe that the ranges dividing the province of Minas Geraes from Goyaz, and the so-called Cordillera Grande of the province of Goyaz, lying between the two main branches of the great river Tocantins, are largely formed of ancient sedimentary rocks of the Laurentian and Huronian groups.

The granite of the Serra da Mantiqueira and Serra do Mar is coarse-grained, with large crystals of felspar, and is therefore much exposed to disintegration. So far as I know, the vast masses of detritus forming the plateaux of this region show no other materials than such as would be produced by the disintegration of the crystalline rocks, and there is strong reason to believe that these have never been overlaid by sedimentary deposits.

Let us now consider what must have been the past history of a region formed of such materials, exposed, during a large part of the past history of the earth, to the action of the elements. In such an inquiry one of the chief points for consideration is the amount of rainfall. The direct effect, both mechanical and chemical, of rain falling on a rock surface is perhaps not the most important. Still more essential is its action in removing the disintegrated matter, and thereby exposing a fresh surface to renewed action. The difference in the absolute result due to abundant or deficient rainfall would be found, if we could calculate it accurately, to be enormous. In a nearly rainless country, such as Egypt or Peru, we see a slope covered with dÉbris, and are apt to conclude that the rock is being rapidly disintegrated; but, in truth, what we see is the work of many, perhaps many hundred, centuries, which remains in situ because there is no agency to remove it. In a land of heavy rainfall the dÉbris is speedily carried to lower levels, and the work of destruction is constantly renewed.

We have scarcely any observations of rainfall in the mountain districts of Brazil. The only reliable return that I have seen is that of one year’s rainfall at Gongo Seco, in Goyaz, which amounted to more than a hundred and thirty inches; but we may safely conclude that it is everywhere very great. It is also important to note that if, as most geologists now believe, the Atlantic valley has existed since an early period of the earth’s history, Eastern Brazil must always have been a land of heavy rainfall. A great mountain range on the eastern side of the continent might have created a desert region in the interior, but would have received in the past as much aqueous precipitation as it does at the present time.

We have, therefore, to consider what must have been the ancient condition of a region subjected throughout vast periods of geological time to the utmost force of disintegrating agencies applied to a rock very liable to yield to them, and where, without reckoning the large proportion which must have been carried by rivers to the sea, we see such vast deposits of the disintegrated materials formed out of the same matrix. To my mind the conclusion is irresistible that ancient Brazil was one of the greatest mountain regions of the earth, and that its summits may very probably have exceeded in height any now existing in the world. What we now behold are the ruins of the ancient mountains, and the singular conical peaks are, as Liais has explained, the remains of some harder masses of metamorphic gneiss, of which the strata were tilted at a high angle. As the same writer has remarked, although the crystalline rocks are for the most part easily disintegrated, some portions are formed of much more resisting materials, and these have to some extent survived the incessant action of destructive forces.

We are far from possessing the materials for a rational estimate of the probable extent and elevation of the ancient mountain ranges of Brazil. In the first place, we have a plateau region occupying a large part of the upper basin of the ParanÀ, with an area of fully 100,000 square miles, covered with detritus to an unknown, but certainly considerable, depth. In addition to this, it cannot be doubted that the finer constituents carried down by that river, and its tributary the Paraguay, from the same original home, have largely contributed to the formation of the Argentine pampas and Paraguay, including the northern portion of the Gran Chaco. Borings and chemical analysis of the soil may hereafter give us reliable data; but in the mean time we may safely reckon that an area of 200,000 square miles has been mainly formed from the materials derived from the ancient mountains whose importance I endeavour to point out. In addition to all this, we should further reckon the soluble matter and fine silt carried to the ocean during the long course of geological history, and take into account that the same great mountain region also furnished materials to streams which flowed northward and eastward.

In attempting to speculate on the past history of this region it is important to remark that, so far as evidence is available, there is reason to believe that Brazil has undergone less considerable changes of level than most other parts of the earth’s surface. Even if we go back to the period of the earlier secondary rocks, there is no evidence to show that movements of elevation or depression have exceeded a few hundred feet.

I have attempted elsewhere45 to give a sketch of the views which I hold as to the probable origin of the chief types of phanerogamous vegetation. I there pointed out that, at a period when physical conditions in the lower regions of the earth’s surface were widely different, and the proportion of carbonic acid gas present in the atmosphere was very much greater than it has been since the deposition of the coal measures, it was only in the higher region of great mountain countries that conditions prevailed at all similar to those now existing. I further argued that, if the early types of flowering plants were confined, as I believe they were, to the high mountains, we could not expect to find their remains in deposits formed in shallow lakes and estuaries until after the probably long period during which they were gradually modified to adapt them to altered physical conditions.

A general survey of the South American flora shows, along with elements derived from distant regions, a large number of types either absolutely peculiar to that continent, or which, in some cases, appear to have spread from that centre to other areas. Of these peculiar types some may probably have originated in the Andean chain, but as to the majority, it seems far more probable that their primitive home was in Brazil; and it is precisely on the ancient mountains of this region that I should look for the ancestors of many forms of vegetation which have stamped their character on the vegetation of the continent.

I should be the first to admit that the views here expressed have no claim to rank as more than probable conjectures; but I hold that these, when resting on some positive basis of facts, are often serviceable to the progress of science, by stimulating inquiry and leading observers to co-ordinate facts whose connection had not previously been apparent.

In following the valley, in places where the siliceous soil supported only a scanty vegetation, I was struck by the singular appearance of scattered piles, usually about four feet in height, having much the appearance of rude milestones, occurring here and there in some abundance, but never very near each other. I was often able to avail myself of the short halts of the train at wayside stations to secure specimens of interesting plants, but I was not able to approach near to these unknown objects. I have no doubt, however, that they were habitations of termites, or, as they are commonly called, white ants. I have never been able to conjecture the origin of the instinct that induces so many species of termites in different parts of the world to construct dwellings in this form, nor what advantage they can derive from it.

As the Parahyba appeared to be a rapid-flowing stream, it is probable that in following the valley the railway descends considerably before it reaches the point, about eighty miles north of Rio, where it abruptly turns away from the river to make its way to the capital. The appearance of the vegetation announced a change of climate, but I did not notice any palms by the way. The country between the Parahyba valley and the coast appears to be an irregular mountain tract, nowhere of any great height, with projecting summits rising here and there of the same general character as those already described, and the railway follows a sinuous course so as to select the lowest depressions between the neighbouring bosses of granite. As we wound to and fro, constantly changing our direction amid scenes of increasing loveliness, night closed with that suddenness to which one becomes accustomed in the tropics, and the last part of the way was unfortunately passed in darkness. The approach to Rio must be surpassingly beautiful, but, beyond the fantastic outlines of the surrounding mountains, little could be discerned save the lights of the city, visible for many miles before we reached the railway station.

After a long drive through paved streets, I reached the English hotel (Carson’s), and was curtly informed that the house was full. The next in rank is the Fonda dos Estrangeiros, to which I proceeded, and found quarters in a rather shabby room, not overclean. The general style of the establishment and the food provided answered the same description. It is generally admitted that the accommodation for strangers in the capital of Brazil does not come up to the reasonable expectations of travellers.

By quitting the steamer at Santos, and travelling to Rio by land, I had gained some slight acquaintance with a new region, but I was well aware that I had suffered a considerable loss. The view on first entering the Bay of Rio Janeiro is one of those spectacles that leave an ineffaceable impression even on persons not very sensitive to natural beauty, and one on which my fancy from early youth onwards had most often dwelt. The pursuits of a naturalist, besides their own fascination, offer additional rewards to all who worship in the temple of Nature, but they also sometimes exact a sacrifice. Sallying forth on the morning of July 8, a little under the impression of the unattractive quarters of the night, I had but very moderate expectations as to what might be enjoyed of the scenery in the midst of a large city and its surroundings, but I was speedily disabused. Man has certainly done little to set off the unequalled fascinations of the place, but he has been powerless to conceal them. I passed a delightful day, partly strolling much at random on foot, and occasionally availing myself of the street-cars, which are frequented by all classes, and afford a stranger the best opportunity for seeing something of the very mixed population.

