Chapter II: The City and Its Prophet (3)

The heavy demands made by the bigwigs of Banza Nculu――_viz._ £300 for mere permission to pass to Sundi, beside the enormous expense of feeding ourselves and thirty-five followers――had compelled us to give up the project we had in view, especially as we had seen the principal rapids on the river――the rest of the falls, until reaching Sundi, being mere elevations, in themselves quite insignificant. My object had been to reach Sundi, and thence try to ascertain the course of the river, and to find out whether its source could be nearly reached by canoes, or entirely reached by carriers. But finding the demands of the chiefs beyond my power of compliance, I resolved to return. Our chief guide, Gidi Mavonga, was anxious to make a retrograde movement as quickly as possible, and urged upon us the necessity of packing up and starting after three o’clock on the afternoon of our return from visiting the rapids. But I declined to stir until the next morning, and after much trouble I gave him and his slaves one blanket cloth and a pair of razors, which quieted him a little. But it was soon evident that even this munificent gift merely banked up the fires of discord in the breasts of the savages, for the same dissatisfaction was observable even after we returned to their village. The day of settlement brought Gidi and his slaves to our temporary residence, and what followed beggared powers of description. What uproar! What threats! What runnings to and fro! All the devils in the infernal regions appeared to have infused a double portion of their diabolical influence into the bodies and souls of their willing disciples on that day of settlement, and when everybody’s fury had reached the climax of rage and insolence, old Gidi rushed into the house occupied by us, commenced turning all our gear upside down, and at last laid forcible hands upon a bale of merchandise.

I therefore quietly informed the wild old man that he was carrying matters too far, asked the meaning of it, and took out a six-barrelled Colt’s revolver, and placed it at my feet ready for use in case of need. This had the desired effect, for Gidi, after taking a long, covetous look at the bale of merchandise, turned round and stared at the leveller of six men at my feet, and having balanced the difference, he slunk out in perfect silence, followed by his two myrmidons, who had accompanied their master into the house to carry away anything that their lord might select. Outside the slaves still clamoured, and at last induced their master to beard me again when I was writing.

Thus for two days affairs progressed as hot as fire and as irritating as a wife’s bad temper, till at length, by some special interposition of Providence, we managed to make arrangements for some people to carry our gear down to the riverside, and for a canoe to take us to Embomma, one of the principal stations on the river.

The preliminaries of this arrangement occupied two days, and on the morning of the third day we were ready to start by half-past five o’clock, but no carriers had as yet made their appearance, and after they did come, it was with the same infernal noise that we managed to start them with the loads. But the moment they were _en route_ they almost ran with the things, and shortly disappeared from our view. We followed as quickly as we could after them, and arriving at Kayé, a sentinel with a gun stopped us, and informed us that his Highness Prince Sudikil desired our presence. On reaching the house of our old landlord, we discovered the whole of our gear before his door, and the prince with his mother and some of his slaves standing in a circle round the things, whilst one disgusting-looking brute was about to open a box of beads. I at once walked up to the rascal and gave him a castigation with a stick. The fellow looked daggers; but on showing him a fine breech-loading Cooper’s rifle, he held down his head and slunk a little way back from the box and sat down.

And now commenced a palaver between the prince and myself, the substance of which was that the prince wished to exact more presents from me, but this time by force. The armed slaves began to come up one by one, until they added a considerable number to the crowd. I told the prince that it was customary to give on the arrival but not on the departure of a stranger. But as his highness persisted in his inflexible determination to have something, I referred him to Mambuka Prata, a powerful chief at Embomma, and requested Sudikil to take and keep my signet ring until the case was settled by arbitration at head-quarters.

At this suggestion the prince, his mother, some of the slaves, and even Nchama, our interpreter, commenced such a babel of tongues that we wished the whole bunch of them keeping company with Pharaoh at the bottom of the Red Sea. It was quite evident that they had perceived the absurdity and obstinacy of their covetous desires. The prince therefore walked away in a great rage, taking with him all his slaves, and nearly one-half of those who had brought our kit from his father’s house. Here, again, was another fix. We were standing pondering over the peculiar position in which we were placed, when luckily the few who remained at once resolved to carry each a double load, and this brought us to the waterside, and examining all our baggage, and seeing everything correct, I made a present of beads to the carriers and had breakfast.

By 9.45 a.m. we set off for Embomma with thankfulness, where we arrived at 5 p.m. on the same day, having run down with the current, slightly assisted by paddles, a distance of forty-five miles in seven hours and a quarter.

_Wednesday, September 23rd._――John Clarke, being engaged to go with us to St. Salvador, started this afternoon with Nchama to bring carriers from Mambuka Prata. Chief Mambuka Prata had a few trading huts close to the French factory, where he flew a black and white flag on trading occasions. The district of Embomma may extend about eight or ten miles in length, and throughout the whole of it villages of from ten to twenty houses may be seen standing in all directions, and sometimes several miles apart from one another. The king’s residence may consist of sixty houses, and it is generally at the royal villages that the traveller finds a home during his sojourn.

