There are also many lamentable things to witness in Brazil. The condition of the slaves is wretched in the extreme. Never--except, perhaps, it was in the Isle of France--did I witness the yoke of slavery fit the neck of the poor negro so gallingly as at Rio; and I was told that the condition of the slaves further up the country--especially in the diamond districts--was even more deplorable. But my intention is to devote myself mainly to the fun we had, so we will quit this distressing subject for a livelier theme. One of the greatest attractions which Rio afforded us was the inevitable bull-fight. Great preparations had been making for one of these performances before we arrived. Of course, as soon as we got wind of it on board the Queer Fish, every man was wild to see the show. The dear little captain wished to oblige us all; but, as all could not go, it was decided who should, by lots. It was my fortune to be one of the lucky ones. So, on an exceedingly bright morning in the month of July, we--about twenty of us--landed at Rio to see the bull-fight. The affair was to take place at a distance of several miles from the city, and we had taken the precaution, several days beforehand, of securing conveyances. These were nothing to boast of. They consisted of one barouche, an old-fashioned transportation wagon, and a light, rickety affair, with shafts about fifteen feet long, which is of very frequent use in Spanish countries (_vide_ Havana). We made some wry faces at seeing these turn-outs, but the horses attached to them looked spry, and we were resolved to make the best of the bargain. We were soon seated, or, rather, _heaped_ upon the sorry vehicles, the drivers cracked their long whips, and away we went through the narrow streets of Rio, singing songs, yelling discordantly, and getting outside of a large amount of bad alcohol.