The famous Bay of Rio Janeiro may properly be described as a salt-water lake, so completely is it landlocked and cut off from the open sea. About thirty miles long and twenty in breadth, it is large enough to allow of spacious views, yet not so large as to lose in distance the marvellous background that is presented in every direction by the fantastic peaks that surround it. Numerous islands stud the surface, the larger telling their history in piles of huge blocks, either simulating rude Cyclopean architecture, or lying in wild confusion—granite pinnacles, half-decayed or fallen into utter ruin. The shores are everywhere a maze of coves and inlets, in which land and water are interlaced; and over all—the mainland and the islands alike—the wild riot of tropical vegetation holds its sway, defying the efforts of man to tame it to trimness. Even within the limits of the city, which stretches for about four miles along the shore, four or five coves present a ceaseless variety of outline. Of necessity the plan is completely irregular. Where a space of level ground opens out between the shore and the rocks, the city has spread out; where the rocks approach the water’s edge, it is narrowed in places to a single street. In architecture, since the great era of AlcobaÇa and Batalha, the Portuguese have not achieved much, and their descendants in South America have done little to adorn the capital of their great empire. The largest building, the imperial palace, might easily be taken for a barrack. Nature has undertaken the decoration of the city, and, amid the palms, and under the shade of large-leaved tropical trees in the public walks and gardens, the absence of sightly buildings is not felt.

The suburb of Botafogo, which is the fashionable quarter, lies on the shores of the most beautiful of the coves round which the city has grown up. It mainly consists of a range of handsome villas facing the sea, each with a charming garden, and, in this season, must be a delightful residence. But it is generally admitted that the climate of Rio is debilitating to European constitutions. As compared with most coast stations in the tropics the heat is not excessive—the mean temperature of the warmest month (February) is not quite 80° Fahr., and that of the coldest (July) about 70°; but most Europeans, and especially those of Germanic stock, require to be braced by intervals of cold, if they are to endure a hot climate with impunity. The annual appearance of yellow fever in the city supplies a still stronger motive to many of the foreign residents for fixing their abode amongst the hills. The chief resort, which in summer is frequented by most of the wealthier classes, is the well-known Petropolis, in the Organ Mountains, or Serra dos OrgÃos, that rise beyond the northern shores of the bay.

From Botafogo I directed my steps towards the Botanic Garden, and, as usual among people of Portuguese descent, found great readiness in giving information to strangers. Following a road that turned away from the shore, I seemed to have left the city far behind, and be quite in the country; but presently another beautiful dark blue cove opened out before me, and again turning inland I reached the garden. I must confess to a feeling of something like disappointment at the famous avenue of palms. It has been correctly described as reproducing the effect of the aisle of a great Gothic cathedral, and the defect, as it seemed to me, is that the reproduction is too faithful. The trees of Oreodoxa regia, which are about a hundred feet in height, are all exactly of the same form and dimensions, so much alike that they appear to have been cast in the same mould, and it is difficult to persuade one’s self that they are not artificial productions. It may not be easy to say why the same uniformity which satisfies the eye in a construction of stone, should fail to do so when similar forms are represented by natural objects. I suppose the fact to be that in all Æsthetic judgments the mind is unconsciously influenced by trains of association. Our admiration is aroused not merely by given combinations of colour or form—by the mere visual image formed on the retina—but is controlled by our sense of fitness. We should resent as a caprice of the architect an irregularity in a vista of arches: among objects endowed with life we expect some manifestation of the universal tendency to variation.

With an intention, never fulfilled, to make a second visit to the garden, and, under the guidance of the director, Dr. Glaziou, to make nearer acquaintance with some of the vegetable wonders there brought together, I returned to my hotel. Before reaching Rio, I had decided to devote most of my short remaining time to a visit to the Organ Mountains, and to make Petropolis my head-quarters. As there was no especial reason for delay, I started for that place on the morning of the following day, July 9.

I shall make no attempt to describe the beauties of the bay as they were successively unfolded during the short passage to and from Petropolis. From early youth the Bay of Naples has ever appeared to me so perfectly beautiful that I was very reluctant to admit the pretensions of a rival. Even now I can well understand that some may find the pictures presented to the eye on the charmed coasts of our Mediterranean bay more complete, and the tints of the shores and sea and sky more harmonious; but there could be no doubt as to the gorgeous vesture that everywhere adorns this land. The vegetation of the Mediterranean coasts seems but poor and homely after the eye has dwelt on the luxuriance of tropical life, as though one were to compare a garb of homespun with trappings of velvet and embroidery. The islands of the bay present a ceaseless variety. Some are mere rocks, on which sea-birds of unknown aspect stood perched. Many of the larger are inhabited, and one, as I heard, has a population of thirteen hundred souls, and several charming villas showed it to be a favourite resort.

In about an hour and a half from the city, the little steamer ran alongside of a wooden jetty at a spot on the northern side of the bay facing the bold range of the Organ Mountains, which extend for over twenty miles in an easterly direction. Between the northern shore and the foot of the mountains is a level swampy tract, evidently filled up by the detritus borne down by the numerous streams, and beyond this the mountain range rises very abruptly from the plain. Somewhat to my disappointment, I ascertained that Petropolis lies at a considerable distance from the higher part of the Organ range to which my attention had hitherto been directed. It is towards its eastern extremity that the Serra shows that remarkable series of granitic pinnacles of nearly equal height, appearing vertical from a distance, that suggested the likeness to the pipes of an organ whence these mountains obtained their name. The height of the loftier part has been estimated at 7500 feet above sea-level. I do not think that any of the summits near Petropolis can surpass the level of 5000 feet.

A short train with a small locomotive carried passengers for Petropolis across the low tract to the point where the ascent abruptly commences, a distance of nine or ten miles. The marshy plain is doubtless fever-stricken, and we passed very few houses on the way to the terminus, which is appropriately named Raiz da Serra. The construction of a railway on the slope leading thence to Petropolis, up which trains should be drawn by a wire rope, had been commenced, but at the time of my visit passengers were conveyed in carriages, each drawn by six or eight mules. A well-kept and well-engineered road—by far the best mountain road that I have seen in any part of America—leads to the pass or summit of the ridge that divides Petropolis from the Bay of Rio. The views during the ascent, especially in looking back over the bay, were entrancing, and new and strange forms of vegetation showed themselves at each turn of the road. From the summit, a gentle descent of a couple of miles leads to the main street of Petropolis.

The place lies about 2900 feet above the sea, in a basin or depression amidst forest-covered hills. The abundant rains of this region have carved the surface into a multitude of little dells and recesses, separated by hills and knolls of various size and height, leaving in their midst one comparatively broad space, where most of the buildings are grouped. The streamlets that issue from every nook in the mountains are finally united in two streams that flow in opposite directions, but both, I believe, ultimately find their way northward to the Parahyba. The streamlets have been turned to account by the inhabitants, for on each side of the main streets a rivulet of crystal water serves to maintain the vigour of a line of trees supplying the one need of the long summer—shelter from the vertical midday sun. In the present season (mid-winter) only one hotel was open; but in summer, when all who can do so escape from the oppressive heat of Rio, two or three others are generally crowded. It is at once apparent that Petropolis is a place for rest and enjoyment, not for business. The few shops and hotels are all in the main street, Rua do Imperador; the other streets, or roads, lie between ranges of detached villas, each with a garden, and here and there some more secluded habitation is withdrawn into some nook on the margin of the forest.

The large majority of the trees and shrubs of this region have persistent leaves, but a few lose their foliage annually in winter, and a few others, I believe, during the heat of summer. The only prominent reminder of the fact that we were in winter was the appearance of the Bombax trees that line the main street, now completely bare of foliage. The tree commonly planted in this part of Brazil is, I believe, the Bombax pubescens of botanists. The fruit, with its copious silky appendage to the seeds, alone remained at this season; but when covered with a mass of large white flowers, it must have a gorgeous appearance.

