SKETCHES OF VALPARAISO.
ASPECT OF THE CITY.—GROUPS ON THE QUAY.—CHILIAN HORSEMANSHIP.—THE
WOMEN.—HUTS OF THE NATIVES.—AMERICAN AND ENGLISH
SOCIETY.—OPERA-HOUSE.—THE TERTULIA.—MODE OF TRAVELLING.—POLICE OF
THE CITY.—VISITS FROM THE SHORE.—FEUDAL SYSTEM.—THE CLERGY.—THE
BIBLE IN CHILI.—THE CONFESSIONAL.—BURIAL-GROUND.—THE INDIAN
MOTHER.—POLITICAL CONDITION OF CHILI.—FAREWELL TO VALPARAISO.
Where Valparaiso’s cliffs and flowers,
In mirrored wildness, sweep
Their shadows round the mermaid’s bowers,
Our steadfast anchors sleep.
SATURDAY, MARCH 7. Valparaiso, at a first glance, instead of justifying
the name it bears—the vale of Paradise—might rather be called some
outpost of purgatory. Its wild crags, its scorched hills, and dark glens
might well be supposed to lead to that intermediate abode of condemned
spirits. You are puzzled to know why a city should be there. Without
encroaching on the sea, there is hardly room enough, between the base of
the steep acclivities and the surge, to set up a fisherman’s hut. The
harbor is but little better than an open roadstead. A norther is an
admonition to all vessels to slip their cables.
Yet Valparaiso is a city, and one which, having once seen, you will
never forget. It will stand alone in your after-dreams like Jacob’s
ladder. Like the rounds in that airy vision, its buildings ascend, roof
over roof, till they seem to topple in the sky. One violent shake of an
earthquake would precipitate the whole into the sea. And yet these
terrible visitations are constantly throwing out their premonitions.
There is not a building whose walls have not vibrated to their force.
There is not a rock on which they rest, but is of volcanic origin. The
soaring peaks of the Cordilleras, which overhang them, rest on craters
that may at any moment throw them heaven-high. And yet who does not
sleep sound in Valparaiso? Such is peril, when it has become an old
familiar acquaintance.
We landed from our boat on the jetty, which has been thrown out from the
beach to prevent the necessity of debarking in the surf. The quay was
alive with boatmen, cracking their jokes over their water-melons and
coarse bread. A fat friar was seen straying among them, willing to
shrive the most wayward for a large melon. One fellow, who looked as if
he had obliquities enough to justify some effacing process, made light
of the proffered shrift. He thought a green melon would pay.
Near by sat a Chilano on a stone, which swelled up from the pavement,
tantalizing the strings of a guitar, while a little cloud of
tobacco-smoke curled up around the high cone of his felt hat. The only
accompaniment was the sharp creak of a file, with which a muleteer was
sharpening the rowel of his spurs, which resembled a circular saw,
except that the teeth were much longer.
Here a beggar, who had lost a leg, hobbled up to us, wearing around his
neck a label, showing that he had the permission of the police to
solicit alms on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Poor fellow! if his limb was
lost in a good cause, he ought to be allowed to solicit charity when he
can get it. And if it was lost even in a scuffle, it would not be in my
heart to deny him a penny. What a world is this in which we dwell! How
is it filled with paupers, spurs, tobacco, guitars, water-melons, and
absolving monks; all jangling and jargoning along together to dusty
death! What an incongruous mass the grave covers!
SUNDAY, MARCH 8. Divine service on board; a large attendance of
Americans from the shore. Subject of the discourse—cause and criminality
of indecision in matters of religion. The state religion of Chili is the
Roman Catholic. Protestant forms of worship are tolerated, but in a
private way. The erection of churches for the purpose is not permitted.
A hall may be used, if it has no symbols of consecration. Think of that,
my dear Papal brothers in the United States, kneeling in your sumptuous
cathedrals, while your vesper-bells summon from their lofty steeples the
faithful to prayer. And you talk to us Protestants about toleration!
Why, there is more toleration in my Uncle Toby’s teapot than can be
found in the whole Papal See.
