It was long past noon before we reached the entrance to the Bay of Rio, which is very remarkable for the number of conical hills and islands which are to be seen on both sides of it. One of these hills is the well-known Pão d’Açucar, so called from its resemblance to a sugar-loaf. It is a solid mass of granite, rising to the height of about one thousand feet, and destitute of vegetation, with the exception of a few stunted shrubs on its eastern declivity. Seen from a great distance at sea, it is an admirable land-mark for ships making the port. Passing through the magnificent portal, we came to an anchor a few miles below the city, not being allowed to proceed further till we were visited by the authorities. It is quite impossible to express the feelings which arise in the mind while the eye surveys the beautifully varied scenery which is disclosed on entering the harbour—scenery which is perhaps unequalled on the face of the earth, and on the production of which nature seems to have exerted all her energies. Since then I have visited many places celebrated for their beauty and their grandeur, but none of them have left a like impression upon my mind. As far up the Bay as the eye could reach, lovely little verdant and palm-clad islands were to be seen rising out of its dark bosom, while the hills and lofty mountains which surround it on all sides, gilded by the rays of the setting sun, formed a befitting frame for such a picture. At night the lights of the city had a fine effect; and when the land-breeze began to blow, the rich odour of the orange and other perfumed flowers was borne seaward along with it, and, by me, at least, enjoyed the more from having been so long shut out from the companionship of flowers. Ceylon has been celebrated by voyagers for its spicy odours, but I have twice made its shores with a land breeze blowing, without experiencing anything half so sweet as those which greeted my arrival at Rio.