I cannot feel sure that every naturalist will approve of the resolution, which I very soon formed, to remain as long as was possible at Petropolis. To reach the higher summits of the Organ Mountains would have required at least three or four days’ travel, and at this season I could expect to see very little of the vegetation of the higher zone. In the mean time, I found in the immediate neighbourhood, within a radius of four or five miles, an unexhausted variety of objects of interest, and the attractions of the place were doubtless heightened by the fortunate circumstances in which I found myself. It is certain that the ten days that I spent at this fascinating spot remain in my memory as the nearest approach to a visit to the terrestrial paradise that I can expect to realize. Besides the British minister, Mr. Corbett, I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of two English families, whose constant kindness and hospitality largely contributed to the enjoyment of my stay. To find in the midst of the marvels of tropical nature the charms of cultivated society, was a combination that I had not ventured to promise to myself.

Although I never went farther than five or six miles from my head-quarters, the variety of delightful walks in every direction seemed to be inexhaustible; go where one would, it seemed certain that one could not go wrong. I soon ascertained, indeed, that it is useless to attempt to penetrate the forests, except by following a road or cleared path. My first lesson was on the slope of a little hill some three hundred feet in height that overlooks the town. I was told that there was a path on the farther side, but, seeing the ground partly open, with trees of small stature not much crowded together, I resolved to follow the straight course. The ascent cost me over two hours of hard work, and I accomplished it only with the help of a sharp knife, by which to cut through the tangle of vegetation. In the midst of this I was surprised to find tall fronds of our common English bracken (Pteris aquilina), a fern that has been able to adapt its constitution to all but the most extreme climates of the world. The little hill that cost me so much labour had been completely cleared ten years before, so that all the trees and shrubs had grown up since that time.

The first excursion recommended to every stranger at Petropolis is that to the Falls of Itamariti. I went there twice, varying somewhat my course—the first time with a horse, which I found quite unnecessary and rather an incumbrance; the second time alone. The falls are not very considerable. A stream so slender that it can be passed by stepping-stones falls over two ledges of granite rock, together about forty feet in height; but, framed in a mass of the most luxuriant tropical vegetation, the whole forms a lovely picture. For some reason which I did not learn, the forest on the slopes of the lower part of the glen below the falls had been felled just before my visit, and its beauty had vanished, but fortunately the arm of the destroyer was arrested before reaching the falls. As happens to every stranger in a tropical forest, I was bewildered amidst the great variety of trees that struggle for supremacy, the one condition for victory being to get a full share of the glorious sunshine overhead. By vigorous tugging at one of the lianes that hung like a rope from a branch sixty feet above my head, I succeeded in breaking off a fragment, and identifying one of the larger trees as a species of fig, with large, oval, leathery leaves somewhat like those of a magnolia. It is needless to say that each tree is invaded by a host of enemies—parasites that fatten on its substance, comparatively harmless epiphytes that cling to the branches, and hosts of climbing lianes that mount to the topmost branches, robbing them of their share of sunlight, and hang down, often twined together, and in the deep shade are generally mere bare flexible stems. It was strange to observe that one of the deadliest enemies, a small parasite, fixing itself near the ground on the trunks of the larger trees, is a species of fig, belonging to the same genus as some of the giants of the forest, and doubtless tracing its descent from a common ancestor. It is in the tropical forest that one feels the force of Darwin’s phrase “struggle for existence,” as applied to the vegetable world. In our latitudes it is by an effort of the imagination that we realize the fact that in our fields and woodlands there is a contest going on between rival claimants for the necessary conditions of life. Here we see ourselves in the midst of a scene of savage warfare. The great climbers, like monstrous boas, that twine round and strangle the branch, remind one of the Laocoon; the obscure parasite that eats into the trunk of a mighty tree till a great cavity prepares its downfall, testifies to the destructive power of an insidious enemy.

It is only in the more open spots that a botanist is able to make close acquaintance with the smaller trees and shrubs. Near to the stream I was able to hook down a branch and secure flowering specimens of a Begonia that grew to a height of over twenty feet. In such situations MelastomaceÆ were everywhere abundant, but for variety of forms the ferns surpassed any of the families of flowering plants. I was surprised to find that the beautiful tree ferns, that add so much to the charm of the tropical flora, were rarely to be found with fructification, and the huge fronds being of quite unmanageable dimensions, I did not attempt to collect specimens. Of the smaller kinds, when I was able, with the kind assistance of Mr. Baker, of Kew, to name my specimens, I found that I had collected thirty-five species in the neighbourhood of Petropolis.

During my stay here I visited a German gentleman whose singular manner of life excites the interest and curiosity of the European residents. I am ignorant of the motives that have led Mr. Doer, evidently an educated and cultivated man, to lead the life of a hermit far from his native country. He has built for himself a small house in the forest, on one of the hills that enclose the basin of Petropolis, and lives quite alone, except for the daily visit of a boy who carries the provisions that satisfy his very moderate wants. He seems to be entirely occupied in studying the habits of the native animals of the country, and especially those of the Lepidopterous insects—butterflies and moths—that adorn this region. By attention to the habitual food of the various species, he has succeeded in keeping in his house the caterpillars that in due time produce the perfect insect, and has preserved in cabinets large collections of fine specimens.

At the suggestion of the friend who accompanied me, Mr. Doer was good enough to introduce me to the family of small monkeys which he has raised and domesticated. The senior members had been brought from some place in Northern Brazil, but they had multiplied, some of the offspring being born in his house, and now formed a rather numerous party. The creatures habitually passed the day in the forest, never, in Mr. Doer’s belief, wandering to a distance from the house, and at night came in and nestled among the rafters of the roof. The call was by a peculiar note, somewhat resembling a low whistle, repeated two or three times, and before a minute had elapsed the little creatures came swarming about the open window. They were decidedly pretty, their large black eyes giving an impression of intelligence, but I did not detect any indication of attachment to their master. I cannot say to what species they belonged. They had large ears like those of the marmoset, but differed in having a prehensile tail. One of them hung with his head downward, suspended by the tail from some projection above the window. After receiving some fragments of sweetmeat they soon departed, returning to their favourite haunts among the trees of the forest.

Starting early one morning, and reaching the crest of the range that divides Petropolis from the Bay of Rio Janeiro, I enjoyed in great perfection a spectacle that is commonly visible at this season when the weather is clear and settled. Before sunrise a stratum of mist extends over the bay and the low country surrounding it. As I saw it, this may have been about a thousand feet in thickness when the sun first reached it, and the fantastic summits of the mountains rose like islets from a sea of dazzling white. As the sun’s rays began to act, the mist appeared to melt away from above; the lower hills and the rocky islands of the bay emerged in succession, and finally the veil completely disappeared, and the whole wondrous view was completely disclosed.

The beautiful effects displayed in the gradual disappearance of mist as seen from a height in early morning must be familiar to every genuine mountaineer, and may be enjoyed amongst the hills of the British Islands. Among my own recollections, a certain morning, when I stood alone at sunrise on the highest peak of the Pilatus, near Lucerne, showed the phenomenon in a most striking way, accompanied as it was by the coloured halo that surrounds the shadow of the observer thrown on the cloud-stratum below. But in my previous experience the disappearance of the mist was always accompanied by the upward movement of some portions of the mass. The surface appears to heave under the action of force acting from below, and some masses are generally carried up so as temporarily to envelope the observer. In the view over the Bay of Rio I was much farther away from the surface of the mist than in previous experiences of the kind, and I may have been misled by distance from the scene of action, but, though watching attentively, I saw no appearance of heaving of the surface or any break in its regular form. The waste seemed to proceed altogether from the upper surface, and the emergence of the prominent objects in regular succession gave direct evidence to that effect.

