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There are two ways of going to the east coast of South America. The traveller can sail from New York in the monthly boats of the direct line or, if he misses that boat, as I did, and is pressed for time, he can go to Southampton or Cherbourg and be sure of an excellent steamer every week. The old story that one was obliged to go by way of Europe to get to Brazil is no longer true, although this pleasing fiction is still maintained by a few officials when they are ordered to go from Lima on the Pacific to the Peruvian port of Iquitos on the Amazon. If they succeed in avoiding the very unpleasant overland journey via Cerro de Pasco, they are apt to find that the “only feasible” alternative route is by way of Panama, New York, and Paris!

Personally I was glad of the excuse to go the longer way, for I knew that the exceedingly comfortable new steamers of the Royal Mail Line were likely to carry many Brazilians and Argentinos, from whom I could learn much that I wanted to know. They proved to be most kind and communicative, and gave me an excellent introduction to the point of view of the modern denizen of the east coast whose lands have received the “golden touch” that comes from foreign capital, healthy immigration, and rapidly expanding railway systems. I was also fortunate in finding on board the Aragon a large number of those energetic English, Scots, and French, whose well-directed efforts have built up the industries of their adopted homes, until the Spanish-Americans can hardly recognize the land of their birth, and the average North American, who visits the east coast for the first time, rubs his eyes in despair and wonders where he has been while all this railroad building and bank merging has been going on. If there were few Germans and Italians on board, it was not because they were not crossing the ocean at the same time, but because they preferred the new steamers of their own lines. I could have travelled a little faster by sailing under the German or the Italian flag, but in that case I should not have seen Pernambuco and Bahia, which the more speedy steamers now omit from their itinerary.

The Brazilians call the easternmost port of South America, Recife, “The Reef,” but to the average person it will always be known as Pernambuco. Most travellers who touch here on their way from Europe to Buenos Aires, prefer to see what they can of this quaint old city from the deck of the steamer, anchored a mile out in the open roadstead. The great ocean swell, rolling in from the eastward, makes the tight little surf boats bob up and down in a dangerous fashion. It seems hardly worth while to venture down the slippery gangway and take one’s chances at leaping into the strong arms of swarthy boatmen, whom the waves bring upward toward you with startling suddenness, and who fall away again so exasperatingly just as you have made up your mind to jump.

Out of three hundred first-cabin passengers on the Aragon, there were only five of us who ventured ashore—three Americans, a Frenchman, and a Scotchman. The other passengers, including several representatives of the English army—but I will say no more, for they afterwards wrote me that, on their return journey to England, the charms of Pernambuco overcame their fear of the “white horses of the sea,” and they felt well repaid.

Pernambuco is unquestionably one of the most interesting places on the East Coast. From the steamer one can see little more than a long low line of coast, dotted here and there with white buildings and a lighthouse or two. To the north several miles away, on a little rise of ground, is the ancient town of Olinda, founded by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, a hundred years before Henry Hudson stepped ashore on Manhattan Island. By the time that our ancestors were beginning to consider establishing a colony in Massachusetts, the Portuguese had already built dozens of sugar factories in this vicinity. Then the Dutch came and conquered, built Pernambuco and, during their twenty-five years on this coast, made it the administrative centre for their colony in northeast Brazil. Their capital, four miles north of the present commercial centre, is now a village of ruined palaces and ancient convents. The Dutch had large interests on the Brazilian seaboard and carried away quantities of sugar and other precious commodities, as is set forth in many of their quaint old books. The drawings which old Nieuhof put in his sumptuous folio two centuries ago are still vivid and lifelike, even if they serve only to emphasize the great change that has come over this part of the world in that time.

Now, three trans-Atlantic cables touch here, and it is a port of call for half a dozen lines of steamers. The old Dutch caravels used to find excellent shelter behind the great natural breakwater, the reef that made the port of Recife possible. No part of the east coast of Brazil possesses more strategical importance, and modern improvements have deepened the entrance so that vessels drawing less than fifteen feet may enter and lie in quiet water, although the great ocean liners are obliged to ride at anchor outside. Tugs bring out lighters for the cargo, but the passengers have to trust to the mercy of the surf boats.

It took six dusky oarsmen to pull us through the surf and around the lighthouse that marks the northern extremity of the reef, into the calm waters of the harbor. On the black reef a few rods south of the lighthouse stands an antiquated castle, which modern guns would make short work of, but which served its purpose admirably by defending the port against the sea rovers of the seventeenth century. Opposite this breakwater, on two or three “sea islands” whose tidal rivers cut them off from the mainland, the older part of Pernambuco is built.

It was with a feeling of having miraculously escaped from the dangers of a very stormy voyage, that we clambered up the slippery stone stairs of the landing stage and entered the little two-storied octagonal structure which serves the custom house as a place in which to examine incoming passengers. This took but a moment, and then we went out into the glaring white sunlight of this ancient tropical city and began our tour of inspection.