_Thursday, September 24th._――At Embomma. This day’s proceedings have been more annoying than any that have preceded it. The two messengers, John Clarke and Nchama, who had been sent on a mission to Mambuka Prata, returned without having accomplished a single order in connection with the mission entrusted to them. Nchama returned about six o’clock in the morning, perfectly drunk, and incapable of giving a single word of explanation as to his whereabouts and doings. John Clarke returned in the afternoon, and gave rather a tame version of his proceedings. He said that Mambuka Prata, being annoyed at not receiving a coat promised him by Monsieur Pisseaux, would not send any carriers to take us on to St. Salvador. What a Frenchman’s conduct had to do with an Englishman’s affairs I could not conceive. He (Mambuka Prata) said the carriers would not be forthcoming until he received a book from the white man, or saw him himself. This last sounded like a falsehood, as there was not a soul in all Vinda who could read a single scrap, and, besides, our interpreters took with them a very good book in the shape of a demijohn of rum and a tenth of powder, but whether these had been delivered into the hands of the proper persons was a question. Nchama, having been severely reprimanded, repaired to his village, and did not make his appearance again until the day we left Embomma.

_Friday, September 25th._――We left Embomma, and arrived in Porto da Lentra at 1.15 on the morning of Saturday, September 26th. On the way down the canoemen made several attempts to land at various villages, but were forced to proceed for fear of Colt’s revolvers. They did very well, and received six bottles of rum.

We left Porto da Lentra for Point Banana at 4.15 on the morning of September 27th. We had exchanged our smaller but fine canoe for a large one, and started with six hands and captain, but had scarcely lost sight of Porto da Lentra when our canoemen went up a creek――they said to get extra clothing. We were detained more than half an hour waiting for them, until probably they had eaten their breakfast and drunk their palm wine. We got them to start with great difficulty; but at the very next creek they stopped again, and would have repeated the dose at other places had we not had recourse to our friends in need, the revolvers.

At the creek one man jumped on shore and we pushed off again; but a few yards down we were hailed by a Missolongi canoe, the river-pirates of this part of the Congo. This third time our canoemen stopped; and we were obliged to face them with cocked revolvers and compel them to go on. Down we glided, assisted more by the current than by our men. Another creek, and the canoemen requested to stop again to eat, which request was positively refused.

The river had been hitherto very calm, but at two o’clock the sea-breeze began to blow hard; the tide was also slightly against us, and this caused a swell in the river which wetted nearly all our things. I was surveying at the time, and, fearing that the instruments might get a soaking with salt water, I ordered the canoemen to put back and return to Point Banana by means of a creek on the right of the river. This appeared to the canoemen to be awfully hard work, although they had only to pull back for about a quarter of a mile. The Congoes are remarkable for their uselessness: they excel in eating, drinking, sleeping, and talking, in a word, in satisfying their sensual comforts, and what little sense they have is used for the purpose of annoying those with whom they come in contact. More than five times they were asked to make sail, and then gave a few strokes with their paddles, and stopped and chatted again, put the canoe broadside on to the billows, let her drift back, and again gave a few more strokes.

In this way nearly an hour passed away, and we never reached the end of the quarter-mile. They began to complain that the way by the creek was too far, whilst just a short time before that they told us the creek was the nearest. They now declared that they could proceed no farther, and pulled the canoe in shore. Seeing that the whole bevy of them, from the captain to the small boy, were all drunk from drinking some rum they had brought with them, we could do nothing but submit to this state of things, anything being preferable to trusting the canoe with a lot of drunken hands, and getting ourselves and gear saturated with salt water.

The crew were permitted to land. They lighted a fire, cooked, ate, drank, quarrelled, and went to sleep. The padron, or captain, took possession of the rum, and drank himself to sleep also; and when the wind abated a little and the water became calmer, we awakened the captain with difficulty, and he with greater difficulty his crew; but the tide had gone down, and the canoe was high and dry on the bank. All efforts to launch her into the water proved unavailing, especially as the rum was still hard at work, and what little sense the Congoes had was perfectly misapplied. In consequence we had to wait until the tide again served, which did not take place till two o’clock the following morning, when we tried again to start our hands, and with great delay and noise managed to reach Point Banana at 4.15 a.m.

At six o’clock all our things were landed and comfortably housed within Monsieur Parrat’s factory. Thank God! we were now at a considerable distance from Yellalla and the triumvirate and avaricioua triple ministers of the Banza Nculu, far away from the Banza Vivi and its king, far away from the quarrelsome, covetous, gin-drinking, noisy, and licentious old Gidi Mavonga, far away from that senseless nincompoop the Prince Sudikil, and――praise be to Allah!――within hail of Her Majesty’s ship _Griffon_.

[7] This MS. consisted mainly of notes roughly jotted down
by Burton in a memorandum book. I have thought it best to
publish them as they stood, with no alterations except those
necessary to make the essay coherent and legible.――W. H. W.

_THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL_

1867

_THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL_

1867

I had been in Brazil nearly two years, vegetating between Santos and São Paulo, varied by an occasional expedition afield or a trip to Rio de Janeiro, when I determined to put into action my long-cherished plan of prospecting the great and wealthy province of Minas Gerães in the interior, and then to go down the São Francisco, which is the Brazilian Mississippi, from Sabará to the sea, and to visit _en route_ the Paulo Affonso rapids, the Niagara of Brazil. As my wife was very anxious to go, I took her with me.

