Part 9

As night came on, the steamer doubled the rocky cape, and, steaming with all its engine force, stood right for Valparaiso. Her speed soon slackened, and she began to feel her way cautiously, going ahead, backing, turning, and coming to a full stop. "Let go the anchor," was now the word, followed by a hoarse rumble of the chains and a noisy burst of steam. A fleet of shadowy ships and small craft surrounded us, and ahead glimmered the lights of the city, which, irregularly scattered about the dark hill-sides, appeared in the night like so many stars dimly twinkling through a broken rain cloud. With the quick instinct of the presence of a stranger, the dogs became at once conscious of our arrival, and began a noisy welcome of barks and yelps, which continued throughout the night. The port officials in tarnished gilt came alongside the steamer, had their talk with the captain and pushed off again. Two or three gusty-looking sea-captains boarded us, gave their rough grasps of welcome, drank off their stiff supplies of grog, and pulled back to their ships. Some few of the more impatient of our comrades turned out from the bottom of their trunks their "best," and went ashore in glossy coats and shining boots. Most of us, however, awaited the coming of the morning.

I was up on deck at the earliest dawn of day. The steamer was at anchor close before the city, and I looked with no admiring eyes upon its flimsy white-washed houses and wooden spires, scattered about the base and sides of the cindery, earth-quaky hills upon which it is built. There was hardly a blade of grass or tree to be seen anywhere, except where the thriving European and American residents had perched themselves on one of the acclivities. The dwarfed trees here, moreover, all in a row before the little painted bird-cage-looking houses, appeared to have no more life of growth and color in them than so many painted semblances in a toy village. Familiar looking shanties, of the tumble-down sort, built of pine wood and shingles, crowded the ground by the water side, and indeed the low land seemed better suited to their staggering aspect than the steep acclivities. Painted signs with English names and English words, stared familiarly from every building. The universal "John Smith" there conspicuously posted his name and his "Bakery." Mine host of the "Hole in the Wall" invited the thirsty in good round Saxon to drink of his "Best Beer on Tap," or his "Bottled Porter," as "you pays your money and take your choice."

The steamer was enlivened from the earliest hour by the native fishermen, who, with their fleet of canoes, had sought the shades of our dark hull, to protect them from the hot sun, which seemed to be fairly simmering the waters of the bay. They were making most miraculous draughts of fishes. I watched one little fellow. He was hardly a dozen years of age, but he plied his trade with such skill and enterprise, that he nearly filled his canoe during the half hour I was watching him. It was terrible to see with what intense energy and cruelty the little yellow devil, with bared arms blooded to the shoulders, pounced upon his prey. With a quick jerk he pulled his fish in, then clutching it with one hand and thrusting the fingers of the other with the prompt ferocity of a young tiger into the panting gills, he tore off with a single wrench the head, and threw the body, yet quivering with life, among the lifeless heap of his victims lying at the bottom of his boat. The sea gulls, hovering about shrieking shrilly and pouncing upon the heads and entrails as they were thrown into the water, fighting over them and gulping them down with hungry voracity, seemed to heighten this picture of the "Gentle art of angling."

The return of the steward and chaplain with a boat load of "marketing" was a welcome surprise. The parson, whose unquestionable taste in the æsthetics of eating had been wisely secured by the steward, dilated with great gusto upon the juicy beefsteaks, the freshness of the fish, and the richness of the fruit. When, at breakfast, we enjoyed as salt-sea voyagers only could, the stores of fresh meat, fresh eggs, fresh butter, fresh milk, juicy grapes, white and purple, with the morning's bloom still upon them, the peaches, the apples, the pears, the tumas (prickly pear fruit), the melons, musk and water, we acknowledged his reverence's judgment, and gratefully thanked him for his services.