Before you assey the ballot-box again, because the Bible, without note
or comment, is permitted in our public schools, look abroad and see what
privileges you extend to Protestants. In those countries where your
religion and laws are all paramount, you do not tolerate the
consecration of the humblest chapel; and as for a steeple and bell, they
would not stand long enough to knell their own ruin. And yet you talk of
toleration, and lecture the whole world on Christian charity! The
language of forbearance and fraternal love melts from your lips softly
as dew on the flowers of Hermon. One would think, from your professions,
Protestants must have a perfect elysium in your lands. But somehow it
strangely happens that they are disqualified for holding any office of
civil trust; and are denied even a consecrated place of worship. They
are fortunate if allowed the sanctity of a grave.
In Chili, intolerance flows purely from the mandates of the Papal
hierarchy. Legislators, as a body, are well disposed, but they cannot
carry their liberal measures without putting the stability of their
civil institutions in peril. An act of religious toleration would be
followed by ecclesiastical denunciations and appeals to the passions of
the mass, which would result in revolution and blood. Come here, my
bishop of New York, with your smooth doctrines about the rights of
conscience, and talk a little to your brother bishops in this quarter.
If these doctrines are good when proclaimed to American Protestants, let
us see how they will sound in the ears of Chilian Catholics. Do a few
leagues of salt water destroy their force and propriety? Do they cease
to be orthodox the moment they leave a Protestant shore and enter a
Papal domain?
Come, my dear bishop, set down here in Chili with me, and let us talk
together a little. You tell us the rights of the human conscience are
sacred. What rights of conscience have Protestants in Chili—or even in
Rome? You go there once in three years to report in person to the holy
Father, you see Protestants filing off on the Sabbath through a narrow,
dirty street, to a little, obscure chapel, without steeple or bell,
where they may worship, if they won’t speak above a whisper. And then
you return to New York and talk to its corporation about the sacred
rights of conscience! Your toleration, my dear bishop, is much like the
Yankee hunter’s division of game with his Indian companion—all turkey on
one side and all buzzard on the other.
MONDAY, MARCH 9. I encountered, in my rambles to-day, a specimen of
Chilian horsemanship. The costume of the rider was in wild harmony with
his occupation. His hat rose in a high cone, like that of a whirling
dervish in Turkey. His poncho, resembling a large shawl, fell in
careless folds around his person. His gaiters rose to the knee; his
heels were armed with a huge pair of silver-mounted spurs, while a brace
of pistols peered from the holster of his saddle-bow. He was mounted on
a powerful animal, impatient of the bit, and sure of foot as the
mountain roe. The strong muscles betrayed their swelling lines in his
limbs; the dilating nostril was full of panting force, while his arching
neck seemed clothed with thunder. He was such a steed as you would
choose for that last decisive charge, in which a Waterloo is to be won
or lost.
[Illustration]
His rider knew him well and gave him the rein; on he dashed, over hill
and vale, with the speed of the wind. Now shaking the toppling crags
with his iron hoof, now plunging down the steep ravine, now leaping,
with frightful force, the sudden chasm; never missing his foothold,
never throwing his rider. Both were safe where the neck of neither
seemed worth a farthing. I have seen the Tartar ride at Constantinople,
and witnessed, with silent admiration, the Grand Sultan’s horsemanship,
but he is outdone by the Chilano.
A company of circus-riders, from Europe, came here a few years since to
astonish the Chilians. But they soon found they had brought their ware
to a wrong market. The Chilanos took the business out of their hands;
and so far outdid them that they suddenly disappeared, and have not been
heard of in these parts since. It was like a buffalo entering a herd of
deer to astonish them with his fleetness, or like a bull attempting a
race with one of Baldwin’s locomotives.
The Chilian women betray their Spanish blood. It is seen in their
stately forms, their firm elastic step, their nut-brown complexion,
their large black eyes, and their earnestness of manner, which is full
of silent, significant force. They wear their hair in two plaits, which
are sometimes coiled into a turban and interlaced with flowers, and at
others flows from a slight fillet, quite down to the heel. They use no
stays; the tide of nature ebbs and flows without constraint. The rich
shawl which covers the neck and shoulders, neglects at times its
occupation, and the silk stocking forgets now and then that it has taken
the veil.
They are fond of attentions, and will much sooner excuse a liberty,
which flows from admiration, than a neglect, which results from
indifference; still they are not considered as very exacting. What they
want is the homage of the heart. Civility that has no soul in it, they
consider a mockery. Love is consequently with them a passion. As
daughters, they are wild and thoughtless; as mothers, fond of their
children and attached to their homes. The most sober flower will often
blossom from the bud that has danced the most lightly in the sunbeam.
