Consultations about Cape Verde Islands—Flying-fish—English Steamer—Tropical Showers—Disappointment—Capture of a Porpoise—May-Day at Sea—An English Bark—Letters for Home—Another Bark—Nautical Ceremonies—An Aquatic Bird—Crossing the Equator—Squalls—A Portuguese Brig—Captain J. engages to stop at Rio Janeiro—Land Seen—Cape Frio—Approach to Rio Janeiro—Beautiful Scenery—Disappointment.

I have had several consultations with the captain on the subject of touching at the Cape Verde Islands; and as his chief objection, aside from one or two days' loss of time, is the port charges, the passengers have obviated that objection by subscribing an amount much greater than will be necessary to pay those charges, besides engaging to assist in getting some pure water on board, of which we are in great want. I am very desirous of seeing something, however small, of a tropical country, and of the trees, birds, and other productions of a tropical climate; and this may be my only opportunity. Above all I long for a short respite, if only for a day, from this confinement to the vessel, and for a little exercise upon the land before we continue our long voyage to the coast of South America.

April 24. Saw the flight of a school of flying-fish. They rush through the air with great rapidity, and generally—those that I have seen,—against the wind. They look very prettily as they skim over the water a little above its surface, and follow the undulations of the waves a distance varying from five to twenty rods. Towards night a large English steamer with four masts and all sails set, was seen on our starboard bow, and continued in sight nearly two hours.

This afternoon we had a slight specimen of a tropical shower. Some dark clouds suddenly arose, and before the heavens were half covered, they broke upon us in a heavy shower accompanied by thunder, that drove us all under shelter. It passed away however as quickly as it arose.

We had this day been sailing with a fair breeze, and hoped by to-morrow to be anchored in one of the harbors of the Cape Verde Islands. We were much elated at the prospect, and it had been the chief topic of conversation for two or three days. Judge then of my disappointment when I learned at night that the captain had ordered the helmsman to put the bark off to the south-west, the direction of the islands being south. He had determined to avoid the islands, and we had no other alternative but to submit. After sailing south-west about four hours in order to give the islands a wide berth, our course was again changed to the south. We turned into our berths with no very amiable feeling towards Capt. J., who, we thought, manifested very little regard for the welfare or comfort of his passengers.

Sunday, April 25. We are passing the Cape Verde Islands without even the gratification of looking at them. But we have now got the trade-wind in earnest, and are driving before it at the rate of ten or eleven knots. We have seen several schools of flying-fish to-day, and two of them have been picked up on the deck by the sailors. This afternoon a large school of porpoises came playing round the ship, and one of them was struck with the harpoon by Sherman, our sailor passenger, and secured. It was about five feet long, and weighed, probably, two hundred pounds.

Monday, April 26. Some portions of the porpoise killed yesterday were served up to-day for dinner. The liver was said to be very good, resembling that of a cow; but the flesh, though relished by some of the passengers, was black, and had rather a strong flavor. I did not taste of either of them.

Saturday, May 1. May-day at sea. We rose as usual this morning, took our breakfast, and talked of May-day at home, and of the friends we had left there, and seeing in fancy the youthful portion of them setting out on a shivering ramble in pursuit of a few flowers or leaves through the mud and snow, while we strove to shelter ourselves from the heat of a tropical sun under an awning of a large sail, which we raised over the after house, where we sat, lay or walked, and read, talked and sung, during the day. Towards evening I sat for an hour—and it is an indolent pleasure I often indulge in—observing the sky and the clouds, and watching their slow and sometimes almost imperceptible changes of shape and hue, and in comparing them with the sunset skies of our northern climes, which, if wanting something of the ethereal softness of this, are more glowing, more brilliant, and more decidedly beautiful.

Sunday, May 2. This morning a sail was seen on our larboard tack, but the wind being light, we did not speak her till night. We watched her till after sunset, when her mate boarded us, and reported her to be an English bark bound for Liverpool. We had been writing letters all day, hoping this vessel would prove to be an American homeward bound. We were somewhat disappointed, but as we might not soon have an opportunity of sending more directly, we decided to send our package, containing forty-five letters, by the bark to England, thence to be forwarded by steamer to America.

Monday, May 3. Spoke another bark, the Fanny Major, for which I had prepared another letter, but she was found to be outward-bound, from New-York to the same port with us, and having on board sixty-five passengers. Our vessel proved to be the best sailor. We had been sailing on different tacks, and she was half a mile astern of us, when our captain backed sail and let her come up. Just at this time a squall arose, and she soon ranged along-side, and in a few minutes passed by us. The captains hailed each other through their speaking-trumpets, asking what port they sailed from, where bound, how long out, what ports they intended to touch at, what was the longitude by the reckoning of each, &c. After the bark had passed us we set our sails, and soon overhauled her. The captains had a few more words, when the passengers and crew of the New-Yorker gave us three hearty cheers, which we answered with an equal number, then three more from the New-Yorker answered by one from us, and our military band, consisting of a drum and a fife, set up a lively air, when we speedily shot by, and left her to follow in our wake.

