134 JOURNAL. 



lamb ; in another a monster sheep, having an adscititious leg grow- 

 ing from the skin of his forehead ; and there are chickens, and cats, 

 and parrots, altogether producing a combination of antique dust and 

 recent filth, far exceeding any thing I ever beheld. — " England, with 

 all thy faults, I love thee still," Cowper said at home, and Lord 

 Byron at Calais. For my part , I believe if they had either of them 

 been in Valparaiso, they would have forgotten that there were any 

 faults at all in England. It is very pretty and very charming to read 

 of delicious climates, and myrtle groves, and innocent and simple 

 people who have few wants ; but as man is born a social and an im- 

 provable, if not a perfectable animal, it is really very disagreeable to 

 perform the retrograde steps to a state that counteracts the blessings 

 of climate, and places less comfort in a palace in Chile than in a 

 labourer's hut in Scotland. Well did the Spirit say, " It is not good 

 for man to live alone." While I had another to communicate with, 

 I used to see the fairest side of every picture ; now I suspect myself 

 of that growing selfishness, that looks with coldness or dislike on all 

 not conformable to my own tastes and ideas, and that sees but the 

 sad realities of things. The poetry of life is not over; but I begin to 

 feel that Crabbe's pictures are truer than Lord Byron's. 



Monday, May 21th. — Tempted by the fineness of the day, and a 

 desire to see wild trees again (for there are none but fruit trees in the 

 immediate neighbourhood of Valparaiso), I determined to take a 

 country ride, and to treat my maid with the same. The difficulty 

 was in mounting her, as I had but one side-saddle ; however she 

 managed to sit on one of the pillions of the countrywomen, 

 who ride on what we should call the wrong side of the horse, on little 

 saddles like those sometimes used for donkeys without pummels, and 

 having a back and sides like an ill-made chair, covered with coloured 

 velvet ; and we went boldly up the Sorra or Sierra, that backs the 

 town, by the Santiago road for a few miles, and then turned into a 

 delightful valley called the Caxon de las Palmas, being part of the 

 large estate of the same name depending on the Merced. For the 

 first half mile we descended a steep hill, not richer in herbs or shrubs 