During the first five days of my visit the weather at Petropolis was perfectly enjoyable. The temperature varied from about 60° Fahr. at sunrise to about 70° in the afternoon; but the effect of radiation must have been intense, as in an exposed situation a minimum thermometer descended on one night to 46°, and on the next to 44°, and the dew was heavier than I have ever seen it elsewhere, so that in some places the quantity fallen from the leaves of the trees made the ground perfectly wet in the morning. The barometer varied very little, even after the weather changed, and stood as nearly as possible three inches lower than at Rio, showing a difference of level of about 2900 feet. On the 16th of July the sky became overcast, and some rain fell in the afternoon, the thermometer rising at two p.m. to 73° Fahr., and moderate rain fell on each succeeding day until the evening of the 19th, but scarcely any movement of the air was perceptible. There is a remarkable difference in the distribution of rainfall between the part of Brazil lying within about fifteen degrees of the equator and the region south of that limit. At Pernambuco (south lat. 8° 4'), out of an annual rainfall of about a hundred and ten inches, nearly ninety inches fall during the six months from March to August, and at Bahia, with less total rainfall, the proportion is nearly the same. But at Rio Janeiro the rainy season falls in summer, from November to March, and winter is the dry season. Of an annual rainfall of forty-eight and a half inches, only five and a half inches fall in the winter months, June, July, and August, and less than an inch and a half in July. No doubt the amount of rain is greater at a mountain station such as Petropolis, while the proportion falling in the different seasons must be about the same.

At Petropolis, as well as elsewhere in South America, I was struck by the fact that the children of European parents born in the country speedily acquire the indolent habits of the native population of Spanish or Portuguese origin. The direct influence of climate is doubtless one cause of the change of disposition, but I suspect that the chief share is due to the great difference in the conditions of life which are the indirect results of climate. Where mere existence is so enjoyable, where physical wants are so few and so easily supplied, the chief stimulus to exertion is wanting, and the natural distaste for labour prevails over the hope of gain. A boy will prefer to pick up a few pence by collecting flowers, or roots, or butterflies in the forest near his home, to earning ten times as much by walking to a distance, especially if expected to carry a light weight. On my first visit to Itamariti I took with me a German boy, whom I left in charge of the superfluous horse that I had been advised to take with me. Finding the occupation a bore, and probably fearing that he would have to carry back the portfolio and vasculum that I had taken for plant-collecting, he fastened the bridle to a tree and disappeared, never coming to claim the pay promised for his unaccomplished day’s work.

All delightful times come to an end, and, as I resolved to visit Tijuca before departing from Brazil, I quitted Petropolis on the morning of July 20, and made my return to Rio amid brilliant sunshine, in which the glorious scenery of the bay renewed its indelible impression on my memory. In passing over the tract of low land between Raiz da Serra and the shore, partly overgrown by shrubs or small trees ten or twelve feet in height, I found them covered with masses of large flowers of the most brilliant purple hue, where ten days before not a single flower had been visible. The train halted for half a minute at a solitary half-way house, and I was able to break off a branch from the nearest plant. It belonged, as I suspected, to the family of MelastomaceÆ, and is known to botanists as Pleroma granulosum of Don; but one seeing dried specimens in a European herbarium, could form no conception of the gorgeous effect of the masses of rich colour that were here displayed, outshining the splendours of the Indian rhododendrons now familiar to European eyes. I again found the same species at Tijuca; but the soil and situation were, I suppose, less favourable, and the show of bloom was neither so rich nor so abundant.

I was told that the local name of this splendid plant is quaresma, because it flowers in Lent, which in Brazil falls in autumn; but I afterwards ascertained that the same name is given to several other species of MelastomaceÆ having brilliant flowers, and it seems improbable that the same species which I found bursting into flower in mid-winter should have also flowered three or four months before. The only remains of fruit that I found were dry, empty capsules that had apparently survived the preceding summer.

Although I reached Rio some time before midday, so many matters required my attention that I found it impossible to return for a fuller visit to the Botanic Garden. Mr. Corbett had kindly offered to present me to the emperor, and, if time had permitted, I should have gladly taken the opportunity of making the personal acquaintance of a sovereign who stands alone among living rulers for the extent and variety of his scientific attainments, and for the active interest he has shown in the progress of natural knowledge. Irrespective of the qualities that appeal to the sympathies of men of science, Dom Pedro is evidently one of the remarkable men of our time. His exceptional energies, physical and mental, are incessantly devoted to every branch of public affairs, and it is said that he has even succeeded in inspiring some of his subjects with a share of his own zeal. But, so far as I could learn, he cannot be said to have achieved popularity. Among indolent and listless people, indefatigable industry produces an unpleasant effect. Improvements may or may not be desirable, but they are certain to give some trouble: it would be far pleasanter to let things remain as they are. Perhaps, whenever the time comes for Brazil to be deprived of the guidance of the present emperor, its people will become sensible of the loss they have sustained.

The steamer of the Royal Mail Company was to depart on July 24, so that no time was to be lost in making my visit to Tijuca. That place lies among the hills north-west of the city, about nine hundred feet above the sea, and the distance is quite inconsiderable; but the arrangements for visitors are inconvenient. A tramway runs over the flat country to the foot of the hill, and from the terminus the remainder of the way is accomplished by carriage or omnibus. But no luggage is taken by the tramway, and this has to be forwarded on the previous day. When I reached the station, about eleven a.m. on the 21st, I had an unpleasant quarter of an hour, during which it appeared that the case containing most of my Petropolis collections was lost or mislaid. At length it was found lying in an outhouse; no omnibus was available, but I soon succeeded in hiring a carriage to convey me to Tijuca.

The country between the city and the lower slopes of the hills is covered with the villas of wealthy natives, many of them large and handsome houses, each surrounded by a garden or pleasure-ground. In these grounds the mango, bread-fruit tree, and others, with large thick leaves giving dense shade, were invariably planted; and here and there palms, of which I thought I could distinguish four or five species, gave to the whole the aspect of completely tropical vegetation. Amidst the mass of trees, it was rarely possible to get a glimpse of the exquisite scenery surrounding Rio on every side, and it was only towards the top of the hill that I gained a view of the bay. Tijuca lies on the farther, or westward, slope, nearly surrounded by forest, and consists of only a few houses, of which the chief is White’s Hotel. As I afterwards learned, Mr. White, who is engaged in business in the city, was in the habit of hospitably entertaining his friends at a spot which naturally attracted frequent visits, and at length judiciously turned his house into an hotel, where a moderate number of guests find charming scenery, comparative coolness in the hot season, and far more of creature-comforts than are to be had in the hotels of Rio.

Time allowed me no more than a short stroll in the immediate neighbourhood before the hour of dinner, at which I met several intelligent and well-informed gentlemen, and amongst them three English engineers, from whom I received much information as to the country which they have made their home.

Amongst other questions discussed was that, so important to Europeans, regarding the annual visitation of yellow fever and the best method of treatment. I was especially struck by the experiences of the youngest of the party, who had come out from England a few years before to superintend some considerable new works for the drainage of Rio. For two years he lived altogether in the city, constantly requiring to go below, and sometimes remaining for hours in the main sewers. During that time he was never attacked by the fever, and no fatal cases arose among the workmen engaged in the same work. Since its completion this gentleman had been engaged on other works of a more ordinary character, and had habitually slept in the country during the hot season; but, under conditions apparently more favourable, he had been twice stricken by the fever. The first attack, which was probably slight, was at once cut short by a large dose of castor oil and aconite administered by a friend. In the following year he experienced a more serious attack, and had been treated by a doctor of good repute, mainly with tartar emetic. It appears that professors of the healing art in Brazil regulate their charges, not by the amount of time or labour which they give, but by the estimated value of the patient’s life. If he survives, it is considered that the remuneration should be in the nature of salvage—a considerable percentage on the amount of his income. In the present case the young engineer had been required to pay a fee of £180. In some cases, where the doctor’s demand appeared utterly unreasonable, foreigners have attempted to appeal to the tribunals, but it appears that the results of litigation have not encouraged others to resort to the protection of the law.

In answer to my inquiries, most of my informants made light of the difficulties of exploring the interior of Brazil, but they agreed in the opinion that much time must be given by any traveller wishing to break new ground. Even in the more or less fully settled provinces, the spaces to be traversed are so great, and the means of communication so imperfect, that a large margin must be left for unexpected delays. One gentleman, who had travelled far in Goyaz and Matto Grosso, assured me that he had never encountered any difficulty as to provisions. Three articles of European origin are to be found, so he assured me, at every inhabited place in the interior—Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits, French sardines, and Bass’s pale ale.

