Sunday, April 19. There is one religious observance in Lima which reminds the traveller of the call of the muezzin from the minarets of Constantinople, when he summons the Mussulman to prayer. When the bell of the great Cathedral tolls the departing sun, every one, whether on foot, in his curricle, or on horseback, and whatever may be his speed, stops and takes off his hat. The gayest look grave, and the serious whisper a brief prayer. The shopkeeper suspends his bargain, the billiard-player lays down his cue; the gambler folds his cards and reverently rises. In a minute the bell ceases: the horseman dashes on, the cue and cards are resumed, and Heaven seems again forgotten.
Many of the simple artisans ply their trades outside their shops. You will encounter twenty or thirty shoemakers driving the awl in a single court, and as many tailors pushing the needle in another; while a third is filled by milliners, bleaching and trimming gipsy-hats for Indian girls. The Limanian lady seldom wears a bonnet; she prefers the manto; with that she can conceal her face, save the peeping eye, and pass unrecognised. The saya or skirt of this disguising dress is not the work of her own sex; it is always cut and made by the same hands which fit and seam the coats of the gentlemen. What can be expected of a nation where the men are engaged in making petticoats for the women? Enterprises of pith and moment are not achieved through the stitches of that garment. But let that pass.
Monday, April 20. The convent of San Pedro, an extensive, costly edifice, has been converted into an establishment for raising and twisting silk. The few monks who still lingered in their cloisters, when they saw the worms slowly winding themselves up in their continuous thread, as if the sole object of life was to secure an undisturbed exit from it, concluding that two of a trade could never agree, picked up their rosaries and relics, and departed. The worms work on, and wind their silk sepulchres as industriously as if the monks who have gone had left behind them their ghastly mementoes of life’s brevity.
How strangely sounds that steam-engine as it turns the twisting machinery, and throws its ceaseless echoes around among these chambers once dedicated to the spirit of silence! And the thread, as it reels itself off from the cocoon, seems as if it unwound the quiet existence of some recluse, whose life was here “rounded with a sleep.” These threads are to be woven into a rich tissue, beneath which the bounding heart and glowing limb will but faintly indicate the penance and vigils which once reigned in these gloomy chambers, from which they stream to the light. Such are the strange mutations to which the enterprise of the age brings us. A convent is converted into a factory, its skulls into steam-boilers, and its beads into bobbins! It is enough to wake St. Anthony out of his sunless sleep!
A relic can no further dwindle
Than when ’tis reeled from spool or spindle.
Tuesday, April 21. I have encountered no class of persons in Peru that have awakened the same degree of sympathy and interest as the native Indians. On them have been piled misfortunes that would have crushed a less enduring race. Their lands, their forests, and their streams have been wrenched from them through treachery and force. The mounds in which the bones of their forefathers were entombed, have been violated, and these sacred relics exposed to the gaze of a profane curiosity. These are wrongs against which his untutored nature rebels, and which he partially avenged in the frightful scenes of the Revolution. The power of Spain in Peru went down like a wreck, over which the whelming wave rushes in remorseless triumph.
The Indians on the coast, born among Europeans, have still something of that sedateness which is characteristic of their race, when reared under the influences of civilization. But those from the interior, whose cradles were swung among the stupendous steeps of the Andes, have a stern, wild force, which shows where their home has been. They look with scorn on the tricks of the toilet. They may indeed wear plumes in their dark hair, but they are from the pinions of some daring bird that has battled with the mountain storm, or whose rush has been over the cataract’s plunging verge. Still, they are in a great measure free from ferocity and disguised revenge. They are magnanimous as conquerors, and patient as captives. They never lose their equanimity in good or ill fortune.
Wednesday, April 22. Flowers here play an important part in love matters. If a lady presents a gentleman with a rose in the morning, it is significant of the fact that he has not yet, at least in her imagination, passed into the yellow leaf. But if she presents it to him in the evening, there is no hope for him, unless he can rejuvenate himself. These floral gifts at the anniversary of the lady’s birthday, fly about thick as Cupid’s arrows. They are graceful advances when presented by gentlemen, and delicate responses when given by ladies.
The Indian girl has less reserve in her love recognitions. She sends a pretty doll on a nice little couch, covered with white jessamine flowers. This is a broader intimation than that given through the rose by the Spanish lady; but it proceeds from a heart quite as guileless and chaste. If I must confide in the purity and fidelity of either, let it be in the one who thus embodies the instincts of her sex in these mimic miniatures of life. Yet with all this seeming delicacy in an affair of the heart, the Spanish lady indulges in a latitude of speech that would quite disturb female modesty with us. Her allusions are as broad as are the exhibitions of folly and vice. She speaks of a man’s mistress, or a woman’s paramour, just as freely as she would of their carrier-pigeons, and with just about as little surprise or virtuous indignation. She seems to consider it neither a high crime nor a pitiable weakness; but one of those fortunes which mysteriously connect themselves with the conditions of humanity. When she weds, she will probably need the same charitable construction, and she will be pretty sure to receive it from her family and friends. They will deprecate and resent as suicidal folly, any public demonstrations of domestic disquietude. The husband, if a foreigner, is told that these are the habits of the country; if a native, he needs no such information.