Immediately in front of us was a line of warehouses three or four stories high and attractively built of stone. They give the water-front an air of permanency and good breeding. Between them and the sea-wall there was a tree-planted, stone-paved area, the Rialto of Recife, where all classes, from talkative half-tipsy pieces of foreign driftwood to well-dressed local merchants, clad in immaculate white suits, congregate and gossip. Beyond the sea-wall a dozen small ocean steamers lay inside the harbor, moored to the breakwater; while numbers of smaller vessels, sloops, schooners, and brigantines were anchored near the custom house docks or in the sluggish Rio Beberibe, which separates Recife from the mainland.

As we wandered through the streets past the Stock Exchange, the naval station, and the principal business houses, we saw various sights: a poorly dressed Brazilian, of mixed African and Portuguese descent, carrying a small coffin on his head; barefooted children standing in pools of water left in the paved sidewalks by the showers of the morning; bareheaded women, with gayly colored shawls over their shoulders; neat German clerks dressed in glistening white duck suits; lounging boatmen in nondescript apparel; and everywhere long, low drays loaded with bags of sugar, each vehicle drawn by a single patient ox whose horns are lashed to a cross-piece that connects the front end of the thills. Those who moved at all moved as if there were abundant time in which to do everything, and as though the hustle and bustle of lower New York never existed at all. The scene was distinctively Latin-American. One must be careful not to say “Spanish-American” here, for if there is one thing more than another that the Brazilian is proud of, it is that he is not a Spaniard and does not speak Spanish. However, the difference between the two languages is not so great and the local pride not so strong but that the obliging natives will understand you, even if you have the bad taste to address them in Spanish. They will reply, however, in Portuguese, and then it is your turn to be obliging and understand them, if you can.

West of Recife, on another island and on the mainland, are the other public buildings, parks, and the finest residences. A primitive tram-car, pulled by mules, crosses the bridge and jangles along toward the suburbs, which are quite pretty, although some of the houses strive after bizarre color-effects which would not be appropriate in the Temperate Zone. There are fairly good hotels here, and there is quite a little English colony. But it is not a place where the white man thrives. The daily range of temperature is very small, and it is claimed that the average difference between the wet and dry season is only three degrees.

From Pernambuco there radiate three or four railways, north, west, and south. None of them are more than two hundred miles long, but all serve to gather up the rich crops of sugar and cotton for which the surrounding region is noted, and bring them to the cargo steamers that offer in exchange the manufactured products of Europe and America. If one may judge from the size of the custom house and the busy scene there, where half a dozen steam cranes were actively engaged in unloading goods destined to pay the annoyingly complex Brazilian tariff, the business of the port is very considerable. It seemed quite strange to see such mechanical activity and such a modern customs warehouse so closely associated with the narrow, foul-smelling streets of the old town. But it gives promise of a larger and more important city in the years to come, when the new docks shall have been built and still more modern methods introduced.

Yet even now there are over one hundred and fifty thousand people in the city, and the mercantile houses do a good business. The clerks move slowly, and there is little appearance of enterprise; but one must always remember, when inclined to criticise the business methods of the tropics, that this is not a climate where one can safely hurry. Things must be done slowly if the doer is to last any length of time. The commercial traveller who comes here full of brusque and zealous activity, will soon chafe himself into a fever if he is not careful. These are easy-going folk, and political and commercial changes do not affect them seriously. They are willing to stand governmental conditions that would be almost intolerable to us, and their haphazard methods of business are well suited to their environment. The European, although proverbially less adaptable than the American, is forced by keener competition at home to adjust himself as best he may to the local conditions here and elsewhere in South America. His American colleague, on the other hand, has as yet not felt the necessity of learning to meet what seems to him ridiculous prejudice.

Emblematic of this Brazilian trade are the primitive little catamarans in which the fishermen of Recife venture far out into the great ocean. The frail little craft are only moderately safe, and at best can bring back but a small quantity of fish. They are most uncomfortable, and their occupants are kept wet most of the time by the waves that dash over them. Furthermore, a glimpse of them is as much of Pernambuco as most steamship passengers get. It is only by venturing and taking the trouble to go ashore that one can see the modern custom house dock on the other side of Recife, and learn the lesson of the possibilities of commerce here.

We left Pernambuco in the afternoon and reached the green hills of the coast near Bahia the next morning. The steamers pass near enough to the shore to enable one to make out, with the glasses, watering-places and pretty little villas that have been built on the ocean side of the peninsula by the wealthier citizens of Bahia. At the end of the promontory, just above the rocks and the breakers, is the picturesque white tower of a lighthouse. Unfortunately, it did not avail to save a fine German steamer that was lying wrecked on the dangerous shoals near the entrance to the harbor when we passed in.

As we steamed slowly around the southern end of the low promontory, the city of Bahia gradually came into view, its large stone warehouses lining the water-front, its lower town separated by a steep hill, covered with gardens and graceful palms, from the upper city, conspicuous with the towers and cupolas of numerous churches and public buildings.