On landing to take a look at the town, I made my way through a throng of boatmen, of picturesque native fruitsellers and loitering sailors, to the chief business street, which ran along the shore. The stores, which were mainly under the proprietorship of the foreign merchants, had a rich, thriving look, being crammed full of miscellaneous goods, while the sidewalks were heaped with bales and boxes. Odd-looking carts moved slowly along with their drivers in picturesque costume lying in full length upon their loads, smoking their cigarettes, and looking wondrously lazy and happy. Stately Chilians from the interior, dressed in genuine Fra Diavolo style, rode by on their prancing horses, all glistening and jingling with silver. There were abundant loungers about, in the cool shade of every corner and projecting roof. The listless men with the universal poncho--an oblong mantle of variegated cotton or woollen, through a hole in the centre of which the head is thrust, allowing the garment to hang in folds about the person--looked as if they had been roused suddenly from their beds, and not finding their coats at hand, had walked out with their coverlets over their shoulders. The women, too, in their loose dresses and with shawls thrown carelessly over their heads, had a very bed-chamber look. They were mostly pretty brunettes, with large, slumbering black eyes, which, however, were sufficiently awake to ogle effectively.

Having a letter of introduction to present, I entered the counting-house of the merchant whose acquaintance I sought. I found him boxed off at the further end of his long, heaped-up warehouse. He had closed his ledger, lighted his cigar, and had just filled his glass from a bottle of wine which stood on the window-sill, when I entered. I was not surprised, under such provocation to good fellowship, to receive a warm welcome. My mercantile friend was in the best possible humor, for times, he said, were very good. Every one at Valparaiso was making his fortune. It was the epoch of the gold excitement. Large fortunes had already been made. The contents of the shops and warehouses had, as soon as the gold discovery became known, been emptied into every vessel in the harbor, and sent to San Francisco. The lucky speculators had gained five or six hundred per cent. profit for their ventures of preserved and dried fruits, champagne, other wines and liquors, Madeira nuts and the most paltry stuff imaginable. In five months some of the Valparaiso merchants had cleared five hundred thousand dollars. The excitement was still unabated. Shippers were still loading and dispatching their goods daily for San Francisco. Many were going there themselves, and hardly a clerk could be kept at Valparaiso at any salary, however large.

The day was brilliantly bright, and the air so pure and bracing that it did the lungs good to breathe. So I made my way out of counting-house and street for a walk. I ascended the dry, crumbling hills which with long, deep gullies and breaks in them, and friable soil, looked as if they were ready to tumble into pieces at the first shake of one of those earthquakes so frequent in the country. On the road, chained gangs of surly convicts were at work, and some smart-looking soldiers, in blue and white, came marching along! Caravans of mules, laden with goods, produce and water casks, trotted on, and here and there rode a dashing Chilian cavalier on his prancing steed, or a dapper citizen on his steady cob. In a ravine between the dry hills there trickled the smallest possible stream. Above, some water carriers were slowly filling their casks, while the mules patiently waited for their burdens; below, was a throng of washerwomen, beating their clothes upon the stones, just moistened by the scant water which flowed over them, and interchanging Spanish Billingsgate with each other and a gang of man-of-war sailors.

Frightened away by the stony stare of the English occupant from an imposing-looking residence on the top of the hill, I crossed the road and entered the private hospital. Around a quadrangle, laid out in gardens beds there was a range of low two story buildings. Some bleached sailors, in duck trowsers and blue jackets, were about; one was reading a song-book, another his Bible, and a third was busily making a marine swab out of ropes' ends. Among the convalescents, out on the balconies to catch a breath of the pure air, was a naval officer in a gilt cap, reading a novel; and all looked snug and encouraging. On entering, I asked the attendant, a gaunt-looking Englishman, who in his musty black suit, was not unlike a carrion crow or a turkey buzzard, whether there was any serious case of illness in the hospital. "There are two consumptives," said he, "who've been a deceiving us for the last two weeks." He seemed to think it a very base fraud that these two consumptives had not died when he and the doctor thought it was their duty to do so, some fortnight before.