We left Rio on June 12th, 1867, and sailed across the incomparable Bay, and then ascended to Petropolis. From Petropolis we made our real start in a large char-à-banc, which held eight, in two and two, and which was drawn by four mules. The mules started off in fine style; being fresh and frisky they simply galloped along the mountain side. It is not necessary for me to describe the first part of the journey, which, for a few days, travelled along a well-known road, through a splendid district of wooded mountains, broad rivers, and boulders of rock; the vegetation was especially fine, even tropical. At Juiz de Fora we abandoned our char-à-banc for the coach, whereby we travelled to Barbacena, and here again we left the coach for the saddle, and followed the bridle-road, if indeed it could be called a road.

I should weary if I were to describe the places we passed through until we came to Logão Duroda, where the railway was in process of making, and where they were just laying the first chain for the exploration of the mountains and for the prolongation of the Dom Pedro Secunda Railway. There was an inauguration ceremony, and my wife had the honour of giving the first blow to the stock and breaking a bottle of wine over it. After that we had a convivial gathering, and wound up with a dinner in the good old English fashion. Next day we started off again, and still riding through beautiful scenery, up and down mountains, through shallow rivers and bits of virgin forests, from day to day, we eventually arrived at Morro Velho, where we were most hospitably received by the superintendent of the São Goa d’el Rey Mining Company and Mrs. Gordon, and we spent some days in their most comfortable home. Morro Velho is the queen of the Minas Gerães mines, and a most interesting place, but, as we were going back to it, we determined to press on to Ouro Preto, which is the capital of the province, a most hilly town, for walking up and down the streets was as difficult as climbing up ladders. We stayed here two days, and then returned to Morro Velho. We had a long, muddy, rainy journey on the way back, slipping backward two steps for every one forward, but at last we arrived at the Gordons’ house again, and were warmly welcomed as before. Here we tarried for a fortnight, and thoroughly explored everything.

Among other things we explored the mine, which had the reputation of being the largest, deepest, and richest gold-mine in Brazil. My wife determined to go with me, and Mrs. Gordon, who had never before ventured under grass, kindly consented to accompany her. Mr. Gordon and I went down first in a bucket, or kibble, which was suspended over the abyss. We found in it a rough wooden seat, comfortable enough. We were advised by the pitman not to look downwards, as the glimmer of the sparks and lights below was apt to cause giddiness and seasickness. I did look down and felt none the worse. We touched and tilted half over once against a cableway drum, but that was our only contretemps. I could not but wonder at the mighty timbering which met my eyes as it dilated in the darkness;――timber everywhere, all of the best and hardest wood. The mighty mass, it might hardly be said, was not without flaws, very palpable at second look. We made an easy descent down the shaft, and a bunch of lighted tow, tied to the bucket chain, showed us all its features. There was no “rattle his bones over the stones,” and the drop lasted fifteen minutes. At the bottom the kibble, or bucket, stood still, began to reel like a boat, and descended perpendicularly until we stepped out. Presently Mrs. Gordon and my wife, habited in brown holland trousers, belted blouses, and miners’ caps, came down, delighted with the kibble travelling. The men did everything to banish the ladies’ alarm, and spoke and cheered us as we passed. The mine was utterly new to me, and most unlike the dirty labyrinth of little clefts and filthy galleries down which I have often crawled like a low reptile; the height suggested a cavern or a huge stone-quarry.

Candle burning, the usual test, detected nothing abnormal in the atmosphere; the ventilation was excellent. Of course, our feet were wiped, and, physically speaking, they wanted wiping; the floor was wet, the mud was slippery, and locomotion somewhat like an ascent of the Pyramids, although the ground was pretty level.

It was a huge palace of darkness; the walls were either black as the grave, or reflected in the slender rays of light a watery surface, or were broken into monstrous projections, half revealing and half concealing cavernous recesses. Despite the lamps, the night pressed upon us, as it were, with a weight, and the only measure of distance was a spark here and there, glimmering like a single star. Distinctly nerve-testing was the gulf between the huge mountain sides, apparently threatening every moment to fall. Through this Inferno gnomes glided about in a ghostly fashion, half-naked figures enveloped by the mist. Here dark bodies hung by chains in what seemed frightful positions; there they swung like leopards from place to place; there they swarmed up loose ropes like troglodytes; there they moved over scaffolding, which even to look up at would make a nervous temperament dizzy.

Our visit to the mine amply repaid us; it was a place

Where thoughts were many, and words were few.

But the fact will remain on our mental retina as long as our brains will do their duty.

After a fortnight at Morro Velho I prepared to go to Sabará, there to embark _en route_ to the coast. With a peculiar cat-like feeling I bade adieu to the Gordons, with whom we had found an English home in the Highlands of Brazil. My excellent compatriots, however, accompanied me to break the shock of departure; my wife also, though, as she had sprained her ankle badly, she was to return to Rio.

It was a long ride from Morro Velho and a tiring one, and we were glad to enter the picturesque city of Sabará, where we found tolerable lodgings. Here I completed my preparations for descending the Rio das Velhas, and had to seek the aid of a store-keeper, who turned out to be an extortioner. That, perhaps, was only to be expected; but I may justly complain when, in addition to his extortionate charges, he sent me down the river, a river like the Mississippi, in a raft whose starboard canoe had a leak scarcely stopped up with Sabará clay.

