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Rio, Tuesday, November 17.

We arrived here at eight last night, after a tedious day of working into the harbour, with a doubt to the last whether we should not be becalmed; but the beauty of the place makes up for a great deal. It far exceeds all the amount of praise that has been lavished on it. You can read an account of it elsewhere, in any book of voyages.

Sir Graham Eden Hamond, who was my father’s godson, and is the admiral of the station, came on board as soon as we had anchored. He is full of civilities to us. There is no possibility of sleeping on shore—first, because there are no hotels, and then the mosquitoes arid all sorts of vermin would make it impossible; but the ‘Jupiter’ at anchor is very different from the ‘Jupiter’ at sea, and makes a very good hotel. Then ‘His Excellency’ (as we all sneeringly call George, when we are bored) has a beautiful barge of his own on board; belonging to the ship, of course, but it is independent of the captain’s gig and the ofﬁcers’ barge, &c., so that we can go out in it and come in as we like.