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- But there they stood! Commodore and Emperor, Lieutenants and Marquises,
middies and pages! The brazen band on the poop struck up; the marine
guard presented arms; and high aloft, looking down on this scene, all
_the people_ vigorously hurraed. A top-man next me on the
main-royal-yard removed his hat, and diligently manipulated his head in
honour of the event; but he was so far out of sight in the clouds, that
this ceremony went for nothing.
A great pity it was, that in addition to all these honours, that
admirer of Portuguese literature, Viscount Strangford, of Great
Britain—who, I believe, once went out Ambassador Extraordinary to the
Brazils—it was a pity that he was not present on this occasion, to
yield his tribute of “A Stanza to Braganza!” For our royal visitor was
an undoubted Braganza, allied to nearly all the great families of
Europe. His grandfather, John VI., had been King of Portugal; his own
sister, Maria, was now its queen. He was, indeed, a distinguished young
gentleman, entitled to high consideration, and that consideration was
most cheerfully accorded him.
He wore a green dress-coat, with one regal morning-star at the breast,
and white pantaloons. In his chapeau was a single, bright, golden-hued
feather of the Imperial Toucan fowl, a magnificent, omnivorous,
broad-billed bandit bird of prey, a native of Brazil. Its perch is on
the loftiest trees, whence it looks down upon all humbler fowls, and,
hawk-like, flies at their throats. The Toucan once formed part of the
savage regalia of the Indian caciques of the country, and upon the
establishment of the empire, was symbolically retained by the
Portuguese sovereigns.
His Imperial Majesty was yet in his youth; rather corpulent, if
anything, with a care-free, pleasant face, and a polite, indifferent,
and easy address. His manners, indeed, were entirely unexceptionable.
Now here, thought I, is a very fine lad, with very fine prospects
before him. He is supreme Emperor of all these Brazils; he has no
stormy night-watches to stand; he can lay abed of mornings just as long
as he pleases. Any gentleman in Rio would be proud of his personal
acquaintance, and the prettiest girl in all South America would deem
herself honoured with the least glance from the acutest angle of his
eye.
Yes: this young Emperor will have a fine time of this life, even so
long as he condescends to exist. Every one jumps to obey him; and see,
as I live, there is an old nobleman in his suit—the Marquis d’Acarty
they call him, old enough to be his grandfather—who, in the hot sun, is
standing bareheaded before him, while the Emperor carries his hat on
his head.
“I suppose that old gentleman, now,” said a young New England tar
beside me, “would consider it a great honour to put on his Royal
Majesty’s boots; and yet, White-Jacket, if yonder Emperor and I were to
strip and jump overboard for a bath, it would be hard telling which was
of the blood royal when we should once be in the water. Look you, Don
Pedro II.,” he added, “how do you come to be Emperor? Tell me that. You
cannot pull as many pounds as I on the main-topsail-halyards; you are
not as tall as I: your nose is a pug, and mine is a cut-water; and how
do you come to be a ‘_brigand_,’ with that thin pair of spars? A
_brigand_, indeed!”
“_Braganza_, you mean,” said I, willing to correct the rhetoric of so
fierce a republican, and, by so doing, chastise his censoriousness.
“Braganza! _bragger_ it is,” he replied; “and a bragger, indeed. See
that feather in his cap! See how he struts in that coat! He may well
wear a green one, top-mates—he’s a green-looking swab at the best.”
“Hush, Jonathan,” said I; “there’s the _First Duff_ looking up. Be
still! the Emperor will hear you;” and I put my hand on his mouth.
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