Crossing the line.

The forenoon of January 13th was employed in the performance of the usual ceremonies on crossing the line, a custom now happily falling into desuetude—­I allude to it merely for the purpose of mentioning its unfortunate consequences in the present instance; for, although the whole proceeding was conducted with the greatest good humour, we had soon afterwards to lament the occurrence of a fatal case of pleurisy, besides another scarcely less severe, believed by the medical officers to have been induced by forcible and continued submersion in what is technically called the pond, one part of the performance which novices are obliged to submit to during these marine Saturnalia.

The most interesting occurrence in natural history during the passage, in addition to the usual accompaniments of flying fish, dolphins, physaliae and velellae, was our finding, in the neighbourhood of the equator, considerable numbers of a rare British bird, Thalassidroma leachii, a species of storm-petrel, not before known to extend its range to the tropics; it was distributed between the tropic of Cancer and latitude 5 degrees South.

As we approached the South American coast, the rates of several of our seventeen chronometers (fifteen Government and two private ones) were found to have strangely altered, thus reducing the value of our meridian distance between Madeira and Rio; this effect was ascribed to the firing of shotted guns when exercising at general quarters, a practice which in consequence was not afterwards repeated.

Rio de Janeiro.

January 23rd.

I shall not soon forget my first view of the shores of the new world.  The morning was beautifully fine, and with a light breeze scarcely sufficient to cause a ripple on the water, we were slipping past the high and remarkable promontory of Cape Frio, which at first appeared like an island.  A long beach of glittering sand stretched away to the westward, and was lost in the distance; behind this a strip of undulating country, clad here and there in the richest green, was backed by a range of distant wooded hills, on which many clumps of palms could be distinguished.  Few harbours in the world present a more imposing entrance than that of Rio de Janeiro.  Several islands lie off the opening, and on either side the coast range terminates in broken hills and ridges of granite, one of which, Pao d’Acucar, the Sugarloaf of the English, rises at once from near the water’s edge to the height of 900 feet, as an apparently inaccessible peak, and forms the well-known landmark for the entrance.