THE INDIAN AND MENTAL POISE
On a trip made recently from Yuma to the Salton Sea, down the overflow
of the Colorado River, I found occasion to watch my two Indians in
contrast with four white men of more than ordinary intelligence and
ability. In some important things the Indians lost nothing by the
comparison. Indeed, several times I called the attention of my white
companions to them, and to certain characteristics which are by no
means confined to them, but that belong to most Indians, and urged
their emulation. Some of these will form the subject of this chapter.
[Illustration: CAMPING OUT ON THE WAY TO THE SALTON SEA.]
[Illustration: JIM, OUR YUMA INDIAN BOATMAN.]
One member of my party was a “reverend”--a missionary. He was a
fine, open-hearted fellow whom we all liked, but every once in a
while--indeed, I ought to say frequently--he would make suggestions to
the Indian to go here, or go there, which finally called forth (from
me) a forceful rebuke. Let me explain the situation fully. When we
came to the place where the Colorado River left its banks and entered
a mesquite forest, its waters were naturally much divided. As we did
not know where each current led, and how soon it would spread so as to
render further progress in our boats impossible, it was a situation
that called for great knowledge as to determining the course of the
best and deepest current, and quick decision; for, as we were carried
along among mesquites, a few moments of indecision meant being thrust
into a mesquite tree, perhaps, where cruel thorns spared no one,
because of his indecision. Reader, do you know what a mesquite is? Its
proper name should be “me scratch.” If you come within ten feet of one
it verily seems to reach out for you and scratch you somewhere. Imagine
your thorniest rosebush multiplied by fifty and all concentrated and
condensed into one tree with thorns much longer, far more pointed, and
with poison lurking on the end of them, and you have a not very much
exaggerated idea of the mesquite. Now to have our missionary friend
bawling out all the time, “Better go this way,” or “Better go that,”
was both annoying and useless, so I finally told him I had brought
the Indian because I knew that he knew a thousand-fold more of such
a current and how to get through this wilderness of mesquite than I
did. “And,” said I, “as far as I am concerned, I should feel it was an
impertinence for me to make even a suggestion to the Indian. He _knows_
where I _guess_, and yet as you know, I have had far more experience in
this kind of thing than you have. Don’t you think it wiser for you to
add a little more silence to your possessions?”
He was, as I have said, a royal-hearted fellow, and he took my rebuke
in a manly, Christian way, for a few moments’ reflection showed him
that what I said was wisdom.
Now, while these wild and foolish suggestions were being made to the
Indian, what did he do? It was most interesting to me to watch him.
Instead of replying and arguing with a lot of vehement words, he smiled
quietly, looked at me to see if I approved of the suggestion, and when
he saw my absolutely impassive face, went on following his own course.
Had he been a white man--or like most white men--he would have shouted
back that he was going some other way, or called his adviser a fool,
or informed him that he knew his business, or some other equally
agreeable thing.
[Illustration: IN THE BOATS, IN THE RAIN, ON OUR WAY TO THE SALTON SEA.]
This serenity of mind in the Indian is often called impassiveness or
stolidity. It shows how little the critics have known of the Indian to
speak thus. They are as sensitive as children, morbidly so sometimes,
but they have the self-control not to show it, and in matters like
this, where they are sure their knowledge is superior to that of their
adviser, they go on with a proud disregard of criticism or censure.
This calmness was also shown in the face of danger. Several times we
came to places where there was both difficulty and danger. We had
three boats. In the first were Jim (the Indian) and myself, seeking
out the way; in the second, Indian Joe and Mr. Louis Francis Brown
(business manager of the Burton Holmes lectures); and in the third
his reverence and two others. When we came to the thrilling places,
Jim soon learned that he was to take the responsibility, save where
there was time and opportunity to discuss matters with me, and with a
dignified self-reliance he made his choice, and then awaited results.
If they were unpleasant, as they often were, there was no murmuring, no
shouting, no remonstrance. He took things as they came, and made the
best of them. The second boat followed, and there was little more said
there than in our boat; but from the third came a constant babble of
voices, cries to do this or that, shouts of warning, remonstrance, and
fault-finding. I could not help contrasting the demeanor of the Indians
with that of the civilized whites, and wishing that the latter could
and would learn the lesson so clearly taught.
