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 * * *