Coming from the one hill to another, I reached a miserable quarter of the town, called by the sailors the "foretop." It was composed of rude mud hovels, stuffed with a population of half-breeds, a half-naked gipsy-looking people, grovelling in the dirt, and breathing an atmosphere reeking with the stench of filth, garlic and frying fat. I was glad to escape, and get to the "Star Hotel," where, refreshing myself with a chop and brown stout, I could fancy myself, with hardly an effort of the imagination, taking my dinner at an ordinary in the Strand.

TRANSLATIONS.

BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER.

I.

TWO LOVERS.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF MOHRIKE.)

A light skiff swam on Danube's tide, Where sat a bridegroom and his bride, He this side and she that side.

Quoth she, "Heart's dearest, tell to me, What wedding-gift shall I give thee?"

Upward her little sleeve she strips, And in the water briskly dips.

The young man did the same straightway, And played with her and laughed so gay.

"Ah, give to me, Dame Danube fair, Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"

She drew therefrom a shining blade, For which the youth so long had prayed.

The bridegroom, what holds he in hand? Of milk-white pearls a precious band.

He twines it round her raven hair; She looked how like a princess there!

"Oh, give to me, Dame Danube fair, Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"

A second time her arm dips in, A glittering helm of steel to win.

The youth, o'erjoyed the prize to view, Brings her a golden comb thereto.

A third time she in the water dips. Ah woe! from out the skiff she slips.

He leaps for her and grasps straightway-- Dame Danube tears them both away.

The dame began her gifts to rue-- The youth must die, the maiden too!

The little skiff floats down alone, Behind the hills soon sinks the sun.

And when the moon was overhead, To land the lovers floated dead, He this side and she that side!

II.

THE FISHER-MAIDEN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)

Thou handsome fisher-maiden, Push thy canoe to land; Come and sit down beside me-- We'll talk, love, hand in hand.

Thy head lay on my bosom, Be not afraid of me, For careless thou confidest Each day in the wild sea.

My heart is like the ocean, Has storm, and ebb, and flow; And many pearls so handsome Rest in its deeps below.

III.

MY CHILD WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)

My child when we were children, Two children small and gay, We crept into the hen-house And hid us under the hay.

We crowed, as do the cockerels, When people passed the road, "_Kikeriki!_" and they fancied It was the cock that crowed.

The chests which lay in the court-yard, We papered them so fair, Making a house right famous, And dwelt together there.

The old cat of our neighbor, Came oft to make a call; We made her bows and courtesies, And compliments and all.

We asked with friendly question, How her health was getting on: To many an ancient pussy The same we since have done.

In sensible discoursing We sat like aged men, And told how in our young days All things had better been.

That Truth, Love and Religion From the earth are vanished quite-- And now so dear is coffee, And money is so tight!

But gone are childish gambols, And all things fleeting prove-- Money, the world, our young days, Religion, Truth and Love.

PAID FOR BY THE PAGE.

BY EDWARD S. GOULD.

The labourer is worthy of his hire. A man who produces an available "article" for a newspaper or a periodical, is as properly entitled to a pecuniary recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy-man, for professional services; or, as a merchant or a mechanic for his transferable property. This is a simple proposition, which nobody disputes. The rate of such compensation must be a matter of agreement. As between author and publisher, custom seems to have fixed on what an arithmetician would call "square measure," as the basis of the bargain; and the question of adjustment is simplified down to "how much by the column, or the page?"

This system has its advantages in a business point of view; because, when the price, or rate, is agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages. Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited by this plan of computation, in a literary point of view, may, however, be doubted.

A man who is paid _by the page_ for his literary labour, has every inducement but one to expand lines into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, to him, is a thing to be manufactured into words, each of which has a money value; and if he can, by that simplest of all processes--a verbal dilution--give to one idea the expansive power of twelve; if he can manage to spread over six pages what would be much better said in half a page, he gains twelve prices for his commodity, instead of one; and he sacrifices nothing but the quality of his commodity--and _that_ is no sacrifice, so long as his publisher and his readers do not detect it.

When a man writes for reputation, he has a very different task before him; for no one will gain high and permanent rank as an author, unless his ideas bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He who aims to write _well_, will avoid diffuseness. _Multum in parvo_ will be his first consideration; and if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the prime requisites of literary fame.