The quickness of Jim’s observations and his decisions were remarkable,
and I wished my children, and others too, might have gone to school to
him for a year or two. He saw where the sand bars were that I could
not see; he could tell which way the wind was blowing, when to me it
seemed to be blowing several directions at once; he was generally able
to tell where the largest amount of water was flowing, and only two or
three times did he make a mistake so that we had to turn back. And
when those times came, there was no grumbling, no murmuring, no finding
fault. He accepted the disagreeable inevitable just as easily and
readily as he accepted the pleasant.
This silence and serenity in the face of annoyances is a very pleasing
feature of Indian life to me. What is the use of fault-finding and
complaining over disagreeable things that cannot be helped? I have just
had an example (and he is but one of scores that occur to my mind) of
the opposite spirit shown by a very proud and haughty member of the
white race. We were on the car together, coming from the East. The
first time he had a meal in the dining-car he came back furious: the
chicken was cooked two or three days ago, and was weeks old to begin
with; all the provisions were equally bad, the service was abominable,
and the charges infamous. Then the speed of the train came in for
censure. They did things differently on the New York Central or the
Pennsylvania, (forgetful of the fact that those roads run through
thickly populated centers, and have a passenger patronage ten times
as large as is possible to the western railways that pass through
unsettled and barren regions). Then, though it was perfectly delicious
weather, he had to kick against its being warm and disagreeable, and
so on _ad libitum_ until I was sick of him, as was everybody else in
the car. In twenty-six years of association with the Indians, I never
met with one such disagreeable grumbler. The white race retains that
characteristic practically to itself. If things are disagreeable and
can be changed, the Indian calmly and deliberately goes to work to
change them. If they are unchangeable he serenely and silently bears
them. It is more manly, more agreeable, more philosophical.
Time and again I have had white men with me on various trips who
needed to learn this simple and useful lesson. They made of themselves
intolerable nuisances by their whining, whimpering, and complaining.
Those of my readers who care to read Chapter XV in my “In and Around
the Grand Canyon,” and the story of the Britisher on page 18 and onward
in “The Indians of the Painted Desert Region,” will see that I know
that of which I speak. And these are but two experiences out of many
similar ones. Yet I have been with Indians again and again in places
of distress, deprivation, and danger, and in all my experiences have
not heard a half hour’s unpleasant words. Once I started to explore
a series of side canyons of the great Grand Canyon. My guide was
Sin-ye-la, an intelligent Havasupai. We had a most arduous trip; ran
out of water and food; our horses gave out and we had to catch, saddle,
and ride unbroken steeds, and finally he caught a wild mule upon which
we placed the pack. The horrors and anguish of that trip I have never
written, yet there was not a suggestion of complaining from Sin-ye-la,
until I decided to leave the canyons and go across the desert to a
certain spot where he did not wish to accompany me. Even then he merely
stated his case with little or no argument and when I proved obdurate,
refused to accompany me, and in fifteen minutes we parted, good
friends, he to go his way and I mine.
Another time, as recorded in my Canyon book, I was caught in a
marble trap with Wa-lu-tha-ma, where it seemed impossible that we
could ever escape. The Indian’s calmness was almost too much. He
was almost as resigned as a Mahommedan who believes in Fate. Yet,
though I remonstrated with him for his despairing attitude so that
we eventually got out, I believe I would rather have that bravery of
despair which dares to face death without complaining or whimpering,
than the fault-finding, “Why did you bring me into such dangers?” or
“Shall I ever get out of this horrible place?” that some white men
indulge in.
[Illustration: WALUTHAMA, MY HAVASUPAI GUIDE.]
When, on the Salton trip, we came to the beginning of the most
dangerous part where I had been told we should go “fifty miles in fifty
minutes,” and there were many rapids which would dash our boats to
pieces, and where undermined cliffs, forty, fifty, and more feet high,
were likely to be suddenly precipitated into the river, and might fall
upon us and our boats and send us to instant destruction; when I told
my Indian of these dangers he calmly looked me in the eye and answered
my question, “You afraid to go, Jim?” with a counter question: “You
afraid?” And when I said “No,” and answered his further “You swim?”
with a “Yes!” he immediately replied; “All right, I go.”
Of course I do not wish for one moment to suggest that this virtue of
courage is not the white man’s. For love of home and country white men
will go to death with a smile on their lips. But in work which the
world does not see, where men are simply paid two dollars a day wages,
to face danger and possible death as a matter of course, this I have
found rare with the white man, and very common with an Indian. The
facing of danger and death is part of their every-day life. It calls
for the exercise of no special virtues. Strong in body, daring in mind,
fearless in soul, duty must be done and done unhesitatingly, regardless
of whether danger or death are lurking near. I am free to confess this
large bold faith in life and the Supreme pleases me. The man who is
always seeking to guard his own life, who refuses to run any risks,
who never goes except where all is safe, may be a more comfortable man
to live with, but as for me, I prefer the spirit of the man who dares
and trusts; the man who does the unsafe things because it is his duty
to do them, and who faces death and thinks nothing of it. The man who
is prodigal of his strength and courage and faith is the man who saves
them. The man who is constantly watchful lest he overdo, who refuses to
run any risks, who would rather run away than dare, is the one who, in
the end, will be found short in manhood and worthy accomplishment.
So I emulate the Indian in these things, and seek to be like him. This
prodigality and strength in work calls for more comment. Labor unions
are making one of the greatest mistakes of their career in restricting
the full exercise of a man’s energy. In limiting his daily output they
are bucking against that which every man should strive to possess,
viz., the spirit of prodigal energy in work. My Indian would row all
day, and after a few hours of especially hard work I would ask if I
might not relieve him. “No; like ’em,” was his reply invariably. He
liked his work. It was a joy to him. What was the result? A body of
tested steel; lungs equal to every demand; muscles that responded to
every strain; eyes as clear as stars; brain quick and alert because
of a healthy body made and kept so by hard, continuous labor. We are
told that the Indians are lazy. It is not true. Some few may be, but
the Indians of the Southwest do their work heartily and well, and with
a prodigal energy that is as novel and startling to most white men as
it is educative and suggestive to them. As for me, I have learned the
lesson. When I reach a station and have time, I walk to my hotel, and
refuse to allow any one to carry my usually heavy grips. I seek for
the physical exercise. Many a time I arrange for an arduous exploring
trip in order to compel myself to great exertions. I know that when
I get started I must go on, and in the going on, though I get very
weary, I know I am developing power and hoarding up health, energy, and
strength for future use. A few weeks ago I started with a comrade for a
few hundreds of miles of tramping and riding over the Colorado Desert,
up mountain trails, through waterless wastes. My part of the journey
was shortened by circumstances over which I had no control, but my
assistant and artist took the whole trip, arduous and exhausting though
it was, and I envied them and regretted my inability to go along.
Another thing my Indian helpers have taught me. That is a prompt
readiness to obey in any service they have agreed to perform, or
anything that comes legitimately in the course of their work. There is
no holding back, no remonstrance, no finding fault, no crying out that
they were not engaged to do this. They perform the service, not only
without a murmur, but with a ready willingness that is delightful in
this age when every one expects a tip for the slightest service. This
comes from two things, viz., a strong, healthy body which responds
willingly to any ordinary demands upon it, and a healthy state of mind
which neither resents service nor wishes to measure every expenditure
of energy in a monetary balance. We are making a grand mistake in
basing our present-day civilization upon material wealth. “What is
there in it for me?” should be more than a query applying to mere cash.
What is there in it of service, of helpfulness to my fellow-man, of
healthfulness to myself, of increase of my own strength and power. The
men who are relied upon by employers and by the nation are not the men
who have selfishly sought their own monetary gain. There is no doubt
that such seekers often seem to gain and do really gain a temporary
advantage; but it is not a real advantage. It is an advantage of pocket
gained at a loss of manhood, physical, mental, and spiritual, and that
man who is not worth more in body, mind, and soul than his pocket can
never be much of a man.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BURRO AND HIS SQUAW IN HAVASU CANYON, ARIZONA.]