At night we had a visit from a large aquatic bird. After flying around the ship for some time, she alighted on the jib-boom, and was captured by Sherman. I was very desirous of preserving the skin of this bird, which differed from any of those described by Audubon or Wilson, and was probably not a visitor to the United States; but our captain, who is a man of contracted views, and is deeply tinctured with a sailor's whims and superstitions, ordered it to be set at liberty under the pretense of sympathy.

Tuesday, May 4. We have for a week past been drifting,—I can hardly say sailing, for the winds have been light, and we have made but little progress,—towards the Equator, and to-day we have crossed that important geographical line, and passed into another hemisphere. The event has been celebrated with a good deal of hilarity and nonsense. Old Neptune appeared on board rigged out with an immense wig of Manilla cordage, a grotesque mask, red flannel drawers, and a buffalo coat, and holding the captain's speaking-trumpet in his hand. He was accompanied by his wife, personated by a thin, slender and active fellow, arrayed in a long gown and a straw bonnet. They amused us with a dance to the music of a fiddle, and in return they were treated with some brandy, of which they partook with great gusto. Neptune enquired into the affairs of the ship, cautioned the stewards and cooks to do their duty, gave some wholesome advice to the officers, to whom he was formally introduced, cracked a good many jokes upon the passengers, and disappeared. The frolic went off with great good humor among all parties.

Wednesday, May 12. We have had many squalls accompanied with rain for several days past. Last night a pretty heavy one struck us, sending down a torrent of rain, which leaked into our berths and houses. Many of us got well drenched. Feeling rather uncomfortable from the wet, I arose and stood up by the side of my berth, holding on to it for support, while the ship rolled violently. But I soon grew tired of this. So feeling over my bed in the dark, and finding a comparatively dry place at the foot of it, I changed my pillow to that end, and turned in again. Lulled to rest by the howling of the wind, the dashing of the seas, the rushing of several pailfuls of water over the floor of our room, the hoarse orders of the captain and the answers of the sailors, I slept till morning.

Friday, May 14. Spoke a Portuguese brig bound to Rio Janeiro. Her decks were crowded with men and women migrating to the New World. I thought there must have been more than a hundred of them in a vessel not more than two-thirds as large as ours.

Saturday, May 15. We are now distant about four hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, and have strong hopes that we shall touch there, though it was the original intention of Captain Jackson to stop at Saint Catherine's, nearly three hundred miles further south. He is strongly prejudiced against Rio, having lost a brother and three men, besides being dangerously ill himself of yellow fever contracted there on a former visit. Then the port charges are higher at Rio than at St. Catherine's. This objection, however, the passengers propose to obviate by paying fifty dollars; and so the captain engages to put in to Rio if he can ascertain from outward-bound vessels that the place is free from yellow fever. And none of us wish to go there if it is not, though our eagerness to step on land once more would induce many of us to incur some little risk. St. Catherine's is a small island, containing only a few unimportant villages and towns; and it is said, that in consequence of the riotous conduct of many Americans who have put in there, the authorities prohibit a greater number than eight persons landing from any vessel at one time. This would be an uncomfortable, not to say insupportable, state of things for a company of eighty-eight men, women and children, weary of the voyage, and crazy to set foot again on land.

Wednesday, May 19. This is the forty-sixth day of our voyage, during forty-five of which we have not seen land. To-day the cry of land has resounded through the ship, with not quite the joy and enthusiasm to us, perhaps, that the same words gave to Columbus and his companions on the discovery of America, but certainly with a good deal of satisfaction. I have just seen it, two hills on Cape Frio, which we are fast approaching. This cape is sixty miles from Rio, where we hope to arrive early to-morrow, though we are still in great suspense and uncertainty about stopping there at all.

Thursday, May 20. We passed Cape Frio in the night, and are now, early in the morning, approaching the harbor of Rio. We are now but a few miles distant from the entrance to the harbor. There it lies before us. There lie the hills along the coast in almost every variety of form, some with a gradual rise to their summits, others bold and almost perpendicular; some smooth and rounded, others abrupt and jagged, and still others conical, and sharply pointed. There, in the distance, are the mountains, between which and us is the city, towards which all our thoughts, wishes and desires so anxiously tend. There lies a beach, upon which the surf is breaking in long, white swells; and there are the trees upon the sides and summits of the hills. What a world of new and curious objects we are about to behold! What a variety of trees and other plants and flowers and fruits! What grand and beautiful scenery! and what an endless variety of curiosities, natural and artificial, in this, to us, new city in a new world!

But are we not to be disappointed at last? Even now, when we are almost within view of the city, circumstances begin to wear a suspicious aspect. No vessel is to be seen coming from the harbor, from which we can obtain information with regard to the health of the city, and our captain keeps a respectful distance from the coast, as though he feared to meet one. True, he keeps up a show of going in, by keeping off and on, but he begins to talk of losing his labor and time, and we perceive that he has already dropped half a dozen miles to the leeward of the harbor. We watch his every motion, and listen to every word with deep anxiety. But he does not keep us long in suspense. A hurried breakfast, of which I did not partake, is scarcely passed, when the order is given, "square away the yards," and in an instant all our visions of Rio Janeiro have vanished. We bid farewell to the city without seeing it, and to the tropics, without setting foot on their lands, and with but one indistinct glimpse of the beautiful scenery within their bounds.