In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion was held by several of the prominent statesmen of the period, on the expediency of extending the right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some of the debaters made long speeches; others made short ones. At length, Mr. JAY was called on for his views of the matter. His brief response was: "Gentlemen, in my opinion, _those who own the country ought to rule it."_ If that distinguished patriot had been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly, at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have expanded this remark. He might have written thus:

"Every man is born free and independent; or, if he is not, he ought to be. _E pluribus unum._ He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil; for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He came from the soil; he lives on the soil; and he must return to the soil. _De gustibus, non est disputandum._ So much for man in his natural state, breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives. But this is a very limited view of the question. Man is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. _Vox populi, vox Dei._ Having acquired, he wills to acquire. Acquisition suggests acquisition. Conquest promotes conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest of all conquests is that which a man obtains over himself--provided always that he does obtain it. This secured, he may consider himself up to anything. _Arma virumque cano._ Owning the soil by right of possession; owning himself by right of conquest; and, being about to establish a form of government conformable to his own views of right and wrong; let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and make his own selection of subordinate officers. _Mus cucurrit plenum sed._"

This, by way of illustration. The Jay style sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature, simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side. If an author receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. For the same thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in many words.

No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more space is needed for some than for others. An essay is not necessarily too long because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present temptation to disregard this demand.

The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his inches instead of his intellect.

Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in a reader's regard, independently of the quality of the contributions. If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the _North American Review_, he would temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he might throw his sentences together. But, theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing--to wit, prolixity--should not deteriorate the character of such writing.

Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness.

WORDS FOR MUSIC.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

I.

I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The witch-hazel-tree made, Where the brook sang a song All the summer-day long, And the moments, like birdlings went by,-- Like the birdlings the moments flew by.

II.

I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, Neath the hazel-tree bough: "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee." And she hid in my bosom her face-- In my bosom her beautiful face.

III.

I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide; Wooed and won in the shade The witch-hazel tree made, Where the brook sings its song All the summer day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide.

"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."

(PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.)

BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.

THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION.

That deepest lowliness of all--the prostration before God, the prostration in penitence--is the highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is the first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; and it is not meant to degrade, but to exalt us. Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that can be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the expense of all our pride. It is no ordinary offering. A man may sacrifice his life to what he calls honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never paid the homage of an honest tear for his own faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet, who made the boon that was to restore a wandering shade to the bliss of humanity--a boon sought through all the realm of nature and existence--to consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal mercy or canonized glory, but in a tear of penitence. Temple and altar, charity and pity, and martyrdom, sunk before that.

I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in worship; and this was the thought that struck me then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to express the thought that rose in my mind, as I gazed upon it. It was in the great cathedral church of the world; and it brings a kind of religious impression over my mind to recall its awfulness and majesty. Above, far above me, rose a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, and vast as the pantheon of old Rome; the four pillars which supported it, each of them as large as many of our churches; and the entire mass, lifted to five times the height of this building--its own height swelling far beyond; no dome so sublime but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal eye. And beyond this dome, beneath which I stood, stretched away into dimness and obscurity the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple--arches behind arches, fretted with gold, and touched with the rays of the morning sun. Around me, a wilderness of marble; with colors, as variegated and rich as our autumnal woods; columns, pillars, altars, tombs, statues, pictures set in ever-during stone; objects to strike the beholder with neverceasing wonder. And on this mighty pavement, stood a multitude of many thousands; and through bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the majestic nave, slowly advanced a solemn and stately procession, clothed with purple, and crimson, and white, and blazing with rubies and diamonds; slowly it advanced amidst kneeling crowds and strains of heavenly music; and so it compassed about the altar of God, to perform the great commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. Expect from me no sectarian deprecation; it was a goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst solemn utterances, and lowly prostrations, and pealing anthems, and rising incense, and all the surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell you what was my thought? One sigh of contrition, one tear of repentance, one humble prayer to God, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous ceremonial and this glorious temple.

VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY.