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- CHAPTER L.
THE BAY OF ALL BEAUTIES.
I have said that I must pass over Rio without a description; but just
now such a flood of scented reminiscences steals over me, that I must
needs yield and recant, as I inhale that musky air.
More than one hundred and fifty miles’ circuit of living green hills
embosoms a translucent expanse, so gemmed in by sierras of grass, that
among the Indian tribes the place was known as “The Hidden Water.” On
all sides, in the distance, rise high conical peaks, which at sunrise
and sunset burn like vast tapers; and down from the interior, through
vineyards and forests, flow radiating streams, all emptying into the
harbour.
Talk not of Bahia de Todos os Santos—the Bay of All Saints; for though
that be a glorious haven, yet Rio is the Bay of all Rivers—the Bay of
all Delights—the Bay of all Beauties. From circumjacent hillsides,
untiring summer hangs perpetually in terraces of vivid verdure; and,
embossed with old mosses, convent and castle nestle in valley and glen.
All round, deep inlets run into the green mountain land, and, overhung
with wild Highlands, more resemble Loch Katrines than Lake Lemans. And
though Loch Katrine has been sung by the bonneted Scott, and Lake Leman
by the coroneted Byron; yet here, in Rio, both the loch and the lake
are but two wild flowers in a prospect that is almost unlimited. For,
behold! far away and away, stretches the broad blue of the water, to
yonder soft-swelling hills of light green, backed by the purple
pinnacles and pipes of the grand Organ Mountains; fitly so called, for
in thunder-time they roll cannonades down the bay, drowning the blended
bass of all the cathedrals in Rio. Shout amain, exalt your voices,
stamp your feet, jubilate, Organ Mountains! and roll your Te Deums
round the world!
What though, for more than five thousand five hundred years, this grand
harbour of Rio lay hid in the hills, unknown by the Catholic
Portuguese? Centuries ere Haydn performed before emperors and kings,
these Organ Mountains played his Oratorio of the Creation, before the
Creator himself. But nervous Haydn could not have endured that
cannonading choir, since this composer of thunderbolts himself died at
last through the crashing commotion of Napoleon’s bombardment of
Vienna.
But all mountains are Organ Mountains: the Alps and the Himalayas; the
Appalachian Chain, the Ural, the Andes, the Green Hills and the White.
All of them play anthems forever: The Messiah, and Samson, and Israel
in Egypt, and Saul, and Judas Maccabeus, and Solomon.
Archipelago Rio! ere Noah on old Ararat anchored his ark, there lay
anchored in you all these green, rocky isles I now see. But God did not
build on you, isles! those long lines of batteries; nor did our blessed
Saviour stand godfather at the christening of yon frowning fortress of
Santa Cruz, though named in honour of himself, the divine Prince of
Peace!
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