July 22 was a day of great enjoyment, devoted to the immediate neighbourhood of Tijuca, where objects of interest were so abundant as to furnish ample occupation for many days. I have said that the place is almost surrounded by the forest which spreads over the adjoining hills. I now learned that less than fifty years before, at a time when coffee-planting in Brazil became a mania, and was counted on as everywhere a certain source of wealth, the aboriginal forest which covered the country was completely cleared, and coffee-planting commenced on the largest scale. Experience soon proved that the conditions either of soil or climate were unfavourable, and after a few years the land was again abandoned to the native vegetation. About thirty-five years had sufficed to produce a new forest, which in other lands might be supposed to be the growth of centuries. The trees averaged from two to three feet in diameter, and many were at least seventy feet in height. One of the largest is locally called ipa; it belongs to the leguminous family, has a trunk nearly quite bare, and the upper branches bore masses of cream-coloured flowers; but, finding it impossible to obtain flower or fruit, I have been unable to identify it. The vegetation here appeared to be even more luxuriant than that of Petropolis, and to indicate a somewhat higher mean temperature. The proportion of tree ferns was decidedly greater, and a good many conspicuous plants not seen there were here abundant. Some of these, such as Bignonia venusta, Allamanda, etc., may have strayed from the gardens; but many more appeared to be certainly indigenous. Of flowering plants the family of MelastomaceÆ was decidedly predominant, and within a small area I collected fifteen species, eight of which belonged to the beautiful genus Pleroma. One of these (P. arboreum of Gardner) is a tree growing to a height of forty feet; but the species of this family are more commonly shrubs not exceeding ten or twelve feet in height.

I was unfortunately not acquainted at that time with the observations made near Tijuca by Professor Alexander Agassiz, which appear to him to give evidence of glacial action in this part of Brazil. It would be rash, especially for one who has not been able to examine the deposits referred to, to controvert conclusions resting on such high authority; but I may remark that the evidence is confessedly very imperfect, and that the characteristic striations, either on the live rock or on the transported blocks, which are commonly seen in the theatre of glacial action, have not been observed. I lean to the opinion that the deposits seen near Tijuca are of the same character as those described by M. Liais46 as frequent in Brazil. The crystalline rocks are of very unequal hardness, and while some portions are rapidly disintegrated, the harder parts resist. The disintegrated matter is washed away, and the result is to leave a pile of blocks of unequal dimensions lying in a confused mass.

On the following day, my last in Brazil, one of my new acquaintances was kind enough to guide me on a short excursion in the forest, which enabled me to approach one of the giants of the vegetable kingdom. At the time of the clearing of the aboriginal forest two great trees were spared. One of these had been blown down some years before my visit, and but one now remained. It was easily recognized from a distance, as it presented a great dome of verdure that rose high above the other trees of the forest. The greater part of the way was perfectly easy. A broad track, smooth enough to be passable in a carriage, has been cleared for a distance of many miles over the forest-covered hills.

Following this amid delightful scenery, we reached a point scarcely two hundred yards distant from the great tree. I had already learned that even two hundred yards in a Brazilian forest are not very easily accomplished, but I was assured that a path had been cut a year or two before which allowed easy access to the foot of the tree. We found the path, but it was soon apparent that it had been neglected during the past season, and in this country a few months suffice to produce a tangle of vegetation not easily traversed.

When at length we effected our object, we found ourselves at the base of a cylindrical column or tower, with very smooth and uniform surface, tapering very slightly up to the lowest branch, which was about eighty feet over our heads. We measured the girth, and found it just twenty-nine feet at five feet from the ground. It is needless to say that I could form no conjecture as to the species, or even the family, to which this giant belongs, as I was quite unable to make out the character of the foliage. While near to it we could form no guess as to the height; but my companion, whose profession made him used to accurate estimates, and who had observed it from many points of view, reckoned the height at between 180 and 200 feet. I had not then seen the giant conifers of western North America, but, excluding the two Sequoias, I have not found any single tree to equal this. In the valleys of the Alleghany Mountains in Tennessee, I have indeed beheld not unworthy rivals. The Liriodendron there sends up a stem more than seven feet in diameter, and frequently exceeds 150 feet in height.

To diminish my regret at quitting this beautiful region, the morning of July 24 broke amid dark clouds and heavy rain, which continued till the afternoon. I had counted on enjoying a few hours in Rio before my departure, but, that being impossible, I went directly from Tijuca to the landing-place, and thence on board the steamer of the Royal Mail Company, which was to take me back to England. This was the Tagus, and I had much pleasure in finding her under the command of Captain Gillies, with whom I had made the voyage from Southampton to Colon. In the afternoon we slowly steamed out of the bay. Its glories were veiled, heavy clouds rested on the Organ Mountains; but the Corcovado and the other nearer summits appeared from time to time, and the last impression was that of fleeting images of beauty the like of which I cannot hope again to behold.

The course for steamers from Rio Janeiro to England is as nearly as possible direct. The coast of Brazil from Rio to Pernambuco runs from south-south-west to north-north-east, in the same direction that leads to Europe; and from the headland of Cabo Frio to the entrance of the English Channel at Ushant, a distance of about 72° of latitude and 38° of longitude, the helm is scarcely varied from the same course. It is somewhat remarkable that in so long a voyage, in which one passes from the Tropic of Capricorn to the region of the variable anti-trade-winds of the northern hemisphere, it not very rarely happens, as I was assured by our experienced captain, that north-north-east winds are encountered throughout the entire distance. This was nearly verified in the present case. For comparatively short periods the wind shifted occasionally to the north and north-west; more rarely, and at brief intervals, light breezes from the south and south-east were experienced; but the north-east and north-north-east winds predominated, even on the Brazilian coast, until we reached the latitude of Lisbon.

It is an admitted fact in meteorology, that the trade-winds of the northern are—at least in the Atlantic—stronger than those of the southern hemisphere; but at the winter season of the south, the south-east trade-winds prevail in the equatorial zone, and are not rarely felt as far as eight or even ten degrees north of the equator. But in investigating the extremely complex causes that determine the direction of air currents, and especially those slight movements that make what is called a breeze, it is difficult to trace the separate effect of each agent. The neighbourhood of a coast constantly brings local causes into play, and it may well be that the rapid condensation of large masses of vapour, such as occurs at each heavy fall of rain, may determine temporary currents in the air in directions opposed to the general and ordinary march of the winds. Irrespective, however, of any such local causes, we must bear in mind the general tendency of air currents towards motion of a circular or spiral character. When we meet a breeze blowing in a direction contrary to that which ordinary experience leads us to expect, we must not forget the possibility that it may be a portion of the ordinary current which has formed an eddy. The main facts of meteorology are now well established, but the local deviations may give room for prolonged study.

Although I knew that the delay at both places would be short, I looked forward with much interest to the prospect of landing at Bahia and Pernambuco. The latter place especially is known to be the chief mart for the natural productions of Equatorial America. Skins of animals, birds living and dead, gorgeous butterflies and shells, are easily procurable; and a mere visit to the fish and vegetable markets is sure to make a visitor acquainted with objects of interest. But my expectations were doomed to disappointment.

We reached Bahia on the morning of July 27. The city stands on a point of land north of the entrance to an extensive bay, called by the Portuguese Bahia de Todos Santos, and the proper name of the city is SÃo Salvador; but the concurrent practice of foreigners has established the name now in general use. The steamer lay in the roadstead nearly a mile from the shore, and the heavy boats, carrying some passengers for Europe, moved slowly as they pitched to and fro in the swell of the sea. Just as they came alongside, rain suddenly burst in a torrent from the clouds, which had formed in the course of a few minutes. For the first time in my journey, I regretted the omission to have supplied myself with a waterproof cloak. A thorough wetting in tropical countries usually entails an attack of fever, and for that I was not prepared; so, along with two or three other passengers who wished to go ashore, I remained in the main deck. The rain ceased, and there was an interval of sunshine; but the torrential showers were renewed two or three times before we resumed our voyage in the afternoon.

I have already noticed the contrast that exists between the winter and summer climate of this part of Brazil and that of Rio and the southern provinces. In the latter the rainy season is in summer, while nearer the equator, although no season can be called dry, the chief rainfall occurs in winter—that is to say, in the season when the sun is farthest from the zenith. While passing through the equatorial zone, when intervals of bright weather alternated with extremely heavy rain, I frequently consulted the barometer, but was unable to trace the slightest connection between atmospheric pressure and rainfall, the slight oscillations observed being due to the diurnal variation everywhere sensible in the tropics.