The next day we all walked down to the upper landing-place, where the ajojo, or raft, lay. I never saw such an old Noah’s ark, with its standing awning, a floating gipsy “pal,” some seven feet high and twenty-two long, and pitched like a tent upon two hollowed logs. The river, I thought, must indeed be safe if this article can get down without an accident.

All the notables of the place witnessed the process of embarkation. A young English lady broke a bottle of wine with all possible grace upon the bows, and duly christened the craft the _Eliza_ and two pairs of slippers were thrown at my head. Many _vivas_ were given and returned, and all my party embarked for a trial trip of a couple of miles. When the fifteen souls came on board, they sank the raft some three palms, and deluged the upper platform, making the headman, or pilot, very nervous; already he began to predict swamping, “going down in a jiffey,” and being dashed to pieces by the rapids. We shot past a dangerous rock in mid-stream, and in a short time arrived at the little village of Santo Antonio da Roça Grande, where animals were waiting to carry home the non-voyagers, my wife included. They landed here, but stood as the setting sun sank behind the mountains and waved their farewells as they watched the raft turn the last corner and float off into the far mysterious unknown. I confess to having felt an unusual sense of loneliness as the kindly faces faded away in the distance, and, by way of distraction, I applied myself to a careful examination of my raft.

The ajojo, or, as it is called in other places, the “balsa,” here represents the flat boat of the Mississippi. On the Rio das Velhas, however, it had not yet become an institution, and at that time I was the only traveller who had yet passed down by it from Sabará to the rapids of Paulo Affonso. I need not describe it in detail; I will only say that, though not of the safest description, it behaved itself, under all the circumstances, well.

My crew numbered three――old Vieira and his sons. Two stood in the bows with poles, which they preferred as being easier to use than paddles. The paddles used in deep waters vary in shape every few hundred miles. The men were mere landlubbers; they felt, or affected to feel, nervous at every obstacle. They had been rowing all their lives, and yet they knew not how to back water; curious to say, this was everywhere the case down stream. They pulled with all their might for a few minutes when the river was rapid, so as to incur possible risks, and when the water was almost dead, they lay upon their oars and lazily allowed themselves to be floated down. Thus, during the working day, between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m., very little way was made. They had no system, nor would they learn any. The only thing energetic about them was the way they performed upon the cow-horn, and with this they announced arrival, saluted those on the banks, and generally enjoyed the noise.

My first stage was between Sabará and Santa Lusia. The stream was deeply encased; the reaches were short, and we seemed to run at the bluffs, where high ribs came down to the bed and cut the bottom into very small bends. The most troublesome feature was the shallow places where the bed broadened; we grounded with unpleasant regularity. This part also abounded in snags. The tortuous bed, never showing a mile ahead, prevented anything like waves, though the wind was in our teeth. At this time of year we saw the Old Squaw’s River at its worst; there was a minimum of water and a maximum of contrary wind. On the other hand, it was the “moon of flowers”; the poor second growth teemed with bunches of purple beauty, and the hill-tops were feathered by palms.

At Jaguára the people cried, “You’ll never reach Trahiras,” deriding the _Eliza_. Indeed, we seemed likely to waste much time. However, we crept on surely, if slowly. As evening approached the weather waxed cool and clear, and the excessive evaporation gave the idea of great dryness; my books curled up, it was hardly possible to write, and it reminded me of the Persian Gulf, where water-colours cannot be used because the moisture is absorbed from the brush.

The first view of Santa Lusia was very pleasing; a tall ridge about a mile from the stream was capped with two double-towered churches, divided by fine, large, whitewashed houses and rich vegetation, with palms straggling down to the water. Here I landed and made my way to the hotel, which was a most tumble-down hole, and after supper inspected Santa Lusia. It was formerly a centre of the gold diggings, but at this time possessed nothing of interest.

The next morning was delicious, and the face of Nature was as calm as if it could show no other expression. The sword-like rays of the sun, radiating from the unseen centre before it arose in its splendour, soon dispersed the thin mists that slept tranquilly upon the cool river-bed. We shot the Ponte Grande de Santa Lusia to Cruvello and the backwoods. The bridge was the usual long, crooked affair, with twelve trusses, or trestles, in the water and many outside, showing that the floods are here extensive. The girders are rarely raised high enough, and an exceptional inundation sweeps them away, leaving bare poles bristling in the bed and dangerous piles under water.

About two miles below Santa Lusia the water became deeper and the country changed. The right, or eastern, side was rough and hilly, with heights hugging the bed. Near the other bank the land was more level, and the soil showed a better complexion, by which both sugar-cane and timber profited. In another hour we sighted the first cotton plantation, and right well it looked. There was indeed a mine of neglected wealth in cotton and fish along, and in, this river, and the more I saw of it the richer I found it. The hills were clothed with thin brown-grey grass, looking in places as if they were frosty with hoar, and always profusely tasselled.

Presently another bend showed certain white lines between the river-fringe of trees, and this was the abode of the friaresses. We made fast to a gap in the clay bank and landed. At first I was refused even coffee, and there was no inn. I therefore sent my card and letter to the reverend vicar, and he at once called upon me, ordered dinner, and took me off to see the lions, of which the most interesting was the sisterhood, or infirmary, of the friaresses before named. The reverend mother, rather a pretty person, received us at the door, kissed the padre’s hand, and led the way to the little college chapel, white and gold with frescoed ceiling. We visited the dormitories; the galleries were long, the room was large and airy. The infirmary contained one sister and four invalid girls. The thirty-six reverend women were dressed in white veils and petticoats, with black scapulars in front, and over all a blue cloak. I spent the night at this place on the raft; the moon and stars were unusually bright, and the night was delightfully clear and cool.