TUESDAY, MARCH 10. I encountered to-day in the environs of Valparaiso, a
long string of donkeys, laden with vegetables and fruit from Quilota,
some forty miles distant. The little hardy fellows were plodding along
in single file, covered up under their huge panniers, and turning this
way or that to the cry of their driver, who brought up the rear. I never
could encounter one of these creatures without a sentiment of pity and
even respect. He seems as one doomed to drudgery, merely because nature
has wronged him in making him up. And then his patience—it is a model.
He has long ears it is true, but then he never, like those who consider
themselves his betters, tries to conceal them. He is an honest ass!
The markets of Valparaiso are supplied from valleys in the interior. The
grounds in the immediate neighborhood are, for many months in the year,
parched up with drouth. Large tracts of land, well suited to the harrow,
are herbless from want of means to irrigate them. Springs have been
hunted, and rocks bored almost halfway to the earth’s centre, but in
vain. Even the monks have tried their miraculous charms, but nature’s
great Nile obeys no such incantations. Their fleece, unlike that of
Gideon, remained dry. No snow falls on these vallies, and no rain,
except in the three winter months. The earth becomes baked and broken
into deep fissures. When the winds are abroad the dust is driven over it
in clouds thick enough to bury a Gipsy encampment.
The huts of the native peasantry are built of reeds, plastered with mud
and thatched with straw. They have seldom more than one room, and are
generally without a floor. Here the inmates sit, sleep, and work in
wigwam-life. They seldom look beyond their present wants. Their industry
ebbs or flows as plenty or penury prevail. Out of these murky cabins
beauty sometimes emerges in a combination of charms that might stir the
chisel of a Praxiteles.
The females are generally pictures of health and animation. Their diet
is coarse bread and fruit. They know nothing of the luxuries of the
table, and seem to care as little. They are fond of music and dancing,
and throw an energy into their motions which would astonish even a
Shaker. The quadrille has not sufficient action in it. They prefer the
fandango. The old are grouped around the broad circle in which the young
couple spring to the vibrations of the guitar or violin. The short dress
of the female, and the prurient motions of both, are at war with all our
sentiments of propriety. Still, unless nature libel herself, the mothers
who witness these exhibitions in their daughters, must be influenced
more by a false taste than a lubricity of disposition. This is as true
of savage as civilized life—of the Chilian mother as the Roman matron.
Nature has thrown her most beautiful iris in a mother’s look over the
wave which flows from the depths of a daughter’s unsullied soul.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 11. The features of Valparaiso, which strike the
stranger with the greatest force, are perhaps the elegant articles of
ornament which are presented in the fancy shops. They seem as much out
of place here as a jewel in a swine’s snout. And yet they are not out of
place; for higher forms of fashionable life are seldom encountered.
Those little cottages, which gleam from the toppling crags, are
garnished with furniture on which the Parisian artist has exhausted his
skill. From the balcony rolls out upon the wind the most exquisite music
of harp and voice. Such strains from amid such a savage scene! It is
like Proserpine, crossing the gloomy Styx, crowned with the flowers of
paradise.
The English and Americans here are singularly free from those rivalries
and jealousies, which are the besetting sin of foreign residents. They
flow together with a congeniality of spirit, which is the source of a
thousand pleasures to them as well as the stranger. Their society is the
all-redeeming charm of Valparaiso. Their hospitality is open as the day,
and warm as their soft clime. You forget in their company the rude rocks
and barren hills around you. The earth without may be covered with
brambles, but you feel for the time in a sort of Eden whose flowers have
escaped the primal malediction. I do not wonder that this is the
favorite port with the officers of the Pacific squadron. They always
leave it with regret, and cherish for it the most affectionate
remembrance.
Who would expect to find among these wild cliffs an opera-house, vying,
in the elegance of its decorations and the richness of its music, with
some of the most liberally endowed establishments in Europe? yet such is
the fact. Of its merits I speak from the representations of others, as I
have not myself been within its precincts. I declined going, not from an
apprehension of moral taint, conducted as the opera is here, but from
motives of expediency. I would not indulge even in an innocent
amusement, that had assumed a doubtful shape in the imaginations of
others. But still I would not be a slave to mere whims, which have no
reasonableness and force. I admire an enlightened, sober, independence
of opinion and action.