The temperature on this part of the coast was only moderately warm, varying from 76° to 78° Fahr. on this and the following day, when we called at Maceio, a place of increasing commercial importance. Our stay was so short that no one attempted to go ashore, although the weather was favourable. Several whales were seen both on the 27th and 28th, but I failed to ascertain to what species they belonged.

On the evening of the 28th we experienced a decided rise of temperature; three hours after sunset the thermometer still stood at 81° Fahr., and, with two remarkable intervals, it did not fall below 80° during the following eight days. During that time my attention was often directed to the physiological effects of heat on the human economy, and both my own experience and the conflicting testimony of travellers lead me to conclude that there are many facts not yet satisfactorily explained.

On the enfeebling effect of moist tropical climates there is a general agreement, both as to the fact and the chief cause; but, as I have remarked in a preceding page, the circumstance that this is little or not at all experienced at sea is apparently anomalous. With regard to the direct effect of the sun’s rays on the surface of the body, and especially in the production of sun-stroke, the evidence of scientific travellers is conflicting, and the explanations offered are by no means satisfactory. On the one hand, it is asserted on good authority that in the equatorial zone the direct effect of the sun is far greater than it is in Europe at the same elevation above the horizon. The rapid reddening and blistering of the skin where exposed, and sun-stroke from exposure of the head, are said to be the ordinary effects. Being extremely sensitive to solar heat, I have always carefully protected my head, and have avoided rash experiments. Of the reddening and blistering of the skin I have had very frequent experience in Europe, upon the Alps and other mountains; but I observed none but very slight effects of this kind in the tropics, even with a nearly vertical sun, either on land or while at sea. Dr. Hann47 cites many statements on the subject. In the West Indies cases of sun-stroke are rare, and the inhabitants expose themselves without danger. In nearly all parts of British India, as is too well known, the danger of exposing the head to the sun is notorious, and the same is certainly true of most parts of tropical Africa.

The most obvious suggestion is that, inasmuch as dry air absorbs less of the solar heat than air charged with aqueous vapour, the injurious effects should be more felt in dry climates than in damp ones. But, so far as what is called sun-stroke is concerned, the balance of evidence is opposed to this conclusion. Sir Joseph Fayrer, who has had wide experience in India, expressly asserts that the hot dry winds in Upper India induce less cases of sun-stroke than the moist though cooler climate of Bengal and Southern India. Dr. Hann quotes Borius for a statement that in Senegambia the rainy season is that in which sun-stroke commonly occurs, while he further asserts that on the Loango coast, in very similar climatal conditions, the affection is almost unknown, and that Europeans even expose the head to the sun with impunity.

My own conclusion, fortified by that of eminent authorities, is that the phenomena here discussed are of a very complex nature; that different physical agencies are concerned in the various effects produced on the body; and that most probably there are many different pathological affections which have been classed together, but which, when more fully studied, will be recognized as distinct.

In the first place, I apprehend that the action of the sun which causes discolouration and blistering of the skin has no relation to that which causes sun-stroke. It is a local effect confined to the surfaces actually exposed, and, if it could be accurately registered, would serve the purpose of an actinometer, depending as it does on the amount of radiant heat reaching the surface in a unit of time.

Sun-stroke proper is, I believe, an affection of the cerebro-spinal system arising from the overheating of those parts of the body. It is by no means confined to the tropics, or to very hot countries, as many cases occur annually in Europe, and still more frequently in the eastern states of North America.

Nearly allied to sun-stroke, but perhaps sufficiently different to deserve separate classification, are those attacks which some writers style cases of thermic fever, which arise mainly in places where the body is for a continuance exposed to temperatures exceeding the normal amount of the human body. In producing thermic fever, it would appear that the depressing effect of a hot moist climate acts powerfully as a predisposing cause, and such cases not uncommonly arise where there has been no exposure whatever to the direct rays of the sun.

It is easy to understand that, as a general rule, seamen are less exposed than other classes to any of the injurious effects of heat, but it is remarkable that they should enjoy complete exemption. Cases are not very uncommon among seamen going ashore in hot countries, but I have not found a well-authenticated case of sun-stroke arising on board ship; and cases of thermic fever in the Red Sea usually arise in the engine-room of a steamer rather than among the men on deck.

On the morning of July 29 we reached Pernambuco, to which I had looked forward as the last Brazilian city that I was likely to see. It had been described to me as the Venice of South America, and the comparison is to a slight extent justified by its position on a lagoon of smooth water, separated from the open roadstead by a coral reef several miles in length. It enjoys the further distinction, unusual in a place within eight degrees of the equator, of being remarkably healthy. But on this occasion fortune was against me.

No doubt for some sufficient reason, we did not enter the rather intricate passage leading inside the reef, but lay to in rough water outside. For a short time the scene was brilliant. The hot sun beat down on the deep blue water, and lit up the foam on the crests of the dancing waves, and the sky overhead showed such a pure azure that one could not suppose the air to be saturated with vapour. Before long boats were seen approaching, tossed to and fro in the broken water; but before they drew near, heavy clouds had gathered in the course of a few minutes, and a torrent of water was discharged such as I had never experienced except in passing under a waterfall. As each boat came alongside, a seat was let down from the upper deck, and the passengers were hoisted up in turn, those who had not efficient waterproofs being as thoroughly drenched as if they had been dipped in the sea. Four or five times during the day the sky cleared, the blazing sun returned, and the decks were nearly dry, when another downpour of torrential rain drove us all to seek shelter, each shower lasting only from ten to fifteen minutes.

During the hotter hours of the day a rather strong breeze set in towards the shore, and I have no doubt that it is to its full exposure to this ordinary sea-breeze that the city owes its comparative healthiness. It was interesting to watch the manoeuvres of the catamarans, in which the native fishermen were pursuing their avocations. This most primitive of sea-craft is formed of two or three logs well spliced together, with some weight to serve as ballast fastened underneath. In the forepart a stout stick some ten feet long stands up as a mast and supports a small sail, and amid-ships a short rail, supported on two uprights, enabled the two men who form the crew to hold on when much knocked about by the waves. A single paddle seems to serve as a rudder, but it is not easy to understand how such a rude substitute for a boat is able to work out to sea against the breeze which commonly sets towards the shore.

A large proportion of the steerage passengers who came on board at Bahia and Pernambuco were Portuguese returning to their native country after a residence, either as artisans or as agricultural settlers, in Brazil. My command of the language is unfortunately so limited that I failed to extract from these fellow-passengers any interesting information. With scarcely an exception, each carried at least one parrot, usually intended for sale at Lisbon, where it appears that they are in some request. Comparatively high prices are given for birds that freely simulate human speech.

We were under steam in the afternoon of the 29th, and soon lost to view the South American continent. On the following day the barometer for the first time showed the diminution of pressure which is normally found in the equatorial zone. Between nine a.m. and four p.m. the ship’s mercurial barometer fell about a quarter of an inch from 30·30 to 30·06 inches, and my aneroid showed nearly the same amount of difference. It must be remembered, however, that nearly one-half of the effect (at least one-tenth of an inch) must be set down to the daily oscillation of the height of the barometer, which so constantly occurs within the tropics, the highest pressures recurring at ten a.m. and ten p.m., and the lowest about four p.m. and four a.m.

I carried with me on this journey only a single aneroid barometer, an excellent instrument by Casella, whose performance was very satisfactory, and which in a very short time returned to its normal indication after exposure to diminished pressure in the Andes; but it had the defect, which, so far as I know, is common to the aneroid instruments by the best makers, that the temperature at which the scale is originally laid down by comparison with a standard mercurial barometer is not indicated on the face of the instrument. Assuming that the aneroid is compensated for variations of temperature, and I have found this to be the case within ordinary limits in good instruments, there remains the question to what height of mercury at what temperature a given reading of the aneroid corresponds. For scientific purposes it is customary to reduce the reading of the mercurial barometer to the temperature of the freezing-point of water, and it is often supposed that the aneroid reading corresponds to that figure. But we may feel pretty confident that the maker, in laying down the scale, did not work in a room at freezing-point. I have been accustomed to assume 15° Cent., or 59° Fahr., as about the probable temperature with instruments made in our climate.

In the present case, the barometer-reading of 30·06 inches at the temperature of 84° Fahr. would (neglecting the small correction for capillarity) be reduced by about fourteen-hundredths of an inch, in order to give the correct figure at freezing-point; but for comparison with an aneroid, supposed to have been laid down at 59° Fahr., the correction would be a fraction over seven-hundredths of an inch. As a matter of fact, my aneroid marked at four p.m. 29·89 inches, or, allowing for the correction, just one-tenth of an inch less than the ship’s mercurial barometer, and, as I believe, was more nearly correct.

As the sun was declining on the evening of July 30, we sighted the remarkable island of Fernando Noronha. It lies about four degrees south of the equator, and more than two hundred miles from the nearest point of the Brazilian coast. The outline is singular, for the rough hills which cover most of the surface terminate at the western end of the island in a peak surmounted by a column, in the form of a gigantic lighthouse, which must rise over a thousand feet above the sea-level.48 Although Darwin passed some hours on the island in 1832, it remains to the present day one of the least known of the Atlantic islands, so far as regards its natural productions. A fellow-passenger who had landed there assured me that he had found granite; but I have no doubt that the island is exclusively of volcanic origin, for such is the opinion of the few scientific men who have visited it.

The island has been converted by the Brazilian Government into a convict station, and in consequence access by strangers has become very difficult. Such information as we possess is mainly to be found in Professor Moseley’s account of the voyage of the Challenger. On landing there with Sir G. Nares, he at first obtained permission from the governor to visit the island and to collect natural objects; but the permission was very soon retracted, and he was unable to obtain specimens of several singular shrubs that abound and give the island the appearance of being covered with forest.

Now that the attention of naturalists has been directed to the especial interest attaching to the fauna and flora of oceanic islands, and their liability to extinction owing to competition from species introduced by settlers, it may be hoped that the exploration of this small but remarkable island will before long be undertaken by a competent naturalist. For that purpose it would be, in the first place, necessary to obtain the permission of the Brazilian Government, and to secure the means of existence during a stay of ten or twelve days on the island. The most effectual means would be through direct personal application to the emperor, who is well known to take a lively interest in all branches of natural science.

With the thermometer standing about 82°, the passengers naturally preferred the upper deck to the close air of the saloon, and were resting in their ship-chairs between nine and ten p.m., when suddenly there came an outburst of coughing and sneezing, followed by demands for muffling of every kind. There was no sensible movement in the air, but I found that the thermometer had fallen to 79° Fahr., and there was a feeling of chilliness which was not easily explained by that slight fall of temperature.

The mystery was explained on consulting the chief officer, who throughout the voyage paid much attention to the temperature of the sea. Since leaving Pernambuco, the thermometer in buckets brought up from the surface had varied only between 82° and 83°. On this evening we had abruptly encountered a relatively cold current, with a temperature somewhat below 76°, and the effect of being surrounded by a body of cool water when the skin was in the condition usual in the tropics was felt by nearly all the passengers.

With slight variation, this comparatively cool current must have extended over a large area on both sides of the equator, as the temperature of the water remained nearly the same for about forty-eight hours.

Throughout the voyage from Brazil to Europe, I was fortunate in enjoying the society of a man of remarkable intelligence, who has been a diligent and accurate observer of nature in a region still imperfectly known. M. Georges Claraz, by birth a Swiss, belonging to a family of small proprietors in the Canton of Fribourg, had gone out as a young man to improve his fortune in South America. He had received a fair scientific education, having followed the lectures of the eminent men who have adorned the Polytechnic School at Zurich; but, what is much more rare, he appeared to have retained everything that he had ever learned, and to have had a clear perception of the scientific value of the observations that a stranger may make in a little-known region. After passing some time in the state of Entrerios, he had settled at Bahia Blanca, close to the northern border of Patagonia. He had established friendly relations with the Indians, and made frequent excursions in the interior of Patagonia and southward as far as, and even beyond, the river Chubat.

During the entire time, although engaged in the work of a settler, M. Claraz seems to have made careful notes of his observations—on the native Indians and their customs; on the indigenous and the domestic animals; on the plants and their uses; on the mineral structure of the country, not omitting to take specimens of the mud brought down by the different rivers; and on general physics. Of his large collections I trust that the greater part have safely reached Switzerland. A considerable collection of dried plants, sent home while he resided at Bahia Blanca, was unfortunately lost. He was good enough, after his return, to send me a smaller collection remaining in his hands, of which I gave an account in the Journal of the LinnÆan Society for 1884.

As I trust that the great store of information collected by M. Claraz will before long be given to the world, I should not wish to anticipate the appearance of his work, but I may say that among many interesting particulars, several of which I noted at the time, I was especially struck by the evidence collected among the Indians, which seemed to prove that the Glyptodon survived in Patagonia down to a comparatively recent period, and that the tradition of its presence is preserved in the stories and songs of the natives.

Early on July 31 we passed the equator, but it was not till ten p.m. on the following day that we escaped from the area of cool water and found the ordinary equatorial temperature of 82·5°. During the three following days the weather was hot and relaxing, the thermometer ranging by day between 84° and 85°. For some hours on the 2nd of August the wind came from south-south-east, but before evening it backed to west, and blew from that point rather freshly at night. On the following day we appeared to have met the north-east trade-wind, which was, however, a gentle breeze, and occasionally veered to the north-west.

In the afternoon of August 4 we made out the picturesque outline of the Cape Verde Islands, and before sunset entered the channel between St. Vincent and St. AntÃo, finally dropping anchor for the night in the outer part of the fine harbour of St. Vincent. Having been selected as a coaling station, this has become the chief resort of steamers plying between Europe and the Southern Atlantic, and we were led to expect that the operation would take up great part of the following day. Here a fresh disappointment awaited me. I had confidently reckoned upon spending several hours ashore, and seeing something of the curious vegetation of the island, which includes a scanty representation of tropical African types, with several forms allied to the characteristic plants of the Canary Islands.

I had not duly taken account of the perverse temper of the officers of health, whose chief object in life seems everywhere to be to make their authority felt by the needless annoyance they cause to unoffending fellow-creatures. We had left Rio with a clean bill of health; not a single case of yellow fever had occurred for months before our departure; but Brazil is regarded as permanently “suspected,” and quarantine regulations were strictly enforced in our case.

I am far from believing that in certain conditions, and as regards certain diseases, judicious quarantine regulations may not be effective; but, reckoning up all the loss and inconvenience, and the positive damage to health, arising from the sanitary regulations now enforced, I question whether it would not be better for the world if the system were entirely abolished.

The view of St. Vincent, backed by a bold and stern mountain mass, on which scarcely a trace of vegetation is visible from a distance, was for some time sufficiently interesting; but as the day wore on, and the sun beat down more fiercely, life on board became less agreeable. To keep out the penetrating coal dust all the ports were closed, and, with the thermometer at 90°, the air below was stifling, and the passengers generally preferred to remain on deck, and breathe the hot air mixed with the coal dust that arose from the open bunkers.

I offered two of the boatmen who hung about the ship three milreis if they would land on an uninhabited part of the bay, which I pointed out to them, and collect for me every plant they found growing, and I was well pleased when, after two or three hours, they returned with a respectable bundle of green foliage. Under the vigilant eyes of the officers of health the specimens were hauled up to the deck, while the three dollars were thrown into the boat. It is remarkable that coin is nowhere supposed to convey contagion.

When I came to examine it, I found to my disgust that the bouquet included only the leaves of two species, with no trace of flower or fruit. One was most probably Nicotiana glauca, introduced from tropical America; the other a leguminous shrub, possibly a Cassia, but quite uncertain.

