Chapter 39

THE FRIGATE IN HARBOUR.--THE BOATS.--GRAND STATE RECEPTION OF THE
COMMODORE.

In good time we were up with the parallel of Rio de Janeiro, and,
standing in for the land, the mist soon cleared; and high aloft
the famed Sugar Loaf pinnacle was seen, our bowsprit pointing for
it straight as a die.

As we glided on toward our anchorage, the bands of the various
men-of-war in harbour saluted us with national airs, and gallantly
lowered their ensigns. Nothing can exceed the courteous etiquette
of these ships, of all nations, in greeting their brethren. Of all
men, your accomplished duellist is generally the most polite.

We lay in Rio some weeks, lazily taking in stores and otherwise
preparing for the passage home. But though Rio is one of the most
magnificent bays in the world; though the city itself contains
many striking objects; and though much might be said of the Sugar
Loaf and Signal Hill heights; and the little islet of Lucia; and
the fortified Ihla Dos Cobras, or Isle of the Snakes (though the
only anacondas and adders now found in the arsenals there are
great guns and pistols); and Lord Wood's Nose--a lofty eminence
said by seamen to resemble his lordship's conch-shell; and the
Prays do Flamingo--a noble tract of beach, so called from its
having been the resort, in olden times, of those gorgeous birds;
and the charming Bay of Botofogo, which, spite of its name, is
fragrant as the neighbouring Larangieros, or Valley of the
Oranges; and the green Gloria Hill, surmounted by the belfries of
the queenly Church of Nossa Senora de Gloria; and the iron-gray
Benedictine convent near by; and the fine drive and promenade,
Passeo Publico; and the massive arch-over-arch aqueduct, Arcos de
Carico; and the Emperor's Palace; and the Empress's Gardens; and
the fine Church de Candelaria; and the gilded throne on wheels,
drawn by eight silken, silver-belled mules, in which, of pleasant
evenings, his Imperial Majesty is driven out of town to his
Moorish villa of St. Christova--ay, though much might be said of
all this, yet must I forbear, if I may, and adhere to my one
proper object, _the world in a man-of-war_.

Behold, now, the Neversink under a new aspect. With all her
batteries, she is tranquilly lying in harbour, surrounded by
English, French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Brazilian seventy-fours,
moored in the deep-green water, close under the lee of that
oblong, castellated mass of rock, Ilha Dos Cobras, which, with
its port-holes and lofty flag-staffs, looks like another man-of-
war, fast anchored in the way. But what is an insular fortress,
indeed, but an embattled land-slide into the sea from the world
Gibraltars and Quebecs? And what a main-land fortress but a few
decks of a