I believe the opera, if introduced thoroughly into the United States, if
performed in suitable edifices, and under suitable restrictions, would
promote, indirectly at least, the cause of morals and good taste. It
would attract to it a thousand young men, who now spend their evenings
in grog-shops and at gaming-tables. The opera has its evils, but what
human institution has not. If every thing is to be denounced which is
not an unmixed good, then every thing emanating from man must go by the
board. People will have amusements, it is a law of their social being,
and it is your duty as a friend to virtue to look out and encourage the
most innocent. You may deride this counsel and persevere in trying to
put human nature into a straight jacket; but you will never succeed, and
if you could, you would find that jacket any thing but a garment of
righteousness.
THURSDAY, MARCH 12. I accompanied last evening several of my wardroom
companions to a Chilian tertulia. A broad flight of stairs took us to a
large and brilliantly lighted saloon, where we were met by the lady of
the mansion who gave us her hand, and welcomed us to Valparaiso. It
would have been a little embarrassing to encounter the flash of so many
eyes, but for the ease and tact of our accomplished hostess. Instead of
taking us around the saloon and introducing us, amid a general
suspension of conversation, to the company, which would have embarrassed
all parties, she went to talking with us, and in a few minutes managed
to introduce us to several ladies, as unceremoniously as if there had
been no design in it. This artless tact continued till we were
introduced to every lady and gentleman present.
All were at ease and full of talk, though some of us had but a limited
range of Spanish at our command. But a great deal of conversation may be
made out of a few words, when the heart is glad. The ladies never
corrected the wrong word, and affected to understand it just as well as
if it had been the right one. Some of them attempted English with the
amiable purpose, no doubt, of relieving our blunders by making as many
of their own.
“’Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue
By female lips and eyes * * *
They smile so when one’s right, and when one’s wrong
They smile still more.”
I asked one of the ladies if she would gratify us with a piece of music;
she instantly took my arm to the piano, beckoned her sister to her side,
and gave us a duett which called back my recollections of poor Malibran.
What melodies were quenched for ever when that sweet singer died. Her
strain still lingers in the hearts of thousands, but where is she! As a
bird from its bower, as a rainbow from its cloud, she has passed away.
Spring will call back its little minstrels, and the summer sun rebuild
its airy arch. But she, who charmed the world, will come back no more.
Her melodious lips are sealed in silence, and the shadow of death is on
her eyelids.
“Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!”
But to return to the tertulia. The costume of the ladies differed but
little from what you meet with at evening parties in the United States.
The hair, which betrayed great care in its arrangement, was ornamented
with natural flowers. The dress, generally of a light airy material, had
short sleeves, rather low in the neck, with a short, full skirt. The
reason assigned for this is, that the wearer may be less embarrassed in
dancing, but, perhaps, the pride of a well-turned ankle is an additional
motive. The gentlemen were more sedate than the ladies, but their
conversation had not half the versatility. At twelve o’clock the
tertulia broke up. The lady of the house gave us her hand at parting
with a _beuna noche_.
FRIDAY, MARCH 13. Went on shore to-day to take a ride. This has to be
done either on the saddle, or in a vehicle resembling our chaise, but of
much ruder construction. The latter is preferred for long distances. One
horse trots within the shafts, another at his left, on which the
postillion is mounted, while half a dozen others accompany the vehicle
to act as relays. If these give out, the lasso is resorted to, and some
half-wild horse, who a few moments before snuffed the wind in freedom,
is within the traces. The postillion seldom troubles himself with the
question whether the animal has ever been thoroughly broken to the
harness. The wilder, the more speed, and therefore all the better for
his purpose. He is master of his business, and seemingly of every thing
in nature that can conduce to its success. His driving is like that of
Jehu. You expect every moment the old quill-wheel, in which you are
embarked, will fly into a thousand pieces. But like the hurdle of the
doomed, it still holds together, hurrying you, if not to the gallows, to
the grave.
If you take to the saddle you will probably find your stirrups of wood,
resembling in shape and size the large beetle with which a New-England
farmer splits his rails. Their weight is seemingly relieved by grotesque
carving; in the side is a sharp excavation, sufficiently deep to admit
one-third of the foot. The saddle is made of raw hide, and a frame which
an Indian’s hatchet might have shaped. It rises up before and behind
like a well-horned half-moon. The bridle has one recommendation, a
tremendous bit. But with all this you are on a horse, wild as he may be,
that is sure of foot. You can no more get a stumble out of him, were you
so disposed, than Lucifer could a defection from duty out of Abdiel, or
a whig a bank-vote out of a democrat.
