A NATURALIST IN BRAZIL 



twin towers lies in a lonely, moon-flooded valley of rocks. And now 

 a dark conical mountain draws menacingly nearer, looming high 

 into the starless sky, like a mount of Destiny. This is the Pao d'Assucar, 

 the famous Sugarloaf, the mighty warder of the entrance to the 

 Guanabara Bay of Rio (Plate 5). 



But what is this gUmmer of light on the left of the Sugarloaf, 

 a glimmer that grows ever wider as we advance? Glittering strings 

 of pearls lie on the water yonder, and form a dazzling wreath round 

 the foot of the mountain. These are the lamps of the Avenida 

 Atlantica, which every night flood the promenade of the suburb 

 of Copacabana with a blaze of light. And now, to the right of the 

 Sugarloaf, behind the ever- widening mouth of the entrance, one sees 

 the city climbing the hills, glittering with innumerable lights. 



The steamer drops anchor and waits for the day. In amazement 

 one leans on the rail, gazing at all this nocturnal splendour. The 

 breeze is warmer now ; a faint odour of brine rises from the sea, 

 and the moon sheds a long, shimmering path over the dark flood. 



Reluctantly one goes to bed, and after a few short hours one is 

 again on deck. The long rows of lights are still yonder, but in the 

 east the heavens are growing brighter. The anchor is weighed with 

 a rattle, a wave of foam spurts up from the propeller as it begins 

 to revolve, and slowly the vessel forges ahead. On the left is the 

 mighty cone of the Sugarloaf, on the right the walls of a fortress 

 stand out on a narrow rock. Wider and wider opens the bay, and 

 the rows of lights that skirt the shore are reflected in the water. 

 And as though these gleaming strings of jewels were not enough, 

 blue and red signal lamps gleam upon the water itself. 



It grows lighter over the eastern range of hills, at the foot of 

 which, facing Rio, lies the city of Nictheroy. Black and sharp the 

 peaks and summits and ridges rise against the sky ; but behind them 

 the horizon is flushing red, and with its clear contours the landscape 

 has a look of ineffable youth, as though it were fresh from the 

 Creator's hand. The lights of the city are extinguished ; the sun, 

 a red ball of fire, rises above the hills. The bay is flushed with a 

 glorious blue. In the far background, like a fata Morgana with 

 turrets and jagged peaks, the Organ Mountains rise in the north. 



The palaces of the great Exhibition with their domes and pinnacles 

 lift from a blue-grey mist, and flush a rosy pink, until the whole 

 shore lies like a rose-coloured ribbon along the edge of the light- 

 blue water. Above it, in vivid contrast, looms the bluish wall of the 

 mountain-range, bordered with a line of green, and from this range, 



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