The Balæna must have been christened by some lady of New Bedford who has a touch of Latinity about her. The name, it is true, signifies a whale, but no vulgar vandal spouter, but an elegant Roman balæna—such as might have danced on the harp-strings of a Lucretius, or streamed in the insignia of Cleopatra’s barge, as it rocked on the amber waves of Cydnus, and threw back the sun’s rays from its decks of burnished gold. Give me that lady who can throw a classic charm around a whale-ship. A cabbage in her hands would soon take the colors and perfume of the rose.
Friday, March 27. Our slumbers were broken this morning by the cry of land ho! from the watch in the fore-top. We had been under shortened sail through the night for fear of shooting too far ahead. But we made an excellent landfall. As day glimmered, the barren isle of San Lorenzo loomed into the light on our starboard bow. It was sufficiently near to throw its jagged outline full on the eye.
The sea breeze soon sprung up, when we made sail, and doubling the northern extremity of San Lorenzo, the harbor of Callao opened upon us. We moved up its ample expanse with our top-gallant sails set, and came to in handsome style with our starboard anchor. We were welcomed by clouds of gulls and pelicans, which floated around our ship and cast the sea into shadow. Had they possessed anthropophagous propensities, we might have felt some solicitude for our personal safety.
Our sails were hardly clued down when our vice-consul, Mr. Johnson, came on board. Our first inquiry was for letters from home. Deep was our disappointment when told there were none. Almost six months from the United States and not a single mail yet,—not even a straggling letter! Think of that, ye who cannot leave your homes for a week without a letter each day. We may have children born without knowing it, and find them, on our return, some three years old. It is no wonder they timidly stare at their strange fathers, and take refuge in their mothers’ arms.
Saturday, March 28. Callao falls immeasurably short of the picture which my imagination had painted. It is a collection of low, dingy dwellings, occupying the rippling verge of a vast sand-plain. The only beings which give to it an air of life are buzzards; or here and there a fisherman hawking the trophies of his hook; or an Indian woman on a donkey, riding straddle.
We encountered on reaching the landing two immense piles of wheat, which had been shipped from Chili. Each pile must have had in it not less than twenty thousand bushels. Neither had any covering, and needed none, as it never at this season rains or snows here. Nature allows man to be as lazy as possible, and he seems to have availed himself of the privilege to the utmost extent. Even the dog which slumbers on the trottoir will sooner hazard your heel than break his dreams. The children run half naked; and the women, too indolent to hook the tops of their dresses, throw a loose shawl over their shoulders, and nurse their infants as publicly as they would take out a pocket-handkerchief.
The fort, a place of great strength in its day, has been dismantled. It had become the rallying point of the disaffected. A few revolutionists could here set the arms of the whole republic at defiance. The government, standing in greater dread of domestic than foreign foes, issued a decree for its destruction. The government must be weak indeed, which is obliged to consult its safety in the destruction of the defences of its territory.
Sunday, March 29. We are lying in the bay of a Roman Catholic country where no place of worship is allowed to Protestants. There is not a hall or chapel within the limits of Peru where they who differ from the papal see can assemble on the Sabbath. Repeated efforts have been made to obtain permission to erect such a place, but as yet without success. The archbishop of Lima, who gets his instructions from Rome, has set his face against it, and the government is at present too weak, were it so disposed, to set his ecclesiastical authority at defiance.
It would not be amiss for some of our Catholic bishops to come here and preach up a little toleration to their brethren; and, before they go away, I wish they would pass over to the barren isle of San Lorenzo. On this bleak, herbless rock, which is frequented only by pelicans and vultures, they will find the graves of nearly all the Protestants who have died in Peru for centuries past. Not one of those who lie here could have procured himself a grave on the mainland.
But we have one resource on board ship which no proscription can reach. We carry our chapel with us on the open deck. Our capstan is a pulpit which has never been overawed. We have our worship on the Sabbath, in whatever port we may lie, without consulting the authorities on shore. Our privilege is wide as the ocean, and the shores which it laves. Would it were so with every denomination of Christians. The faggot which bigotry kindles may burn the recusant first, but is pretty sure in the end to consume those who light it.