The police of Valparaiso, which once seldom protected the innocent, or
punished the guilty, is now unrivalled in efficiency. Its vigilance
reaches your person and property through every hour of the day and
night. You are safe even in spite of your own negligence. If, for
instance, you leave your shop with the window unbolted, you will find
the next morning a padlock on it, and one which you cannot remove
without paying a fine of three dollars. If you dine out, tarry late at
the wine, get tipsy, and can’t find your way home, a watchman picks you
up, puts you into a chaise, finds out by some means where you live,
takes you to your door, and delivers you to your waiting wife, with the
good-humored remark that you are a little indisposed. What a capital
arrangement for those who have more wine than wit in them!
If you wake up in the night, find one of your family sick, and want a
physician, you have only to hand his name to the watchman near your
door, who passes it to another, and he to another still, till it reaches
its destination, and you soon have the physician at your side. His
prescription must perhaps be taken to an apothecary; it is handed to the
watch, passed on, and in a few minutes back comes the medicament
required. What bachelor might not venture to get married in Valparaiso?
SATURDAY, MARCH 14. The governor of Valparaiso, with his suite, visited
our ship this morning. He is a man of some sixty years of age, with no
very brilliant qualities, but possesses sound sense. He expressed
himself delighted with our frigate, examined every part of her, and
received, as he went over her side, the salute due to his rank.
Our ship has been the constant scene of visits from the Chilians. A
party has just left us who came all the way from Santiago. They make
themselves quite at home on our decks. When the band strikes up, they
call for a waltz, or fandango, and commence dancing with just as much
freedom as if they were on their own village green, beneath the light of
the moon. On leaving they urge us to come and see them, promising us
horses to ride, music, and the smiles of a thousand glad eyes. Their
invitations are full of sincerity and heart; and for my own part I would
much sooner avail myself of them, than the august condescension which
should open to me the palace of a king.
The inequalities of the feudal system, introduced from old Spain, still
survive in Chili. The lands are owned by the privileged few, and their
succession secured by the right of entail. An effort was made a few
years since to break up this system, and distribute the lands among the
heirs, without reference to any advantages of primogeniture. But the
great number of illegitimate children, who came in and urged their
claims, rendered the measure a dangerous experiment. It was waived for
the time; but unless republicanism here be a farce, it will come back
again with augmented force. Freedom and equality are twin-born: they
breathe the same air, and share the same destiny. Besides, there is no
good reason why a natural child should not share in his father’s
estates. It is a hard case, indeed, if he must be made a beggar, merely
because his parents have made him a child of sin. Let those who thus err
pay the penalty. They have planted the tree, and now let them partake
its fruit,—apples of Sodom though they be.
The elective franchise involves no property qualification in Chili. All
go to the ballot-box; but few, however, deposite thoroughly independent
votes. One portion is overawed by the will of their landlords, another
by the will of their priests. The ecclesiastics have every thing at
issue in the stability of the existing order of things. A revolution
would result in a triumph of the Liberals, and a suppression of all
monastic institutions. Even the connection of the church with the state
could not long survive. The papal hierarchy would have to provide for
its maintenance through voluntary contributions.
The ecclesiastics therefore exert all the influence which their position
gives them, to uphold the present government. They look to each man’s
vote, and follow it with a blessing or malediction, which throws its
ominous shadow beyond this life. This ecclesiastical power is the most
fearful feature in the present condition of the Chilians. Instead of
being a wall of defence, it is a wide magazine, laid under its
foundations, with a train reaching to Rome. One spark from the Vatican,
and Chili sinks in flame and blood!
SUNDAY, MARCH 15. We had to-day at our service a very large attendance
from the shore. The weather was remarkably fine; the awning was spread,
and we assembled on the spar-deck. After prayers, we sung a hymn in
Hamburg, with the band for an orchestra. The sermon turned on the
condition of the soul out of Christ: its guilt, its wretchedness, its
ruin. Plain and practical sermons are the only ones that do much good.