We set out next morning at seven o’clock, and proceeded without much adventure all that day and night, finally arriving at Jaguára, at which hospitable place I spent pleasant days, whilst another crew was engaged and arrangments for my reaching Diamantina were being completed.

After a week at Jaguára I embarked again. There was very little to record day by day of the voyage from Jaguára to Diamantina. The river was ever changing: sometimes we passed picturesque cliffs; sometimes we went through gorgeous forests; with masses of vegetation rolling and bulging down the bank; sometimes the currents changed into rapids, and the bed of the river was studded with islets of calcareous stone, dangerous during half-flood.

The most dangerous experience was when we shot the rapids at Cachoeira Grande. People crowded down to the yellow bank to stare and to frighten us about them, and the dialogue was somewhat in this style:――

“Do you know the rapids?” we inquired.

“We know them!”

“Will you pilot us?”

“We will not pilot you!”

“For money?”

“Not for money!”

“And why?”

“Because we are afraid of them!”

This was spoken as the juniors ran along the bank like ostriches or the natives of Ugogo.

Luckily for us, for the Cachoeira Grande was no joke, we found, just before we came to the rapids, on the right bank a small crowd keeping holiday. The men carried guns in their hands, and wore pistols and daggers under their open jackets; the women were in full dress, brilliant as rainbows, with blood-red flowers in their glossy, crows’-wing hair. Of the dozen, not one was fairly white. Here we picked up a pilot or two who came on board. They were men of few words; they saluted us civilly and pushed off.

The beginning of the end was the little rapid of the Saco Grande, or “Big Bend,” where the river bed, turning sharply from south-east to north-west, made parallel reaches. To avoid the rock-pier on the left we floated stern foremost down along the right bank, and managed the rapid with some difficulty. Presently we turned to the east-south-west, and faced the dreaded Cachoeira Grande, which is formed by another sharp bend in the bed, winding to the north-east. The obstacles were six very flat projections of dark stone on the right bank and four on the left, and cunning is required to spiral down between them. We began by passing the port of No. 1, then we made straight for No. 2 to the left; here, by pushing furiously up stream, the _Eliza_ was forced over to the right, was swung round by main force of arm, and was allowed to descend, well in hand, to within a few feet of No. 4, which rises right in the front. Finally, leaving this wrecker to starboard, we hit the usual triangle-head, with plenty of water breaking off both arms. The descent occupied sixteen minutes.

After many congratulations our friends the pilots made a show of taking leave to do some important business, which proved on inquiry to mean “doing compliments.” As the dangers were not yet over, I produced a keg of restilo; it was tasted, and pronounced very hot in the mouth, and the Major――that is, myself――became so irresistible that they all swore they would accompany me to the Rio de São Francisco, or anywhere. The poles were twirled again and wielded with a will. We left to port broken water and an ugly stone, a hogsback; then we crossed to scrape acquaintance with a sunken mass in front.

The end was the Cachoeira das Gallinhas, to which we presently came. We gave a wide berth to a rock well on the right bank and stuck to the left side. Here was a narrow gate, formed by two rock-piers projecting from the shores, and in such places “cordelling” was advisable. The men sprang into the water with loud cries, and pulled at the hawser till the current had put us in proper position. They then pushed off and sprang on board before we could make much way. The “Rapid of the Hens” occupied us nine minutes.

A second dram of the “wild stuff” was then given and our friends the pilots blessed us fervently; they prayed for us, and unintelligibly invoked for us the protection of the Virgin and all the saints. They landed with abundant tripping and stumbling, carrying with them many dollars and a bottle of the much-prized restilo. I had every reason to be grateful to them, for they saved me an immense amount of trouble; but, shortly afterwards, reports of certain “little deaths,” in which they had been actively concerned, showed me that they were not exactly lambs.

After this we proceeded easily down the river to Bom Successo, from which point I intended to visit Diamantina City. I had to land here and make my way to Diamantina on mule-back, not an easy journey, involving, as it did, a day and a night. Diamantina, or the Diamond City, was peculiarly situated, almost precipitous to the east and south-west, while the northern part was a continuation of the broken prairie-land. I stayed here as the guest of Sr. João Ribeiro, a diamond merchant, and wealthy and hospitable. I spent at this place three days and thoroughly inspected it. The impression left upon me was most agreeable; the men were the frankest, and the women the prettiest and most amiable, of any it had been my fortune to meet in Brazil; nothing could exceed their hospitality. I will not describe my visit to the diamond diggings, as I have done so fully elsewhere, and this brief sketch must be mainly devoted to my voyage down the river. I will only say that I found it most interesting, and, so far from the diamonds being exhausted, it seemed to me that they were only at the beginning of a supply which might be described as inexhaustible.