On the left, as one enters the harbor, rises the interesting island of Itaparica, which England once offered to take in payment of a debt due her by Portugal. It bears a resemblance to Gibraltar in more ways than one, but it was not destined to become a British stronghold. A favorite resort of the citizens of Bahia, it is called “the Europe of the poor,” because it has a genial climate and is frequented by those who cannot afford to cross the Atlantic.

As we leave it on our left, in front of us, and to the north, lies the magnificent bay that has given the city its name. It lacks the romantic mountains that make Rio so famous, yet its beautiful blue waters are most alluring, dotted as they are here and there with the white sails of fishing-boats and catamarans.

We have to anchor a mile from the shore, and a steam launch carrying the port officials soon comes alongside. The local boatmen, whose little craft, suited only to the quiet waters of the bay, bear no resemblance to the seaworthy surf boats of Pernambuco, line up at a distance of half a mile, awaiting the signal which permits them to hoist sail and race for the steamer. It is a pretty sight, enlivened by the shouts of the boat crews. Some boats are loaded with delicious tropical fruits that are eagerly bargained for by our steerage passengers, most of whom are Spanish peasants on their way to harvest the crops of Argentina. Others are anxious to take us ashore. And after the usual delay, we make a deal with a boatman, a lazy fellow who wastes a lot of time trying to sail in against the wind while his more energetic competitors are rowing. On the way we pass half a dozen steamers and a few sailing vessels, and steer carefully between scores of huge lighters and dozens of smaller craft. In place of the steel steam cranes which we saw at Pernambuco, on the wharves are numerous wooden cranes worked by hand.

We land on slippery wooden stairs, and hurry across the blistering hot pavements of the street to rest for a few moments in the shade of the large warehouses and wholesale shops that crowd the lower town. Some of the signs are decidedly bizarre and scream as loudly for patronage as the limits of modern Frenchified Portuguese art will permit. There is none of the picturesqueness of Pernambuco, and we soon betake ourselves to one of the cog railways where, for a few cents, we are allowed to scramble into a bare little wooden passenger coach and be yanked up the steep incline by a cable that looks none too strong for its purpose. Once in the upper city, the narrow streets of commerce seem to be left behind, and we are in broader thoroughfares, with here and there a green park full of palms and other tropical plants. There are churches on every side,

LOOKING DOWN INTO THE LOWER CITY, BAHIA

some of them wonderfully decorated and most attractive. Bahia is not quite so old as Pernambuco, its foundation dating only from the middle of the sixteenth century; but it early became the religious and intellectual centre of Portuguese-America, and it is still noted for its literature and culture, although long ago passed in the race by Rio.

The glaring white sunlight throws everything into bold relief and makes the shadows seem unusually dark and cool. On the corners of the streets are little folding stands bearing a heavy load of toothsome confectionery. Their barefooted coal-black owners, clad generally in white, lean against the iron posts of the American Trolley Car System and watch patiently for the trade that seems sure to come to him who waits. On every side one sees black faces.

In fact, Bahia is sometimes popularly spoken of as the “Old Mulattress,” in affectionate reference to the fact that more than ninety per cent of its two hundred thousand people are of African descent. For over two centuries Bahia monopolized the slave trade of Brazil. Her traders continued to be the chief importers of negroes down to the middle of the nineteenth century. It is said that as many as sixty thousand slaves were brought in within a single year.

We took one of the American-made trolleys and soon went whizzing along through well-paved streets and out into the suburbs. Here villas, fearfully and wonderfully made, like the baker’s best wedding cake in his shop window, attest to the local fondness for rococo extravagance. In general, however, the principal buildings appear to be well built, and are frequently four or five stories in height.

The architecture of Bahia is decidedly Portuguese, much more so than that of Pernambuco, which still bears traces of its Dutch origin and even reminds one of Curaçao. Some of the villas in Bahia are strikingly like those in Lisbon. And there are other likenesses between the Portuguese capital and this ecclesiastical metropolis of Brazil. Both are situated on magnificent estuaries, and present a fine spectacle to the traveller coming by sea. Both have upper and lower towns, with hills so steep as to require the services of elevators and cog or cable railways to connect them. The upper town of each commands an extensive view of the shipping, the roadstead, and the surrounding country. But here the similarity ends; for Lisbon is built on several hills, while Bahia occupies but a single headland, the verdure-clad promontory which shelters the magnificent bay.

Bahia is the centre for a considerable commerce in sugar and cotton, cocoa and tobacco. These are brought to the port by land and water, but chiefly by the railroads that go north to the great river San Francisco and west into the heart of the state. There are many evidences of wealth in the city, and there is certainly an excellent opportunity for developing foreign trade. One looks in vain, however, for great American commercial houses like those which mark the presence of English, French, and German enterprise. Nevertheless the electric car line, with its American equipment, gives a promise of things hoped for. And there is a decided air of friendliness toward Americans on the part of the Brazilians whom one meets on the streets and in the shops. There is none of that “chip on the shoulder” attitude which the Argentino likes to exhibit toward the citizens of the “United States of North America.” The Brazilian appears to realize that Americans are his best customers, and he is desirous of maintaining the most friendly relations with us.