When a preacher forgets the simplicity and meekness of his office, and
throws himself, though in a blaze of eloquence, between his hearers and
the Cross, he is in a miserably false position. He may win perishing
laurels to his fame, but not immortal souls to Christ.
The clergy in Chili exert, through the confessional, an influence which
reaches the most private transactions of life. Every communicant is
required to confess at least once a year. A refusal to do it is followed
by the severest pains and penalties which the church can inflict. Some
two years since, a daughter of one of the most prominent members of the
legislature of Chili was grossly insulted at the confessional. She told
her mother, who, in grief and consternation, related the circumstance to
her father. He excused her from going again to the confessional. The
year rolled round, and she was summoned to a compliance; the father
peremptorily refused his assent. Three of the inferior officers of the
church were dispatched to bring her by force. Her father planted
himself, armed, on the door-sill of his house, and told them if they
entered it would be at their peril. They retired and reported their
ill-success to their superior. The next Sabbath she was publicly
excommunicated, and her candle at the altar blown out, to signify that
her hope of heaven was extinguished.
The father, indignant at the attempt to undermine the virtue of his
daughter, and the cruel injustice done her in the act of
excommunication, introduced a bill into the national legislature for
abolishing entirely the confessional. It produced the most intense
excitement; the pulpits of Chili rang with denunciation; the archbishop
dispatched a messenger to Rome for the Pope’s anathema. Many husbands
and fathers, whose wives and daughters had been insulted at the
confessional, and who from motives of prudence had remained silent, now
began to speak out. But a repugnance to innovation in ecclesiastical
affairs, and the combined influence of the clergy prevailed, and the
contemplated law was defeated. But it still survives in the breast of
its projector, and will yet speak out in thunder-tones.
Instead of attacking the confessional, the domestic evils which it
inflicts would perhaps be more thoroughly remedied by abolishing the
coerced celibacy of the clergy. This is the prime source of those
immoralities which have sapped virtue and overthrown the peace of
families. Its abolition would contribute alike to the virtue of the
ecclesiastic, and the safety of the communicant. The best-informed
writers on Chili, those whose observation has been the most thorough,
agree in the fact that many of the clergy live in a state of the most
shameful profligacy. These disclosures force upon you the painful
conviction, that their illegitimate offspring are found in every circle
in the community, and fill every grade of ecclesiastical preferment.
Abolish, then, the forced celibacy of the clergy. Blot out at once and
forever this apology for crime. Human nature is sufficiently slippery
even when it has no excuse for its lapses. In saying this, I intend no
sectarian reproach. I would not confide to any religious persuasion the
consequences of a forced law of celibacy. Our safety lies not only in an
upright conscience, but in freedom from temptation.
MONDAY, MARCH 16. I have been passing an agreeable evening in the family
of Mr. Hobson, our former consul at this port. The amenity and
intelligence of Mrs. H. lend an unfailing charm to her conversation. Her
daughters have been educated with great care, and are adorned with many
intellectual and social accomplishments. It is singular what encounters
will occur in one’s travels. I met here a lady whom I last saw in the
Naval Asylum at Philadelphia, and who had come out there to hear one of
my poor sermons. This was a year since. She is now here, and the wife of
one of the most enterprising merchants in Valparaiso.
I dined to-day with William Ward, Esq., an American gentleman, who is
the senior partner in one of the largest mercantile houses here. His
ample mansion and costly furniture are in keeping with the taste and
liberality displayed at his table. I met there Mr. Barton, another
American gentleman, who is engaged in surveying the route of a
contemplated railroad between Valparaiso and Santiago. I passed the
morning with the Rev. Mr. Trumbull, from the United States. He is out
here under the patronage of the Foreign Evangelical Society. His labors
as yet have been confined mostly to seamen; but he has every prospect of
having within a short time a congregation on land. Mr. Dorr, our consul,
has, with a praiseworthy spirit, interested himself in the objects of
his mission; and other Americans have pledged their aid. Such are the
stars of hope which are yet to throw their rays through the extremities
of Chili.
I visited this afternoon the Protestant burial-ground, which occupies a
portion of one of the hills which overlook our anchorage. The situation
has been selected with good judgment, and the ground evinces taste and
propriety in the arrangement. Here rest many sailors far away from their
native shores. A humble slab, erected by their messmates, gives you
their names and that of the ship to which they were attached; and
sometimes a nautical epitaph, like the following:
“Here lies the rigging, spars, and hull
Of sailing-master David Mull.”
This to a landsman seems trifling with our poor mortality; not so to the
sailor. His technicalities have with him a meaning and a force which, in
his judgment, more than sanction their use on the most grave and
melancholy occasions. He would pray in this dialect even were life’s
taper flickering in the socket, or his soul trembling on the verge of
despair.
In the Catholic burial-ground, which adjoins the Protestant, stands the
beautiful monument of Portales. The genius of History is recording his
glorious deeds, Grief lamenting his early doom, and Hope pointing to a
fruition in the skies. Near this monument I encountered a youthful
mother in weeds, leading her little orphan boy. She carried a bunch of
flowers in her hand, and as she came near a new-made grave, kneeled down
at its head, and planted them there. Her child kissed them, but when she
attempted it her silent tears fell fast on their tender leaves. A bird
lit on the tree, which cast its shadows on the grave, and poured a wild
sweet strain as if to wean the mourner from her grief; but she heeded it
not. Her child turned and listened; her eye fell on his; she heard the
bird. Nature triumphs over bereavements through those we love and who
still survive.
[Illustration]
TUESDAY, MARCH 17. The Indian mother still adheres to the primitive
method of carrying her child. Instead of supporting it in her arms, with
the unhealthful inclination of person which a burden there will always
induce, she tosses it on her back, into the bunt of her shawl, and walks
off erect as the Indian’s tree, which stood up so straight it leaned
backward. When hunger overtakes it she will feel a slight pull on one of
the long braids in which her hair falls over its form; and when she
takes it out of this travelling cradle to nurse it, there is something
new and fresh in its first look: true, it has not been out of her sight
for more than an hour, but this with a mother is a long time. But her
heart is now running over with happiness,
So deep and vital is the joy
That thrills a mother’s breast,
Clasping her infant, blue-eyed boy
From out his cradled rest.
Many attempts have been made to introduce the Bible into Chili. Our
countryman, Mr. Wheelwright, who now has a flourishing school in
Valparaiso, succeeded in distributing a number of copies in the Spanish
language among the people of Quillota. But the priests forbade their
being read, and doomed them to the flames. They were brought out and
burnt in presence of the assembled multitude. They were without note or
comment, and left the sectarian bigotry, that decreed the sacrilegious
act, without an apology. What would my venerable friend, Bishop Hughes,
say were the Protestants of New York to collect his Douay Bibles and
burn them in the Park? Would that, my dear Bishop, be freedom of
conscience?
The population of Chili is estimated at about a million and a half. Her
commerce is steadily on the increase. Her silver and copper mines richly
repay the labor bestowed in working them. Her southern plains yield an
abundance of the finest wheat. Her people in the mass are hardy, frugal,
and ardent lovers of freedom. The course of education, under her new
constitution, is receiving fresh impulses, and gradually emerging into
popular favor and national importance. Her public debt amounts to about
ten millions of dollars, which is owned mostly in England. Her military
establishment, which has burdened her treasury, and sometimes perilled
her peace, is melting away under her civil institutions.
In breaking the Spanish yoke, and establishing her independence, she has
had to pass through a fiery ordeal. The virtues that could achieve so
much, will yet win farther triumphs. No nation or state ever rose at
once from vassalage and ignorance to freedom and intelligence. She may
emerge into disorder, but that will be more tolerable than the despotism
from which she has escaped. To meet the consequences of a revolution, to
restore order where it has been broken up, to consolidate the elements
of national existence, and settle them on a new and permanent basis,
requires all the time which this republic has enjoyed since she
proclaimed her independence. There is nothing in the present condition
of Chili which should fill the advocates of free institutions with
distrust. She has clouds on her sky, but most of them are skeletons from
which the storm has long since passed.
But I have no space for a disquisition on Chili. A labored essay is
beyond the scope and purpose of this diary. I have only time to wave my
adieu to
VALPARAISO.
Sweet Valparaiso—fare thee well!
Thy steep romantic shore,
And toppling crags, where wildly dwell
The echoes, which thy billows pour
As o’er the rocks their anthems swell—
Shall greet my pilgrim steps no more.
When they whose tread is on thy steep,
Have down to death’s dim chambers gone,
Where harp and lute in silence sleep,
Thy sweet sea-dirge will still roll on.
[Illustration]