On the eleventh day I returned to Bom Successo with great regret, and at 9.30 a.m. on September 7th I dismissed my trooper and his mules, and pushed out of the creek down the river towards Coroa do Gallo. I met with several small troubles, such as low sandbanks, snags, and stones, but managed to push through to the Coroa do Gallo, where I spent the night. The previous day had been burning hot, but when we set forth the weather had become temperate, and, indeed, on all this journey there was nothing much to complain of on account of the climate. We drifted on day after day through a soft and balmy atmosphere, disturbed ever and anon by gusts of wind and vapours; sometimes distant sheet lightning flashed from the mists massing around the horizon, the smoke of the prairie fires rose in columns, and they might have been mistaken for the fumes of a steamer by night. Those that were near glowed like live coals, whilst the more distant gleamed blue.

I landed and stayed a day or two at Guaicuhy, but there was nothing very important to record. I was strongly advised to visit the rapids of the Pirapora, which are said to be, after the Casca d’Anta at the beginning and the Paulo Affonso at the end, the important feature upon the Rio de São Francisco. The word means a “fish leap,” and is applied to places on more than one Brazilian river. With a flush of joy I found myself upon this glorious stream of the future, whose dimensions here measure seven hundred feet. I had seen nothing to compare with it since my visit to the African Congo.

Two new men were hired to guide us in the “tender” canoe, as we wished to shoot the rapids. We eyed curiously the contrasts of the new stream with that which we had lately left. Here the water was of a transparent green; the river seemed to break even from the stiff clay, which was in places caving in. After nine hours of hard work we doubled a wooded projection from the left bank, and sighted the Cachoeira of the Pirapora. The Pirapora differed from anything I had yet viewed; it was, in fact, partly a true fall, divided into two sections, and we trembled to think what the Paulo Affonso might be. Glad to stretch our cramped limbs, we landed on the right bank, and proceeded to inspect the rapids from above. The upper rapid, six feet high, seemed more formidable than the lower of about seven feet. Near the right bank these form true falls; they are also garnished by little ladders, miniature cascades rushing furiously down small, narrow, tortuous, channels, between the teeth of jagged stone-saws, and tumbling over dwarf buttresses. Thus the total height between the upper and the lower “smooths” is thirteen feet. Above the break the stream narrows to 1,800 feet, whilst below it broadens to 3,500 feet. During the dry weather the fair-way, if it may be so called, is a thin sheet of water near the western bank: no raft, however, can pass; canoes must be unladen and towed up. Without a good pilot there is imminent risk.

A storm was gathering, and as we began the descent lightning flashed from the east and south, and from all the horizon, followed by low rumblings of thunder. Presently our cranky canoe was struck by the gale, one of the especial dangers of the São Francisco. The east wind was heard roaring from afar, and as it came down upon the stream, white waves rose after a few minutes, subsiding as easily when the gale had blown itself out. My men preferred the leeward bank, upon which the blast broke, leaving the water below comparatively dead, and thus they escaped the risk of falling trees. The surface of the central channel being now blocked by the furious wind, a backwater during our ascent bore us swiftly down. It was very dark at 7.30, when we landed and climbed the steep and slippery bank. The thunder growled angrily and heavy rain fell, fortunately upon a tight roof. This was the first wet weather that I had experienced since July 21st.

The Pirapora had been on the São Francisco my terminus _ad quem_, and now it was _a quo_, the rest of the voyage being down stream. When we started in the morning the weather was still surly from the effects of last night’s scolding, but the air was transparent and clear; the books no longer curled with drought, and a dose from the quinine bottle was judged advisable. We were evidently at the break of the rainy season. It was noon before the _Eliza_ was poled off from the bank of the Guaicuhy, and turned head downwards into the great stream. We drifted on from day to day until we arrived at São Romao, a God-forgotten place, which I explored; but it was not particularly hospitable, so I returned at evening and spent the night on the _Eliza_, lighted the fire, drew down the awning, and kept out as much of the drifting rain and cold, shifting wind as possible. It was not easy to sleep for the babel of sounds, for the Romanenses were decidedly ill-behaved and uncivilised, and made night hideous with their orgies.

We set out again next day, furling the awning, through the drenching rain. We had a day of wind and water, and then another of very hot sun, and so we went on to Januaria, where I met with frank and ready hospitality. After staying here a night, we took the water again, and proceeded through a small hurricane to Carunhanha, where also I was well received, but had to sleep on board the raft――another night of devilry. Cold wind from the north rushed through the hot air, precipitating a deluge in embryo; then the gale chopped round to the south, and produced another, and fiercer, down-pour. A treacherous lull, and all began again, the wind howling and screaming from the east. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed in all directions; the stream rose in wavelets, which washed over the _Eliza_, and shook her by the bumping of the “tender” canoe. We did not get much sleep that night.

I will not further describe my voyage day after day in the _Eliza_. Suffice it to say, at Varzéa Redonda, a wretched village just before we came to the Paulo Affonso, I dismantled the _Eliza_ and paid off the crew. I was asked to stay on land, but, as I wished to see everything settled, I slept on board, and regretted my resolution. The night was furious, and the wind raised waves that nearly beat the old raft to pieces. My men, having reached the end of their work, had the usual boatman’s spree――hard drinking, extensive boasting, trials of strength, and quarrelling, intermixed with singing, shouting, extemporising verses, and ending in the snores and snorts of Bacchic sleep. I found them very troublesome; but the next morning they shed tears of contrition. I saw them disappear without regret; the only face, indeed, that I was sorry to part from was that of the good old pilot.

The next step was to procure animals and men to take me to the Great Rapids. I had great difficulty in getting these, and when the party was made up it consisted of the worst men, the worst mules, and the worst equipments I had ever seen in Brazil. In two days and two nights I arrived at Paulo Affonso, the King of the Rapids.

I shall never forget my first approach to it. In the distance we heard a deep, hollow sound, soft withal, like the rumbling of a distant storm, but it seemed to come from below the earth, as if we trod upon it. After another mile the ground appeared to tremble at the eternal thunder. A little later we came upon the rapids. Paulo Affonso has well been called the Niagara of Brazil.

The quebrada, or gorge, is here two hundred and sixty feet deep; in the narrowest part it is choked to a minimum breadth of fifty-one feet. It is filled with what seems not water but froth and milk, a dashing and dazzling, a whirling and churning surfaceless mass, which gives a wondrous study of fluid in motion. Here the luminous whiteness of the chaotic foam-crests, hurled in billows and breakers against the blackness of the rock, is burst into flakes and spray that leap half-way up the immuring trough. Then the steam boils over and canopies the tremendous scene. In the stilly air of dull, warm grey, the mists surge up, deepening still more the dizzy fall that yawns under our feet.

The general effect of the picture, and the same may be said of all great cataracts, is the realised idea of power――of power tremendous, inexorable, irresistible. The eye is spell-bound by the contrast of this impetuous motion, this wrathful, maddened haste to escape, with the frail stedfastness of the bits of rainbow, hovering above, with the “Table Rock,” so solid to the tread, and with the placid, settled stillness of the plain and hillocks, whose eternal homes seem to be here. Magic, I may observe, is in the atmosphere of Paulo Affonso; it is the natural expression of the glory and the majesty, the splendour and the glamour of the scene, which Greece would have peopled with shapes of beauty, and which in Germany would be haunted by choirs of flying sylphs and dancing Undines.

I sat over the cataract until convinced it was not possible to become one with the waters; what at first seemed grand and sublime had at last a feeling of awe, too intense to be in any way enjoyable. The rest of the day I spent in camp, where the minor troubles of life soon asserted their power. The sand raised by the strong and steady trade-wind was troublesome, and the surface seething in the sun produced a constant drought. We were now at the head of the funnel, the vast ventilator which guides the gale to the Rio de São Francisco. At night the sky showed a fast-drifting scud, and an angry blast dispersed the gathering clouds of blood-thirsty mosquitos. Our lullaby was the music of Paulo Affonso.

The next day I visited the falls again and explored them thoroughly, going down from the heights above to the base beneath, from which the finest view of the falls was to be obtained. It was a grand climax to my voyage down the São Francisco.

My task was done; I won its reward, and my strength passed from me. Two days of tedious mountain riding led to the Porto das Piranhas, and from here I descended the lower Rio de São Francisco more leisurely, and, when that was done, I finally returned _viâ_ Rio de Janeiro to Santos (São Paulo), _alias_ the Wapping of the Far West, and took up my consular duties once again.

_THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA_

1870

_THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA_

1870

I am “_partant pour la Syrie_,” and though it is comparatively near, we find the journey long. We take steamer to Alexandria, and there await the first vessel going northwards. We embark in a foreign steamer, much preferring the Russian, and after passing, perhaps without sighting, the base of the Nile Delta and the northern terminus of the Suez Canal, we run rapidly up the coast of the Holy Land. We are near enough to see certain of its features, and to feel a throbbing of the heart. Here is Ascalon, the “Bride of Syria,” still redolent of the days of the lion-hearted king and of the right royal Saláh-el-Din. There is Jaffa, the Joppa ever full of the memories of St. Peter. We touch there, but we may not land unless the sea is of the calmest. Now we steam along the site of Cæsarea, the busy city of Herod Agrippa, converted into the most silent waste of ruins that it has ever been our fate to look upon. There we cast anchor for a few days, at the second station, Hazfa, opposite St. Jean d’Acre, that “Key of Palestine” from the days of the Crusaders to the times of Bonaparte, Sir Sydney Smith, and Sir Charles Napier. From this point we swerve rapidly past the brown headland of Carmel, type of excellent beauty to the Hebrew poet, past the white Scala Tyrivrum, whose _promontorium album_ might be a fragment of the white cliffs of Albion, past the bright little town of Tyre, a phœnix rising a third time from its ashes, and past Sidon and Lebanon, memorial names engraved upon our childish hearts too deeply for time or change ever to erase them from the memory of the man. So memorial, indeed, are all these regions that the traveller must keep watch and ward upon himself, under penalty of suffering from what I may call “Holy Land on the brain.” The essence of it consists in seeing all things, not as they are, but as they ought to be; for instance, “hanging gardens” at Damascus, “Roman bridges” in Saracenic arches, and “beautiful blush marble” in limestone stained with oxide. It wrings the hearts of its friends when sighting the Plain of Esdraelon, and in gazing upon a certain mound it exclaims:

What hill is like to Tabor’s hill in beauty and in grace?

