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.
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,