The rest of the passengers spent most of the day in bargaining with the hucksters who flocked round the ship. Ornaments made from palm leaves, sweetmeats of very suspicious appearance, photographs, and tobacco in various forms, were the chief articles of traffic, and the main object seemed to be to prolong the chaffering and bargaining over each article so as to kill as much time as possible. More attractive in appearance were the tropical fruits, of which those suitable to a dry climate grow here in perfection. In spite of persevering efforts, I have never developed much appreciation of the banana as an article of diet, but I thought those obtained here much the best that I have anywhere eaten.

General satisfaction was felt when, the work of coaling being finished, the ship was again in motion, with her head set towards Europe. On returning to the channel between the islands, and still more when we had got well out to sea, we encountered a rather strong breeze right ahead, which with varying force continued for the next four days. This was, of course, the regular trade-wind of the North Atlantic, and had the agreeable effect of lowering the temperature, which at once fell to 78°. Along with the trade-wind, the sea-current apparently travels in the same direction. It is certain that the temperature of the water was here much lower. Before reaching St. Vincent we found it between 80° and 81° Fahr., while after leaving the islands it had fallen to 74°. This temperature remained nearly constant for three days, but on the evening of the 9th, in about 27° north latitude, we abruptly encountered another current of still cooler water, in which the thermometer fell to 69°.

The force of the wind never, I think, exceeded what seamen describe as a fresh breeze, but it sufficed to cause at times considerable disturbance of the surface; and on the afternoon of the 6th we shipped some heavy seas, so that it was found expedient to slacken speed for a time.

I have alluded in a former page to the ordinary observation that in the track of the trade-winds the breeze usually falls off about sunset. It is more difficult to account for the opposite phenomenon, which we experienced on three successive evenings from the 7th to the 9th of August, when the force of the wind increased in a marked degree after nightfall.

I was also struck by the fact that the temperature of the air throughout the voyage from St. Vincent to the mouth of the Tagus seemed to be unaffected either by the varying force of the wind or by the fall in surface-temperature of the sea, to which I have above referred. On board ship in clear weather it is very difficult to ascertain the true shade temperature when the sun is much above the horizon, but the observations made at sunrise and after nightfall from the evening of the 5th to the morning of the 11th varied very slightly, the utmost range being from 77·5° to 73°.

Some points in the Canary Islands are often visible in the voyage from Brazil to Europe, especially the lofty peak of Palma; but we passed this part of the course at night, and nothing was seen. As we drew near to Europe, the wind, through keeping the same direction, gradually fell off to a gentle breeze, and the surface of the water became glassy smooth, heaving gently in long undulations. The relative effect of smooth or rough water on the speed of steamers is remarkable, and was shown by the fact that during the twenty-four hours ending at noon on the 11th of August the Tagus accomplished a run of 295 knots, while three days before, with only a gentle breeze but rougher water, the run to noon was only 240 knots.

Early in the afternoon of the 11th, the Rock of Lisbon at the mouth of the Tagus was distinctly visible, and we slowly entered the river and cast anchor at the quarantine station below Belem. Our captain, after the experience of St. Vincent, did not expect to obtain pratique at Lisbon, and with more or less grumbling the passengers had made up their minds to remain on board, when, after a long deliberation, the unexpected news, “admitted to pratique,” was rapidly spread through the ship, and we moved up to the anchorage opposite the picturesque old tower of Belem, which the true mariner must always regard as one of his holy places. It marks the spot wherefrom Vasco de Gama and his companions, after a night spent in prayer in the adjoining chapel, embarked on their memorable voyage, and here, after years of anxious uncertainty, King Manuel greeted the survivors on their return to their country.

The sun was sinking when such passengers as wished to see something of Lisbon took the opportunity for going ashore, while others, like myself, preferred to remain on board. Hoping to receive letters at the post-office, I landed early next morning, and found a tramcar to carry me to the centre of the town. Early hours are not in much honour at Lisbon. I found the post-office closed, and, after several vain efforts, was informed that letters could not be delivered until ten o’clock, the precise hour fixed for our departure from the anchorage at Belem.

The voyage from Lisbon along the coasts of Portugal and Galicia is usually enjoyed, even by fair-weather sailors. The case is often otherwise with the Bay of Biscay, but on this occasion there was nothing of which the most fastidious could complain. I have sometimes doubted whether injustice has not been done to that much-abused bay, which, in truth, is not rightly so called by those bound from the north to the coast of Portugal. It is simply a part of the Atlantic Ocean, adjoining the coast of Europe between latitudes 43° 46' and 48° 28'. I have not been able to ascertain that the wind blows harder, or that the sea runs higher there than elsewhere in the same latitudes, and am inclined to rank the prejudice against that particular tract of sea-water among vulgar errors.

The adventurer who has attempted to open up a trade with some distant region is accustomed, as he returns home, to count up the profits of his expedition; and in somewhat the same spirit the man who pursues natural knowledge can scarcely fail to take stock of the results of a journey. It is his happy privilege to reckon up none but gains, and those of a kind that bring abiding satisfaction. He may feel some regret that outer circumstance or his own shortcoming have allowed opportunities to escape, and lessened the store that he has been able to accumulate; but as for the positive drawbacks, which seemed but trivial at the time, they absolutely disappear in the recollection of his experiences. Thinking of these things as the journey drew to a close, I could not help feeling how great are the rewards that a traveller reaps, even irrespective of anything he may learn, or of the suggestions to thought that a voyage of this kind cannot fail to bear with it. How much is life made fuller and richer by the stock of images laid up in the marvellous storehouse of the brain, to be summoned, one knows not when or how, by some hidden train of association—shifting scenes that serve to beautify many a common and prosaic moment of life!

Often during this return voyage my thoughts recurred to an article in some periodical lent to me by my kind friends at Petropolis, wherein the writer, with seeming gravity, discussed the question whether life is worth living. My first impression, as I well remember, was somewhat contemptuous pity for the man whose mind could be so profoundly diseased as even to ask such a question, as for a soldier who, with the trumpet-call sounding in his ear, should stop to inquire whether the battle was worth fighting. When one remembers how full life is of appeals to the active faculties of man, and how the exertion of each of these brings its correlative satisfaction; how the world, in the first place, needs the daily labour of the majority of our race; how much there is yet to be learned, and how much to be taught to the ignorant; what constant demand there is for the spirit of sympathy to alleviate suffering in our fellows; how much beauty exists to be enjoyed, and, it may be, to be brought home to others;—one is tempted to ask if the man who halts to discuss whether life is worth living can have a mind to care for truth, or a heart to feel for others, or a soul accessible to the sense of beauty.

Recurring to the subject, as I sometimes did during the homeward voyage, it seemed to me that I had perhaps treated the matter too seriously, and that the article I had read was an elaborate hoax, by which the writer, while in truth laughing at his readers, sought merely to astonish and to gain repute as an original thinker. However the fact may be, when taken in connection with the shallow pessimism which, through various channels, has of late filtered into much modern literature, there does appear to be some real danger that the disease may spread among the weaker portion of the young generation. A new fashion, however absurd or mischievous, is sure to have attractions for the feebler forms of human vanity. It is true that there is little danger that the genuine doctrine will spread widely, but the mere masquerade of pessimism may do unimagined mischief. The better instincts of man’s nature are not so firmly rooted that we should wish to see the spread of any influence that directly allies itself with his selfish and cowardly tendencies.

To any young man who has been touched by the contagion of such doctrines, I should recommend a journey long enough and distant enough to bring him into contact with new and varied aspects of nature and of human society. Removed from the daily round of monotonous occupation, or, far worse, of monotonous idleness, life is thus presented in larger and truer proportions, and in a nature not quite worthless some chord must be touched that will stir the springs of healthy action. If there be in truth such beings as genuine and incurable pessimists, the stern believer in progress will be tempted to say that the sooner they carry out their doctrine to its logical result the better it will be for the race. Their continued existence, where it is not merely useless, must be altogether a mischief to their fellow-creatures.

On the morning of the 16th of August, all but completing five months since I quitted her shores, the coast of England was dimly descried amid gusts of cold wind and showers of drizzling rain. My winter experiences in the Straits of Magellan were forcibly recalled to my mind, and I felt some partial satisfaction in the seeming confirmation of the conclusion which I had already reached—that the physical differences between the conditions of life in the northern and southern hemispheres are not nearly so great as has generally been supposed.

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