This clairvoyance, or idealism, which makes men babble of green fields where only dust meets the eye of sense is by no means an obscure disorder of the brain; on the contrary, it is rather aggressive and violent, whilst writers of guides and handbooks appear abnormally exposed to it. Hence those who prepare for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land must temper information and description with many a grain of salt, or they will undergo no little disappointment. Ideal pleasures ever excel those of reality; but in this case there is an extra and inordinate supply of ideality.

We disembark at the hopeless, wind-lashed roadstead of Beyrut, within the limits of the Land of Promise, but never yet included in the Land of Possession. The trim little harbour-town, seated upon its sloping amphitheatre, converted into “_Colossia Julia Augusta Felix Berytus_” must have been a local Pompeii in the fourth and fifth centuries, and its feminine bust was found associated with the medallions of Alexandria and Halicarnassus. During those ages the Roman and Egyptian galleys jostled one another in the inner port, which now looks like a dock; their palaces and villas covered the slopes with pillars and colonnades; paradises and gardens contrasted with proud fanes rising upon well-wooded and well-watered peaks around――fanes dedicated to gods and goddesses now remembered only by the classical dictionaries. In those days, students of philosophy and theology, of law and language, flocked to Berytus from the most distant lands. But the terrible earthquake of A.D. 551, which laid waste a pleasant site, seems to have been the turning-point of its destinies; the roadstead apparently became shallow, and, despite a noted miracle in the eighth century, Beyrut saw her glory depart for many a generation. At last, in the beginning of the nineteenth century, it had sunk to its lowest, and the petty port, placed under the unimportant Pashalate of Sidon, numbered barely five hundred souls.

Sir Charles Napier, the sailor, changed all that. In the autumn of 1840 he made Beyrut his headquarters, whence he and his gallant crews ranged the hill country around and blockaded the ports, till the career of Ibrahim Pasha was unfortunately cut short. Thereupon the hat began at once to take precedence of the turban, even of the green turban. The headquarters of the Pashalate were transferred from Sidon to Beyrut; European merchants established country houses; missionaries opened schools for both sexes; the different consular corps contended for the construction of roads and the abatement of nuisances; whilst the port was regularly visited by four lines of steamers. Briefly, Beyrut became the only Europeanised place in Syria, and she will probably remain so for many years.

The old part of the city still retains some marks of Orientalism; the old part, with its alleys, wynds, and closes, its wretched lanes, its narrow and slippery thoroughfares, resembling unroofed sewers, is peculiarly sombre and Syrian, full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanliness. Nothing can be meaner than the Customs House, where millions of piastres annually change hands. Of the stately buildings which once adorned it no traces remain but three granite monolithic columns, still towering above modern misery. But the new town which surrounds the ancient archery is Levantine――that is to say, almost Italian; the points of difference being a scatter of minarets and a sprinkling of tropical vegetation, which tells you that you are somewhat nearer the sun. There are houses and hospitals large enough each to lodge its battalions; piano and bugle sounds catch the ear; the carriage is taking the place of the horse and the mule――here, as in South America, a sure sign of civilisation; and Orientalism is essentially at a discount. You must not think of Beyrut as an Eastern city.

Life is easy and death is easier in these sub-tropical regions. Men do little during six days, and carefully rest on the seventh. For eight months they saunter through the tepid air of the Mediterranean seaboard; the other four are spent upon “the mountain” (_i.e._ Lebanon), whose pure, light air is a tonic. The little world of Beyrut rises rather late, and its business hours are but before the noontide breakfast, for here, as amongst the classics, the meals are two per diem. They would be called by our grandfathers dinner and supper; we say breakfast and dinner. Then a little more work precedes a drive or a ride: the stroll is not unknown, the constitutional is. The evenings are spent either in a _café_ or in visits, where whist at times puts in an appearance, and a profound stillness, like that of Lime Street, City, begins to reign about 10 p.m. The theatre has not been imported, although an enterprising Syrian Christian――Moslems cannot originate such things――has, after a visit to Italy, written several comedies in the classical style, unfortunately adopting the French rhymed couplet. The tea party, the little music, and the _soirée dansante_, flourish in what the Beyrutines are pleased to call the “Paris of Syria.” The _jeunesse dorée_, in patent leather boots, “boiled shirts,” fold collars, white ties, and lemon-coloured gloves, loves to don the sables which the English gentleman affects. When he goes forth to make merry, he enters gloves in hand; he prefers round dances to square, and he imitates Europe very literally. But as the Romans kept up the time-honoured and homely eggs as the end of their richest banquets, so the “golden youth” of Beyrut prefers the ugly and unpleasant fez or tarbush. For the rest, young Syria’s ambition is to marry a European wife, and he does not always get the best of _that_ bargain.

In these lands Society still preserves the fragmentary nature which belonged to the ancient world. Beyrut, the port, at the time whereof I write, is distant a single day’s ride from Damascus, the capital of Syria, yet there is no trace of sympathy between the two, and the inland say of the seaboard city:

Its sun cracks [wood or teak],
And its water is salt,
And its falls are cloud de Paris [dirty of lead].

Again Damascus jeers:

Perish Beyrut, for the reason that her heat resembles Sakar [the
eighth hell].
No flowing of milk is found in her, though her sons are [stupid
as] cows.

Whereto Beyrut retorts:

At Aleppo man is a dandy and vain,
At Shan [Damascus] he is niggard and mean,
And the Nizri [Egyptian] is simply a rascal.