What the White Race May Learn from the Indian

by George Wharton James

When the Indian goes to the bath he makes of it an almost religious ceremony. In one of the illustrations an old Indian Shaman is telling to the younger ones the things they should heed before going into the toholwoh, or sweat bath, the frame of which (as yet uncovered) is close at hand. The hot waters that bubble out from the interior of the earth he regards as the special gifts of the gods. He prays that he may not use these gifts unworthily. Just as the Mohammedan believes that the desert is the “Garden of Allah” and that no one must walk in it who is sinful until he has first asked for forgiveness, so does the Indian believe that the waters of healing will turn to his injury if he does not use them in the right spirit. Would it not be well if we—the superior race—approached this good gift of God in like manner?

THE SHAMAN TELLING THE STORY OF THE FIRST TOHOLWOH.

The natural simplicity of the Indian at the baths also offers a good lesson to us. Instead of seeking for gaiety, frivolity, fashion, and the means of pampering his appetite, he goes to the baths of nature resolved upon quiet and restfulness as far as possible. He seeks to prepare his mind beforehand, that the physical means used will be beneficial. In other words, though he is a rude, untutored savage,—so we say,—he has a clearer conception of the effect the mind has upon the body in real, practical healing, than has a large part of his civilized brothers and sisters. As a rule, we go to a physician, or to a sanitarium, or to baths—I mean those of us who are sick and desire health first of all—without any other thoughts than “I am sick. To go here may do me good. I hope it will.” Instead of preparing our minds beforehand by thoughtfulness, getting ourselves into the proper mental attitude to be helped, we leave it to chance, to the surroundings, to the doctor, and thus often fail to get the benefit we might have received. We carry our business cares, our family worries, our money-getting, with us and thus defeat the end for which we go.

Nor is that all! When we get there we want “all the comforts of a home.” In other words, we must be assured that we have a bedroom which we can lock up at night, a bedstead with a mattress as soft and unhealthy as the one we regularly sleep on, stuffy closets where we can hang our clothes,—and the rest.

The Indian finds his bedroom under the stars. He puts the invalid flat on the ground,—a sheepskin, perhaps, between him and the earth, but that is all. When will the superior white race learn that rejuvenation of the body comes quicker to those who “shed” their civilization, forswear their home comforts, quit their indulgence in fixed-up dishes, refrain from social frivolities (commonly called duties), and first and foremost,—after throwing away all the cares and worries that come of being so highly civilized,—get to a place where it is possible to sleep out of doors on the hard ground, protected, of course, as the Indians are. Get into the woods, on to the hills, down in the canyons, out on the deserts. Take a roll of blankets along, and no matter what the weather, learn to sleep on the bosom of Mother-Earth, out of doors. And if the region is one near hot springs or mud baths, all the better. Make it for the time being your home.

Ah! how wise is the Indian in his choice of a home. I have before referred to this, but I cannot help writing of it again. Home! It is not a place of unrest to him, where it requires the labor of wife and daughter, or a host of servants, to keep it in order; where polished furniture, polished floors, polished doors, polished mirrors, keep one forever with wiping-cloth in hand, removing the marks of careless fingers; where bric-a-brac is accumulated and piled everywhere to the shattering of nerves if the children get near it, or careless visitors happen to call; where “social demands” are so great that children are relegated to the care of servants; where brothers and sisters scarce have time to know each other, and husbands and wives meet semi-occasionally—no, it is not a home of this kind. To most Indians “everywhere” is home provided there is a little shade, water, and grass for his burro or pony. In the mountains, where he can shelter under an overhanging rock, or in the forest where he has a roof of emerald, supported by great pillars of pine or cottonwood or sycamore,—there is home. In the desert, where the roof is millions of miles high, decorated with suns and moons and stars and comets and meteors and Milky Way and countless nebulæ, and the walls are bounded on the east by the rising sun, and on the west by the setting sun, and God’s own laboratories make new, fresh, pure air every moment—there is home.

The San Francisco disaster taught thousands of people the healthfulness of the outdoor life. People who had been ailing for years, puny children, anæmic youths and maidens, dyspeptic parents, all “picked up” appetite and health when compelled to live in the parks and on the streets.

Let us heed the lesson. Let us follow the example of the Indian and be more simple, more natural. Let us relegate to the museum the collecting of curios and bric-a-brac and the thousand and one things that so crowd our houses as to make museums rather than homes of them.