Chapter VIII

_Character of the Indians.--Employed in the mines.--Story of
a pickaxe.--Mr. Temple’s conduct considered.--Humanity
of the Indians to him.--His reflections.--Dress of the
Indian men;--of the women._

In 1825, Edmund Temple, a young Englishman, went out to Potosi as agent for a mining company formed in London. From his “Travels” I shall select such remarks and incidents as tend to illustrate the present character and condition of the native Indians. We shall then be better able to judge what they have gained by their intercourse with Europeans.

“The Peruvian Indians are a strong, healthy race, though not very tall, and generally laborious, for every kind of labor is performed by them. In Potosi, however, the miners, all Indians, have acquired a character for habits of idleness and a propensity to defraud their employers, which it must be admitted is not altogether without foundation, though I think the cause of the evils complained of may be traced to harsh treatment, or to unwarrantable exactions of some sort, aggression being as frequent on one side as delinquency on the other.

“I know from experience, that, by proper management, their faults and the disadvantages arising from them may be guarded against, and in a great degree corrected. A worm, or, if it be thought more applicable, the adder, will turn when trod upon, and will then resent the injury; so has it been with these Indians before now; but, with kind usage, fair remuneration for their services, and an impartial conduct towards them, they are perfectly tractable, and may become good, faithful, and willing servants.

“During my residence at Potosi I have had occasion to employ many Indians, as well miners as those of other trades and occupations; there is no want of hands, as it has been generally supposed, and I cannot say that I have any cause of complaint against them; they performed the work for which they were engaged to the best of their abilities, and at the completion of it I paid them their hire.

“Sunday, after the hour of early mass, is the customary time of paying the miners, and all persons employed in the _ingenios_; this practice I did not adhere to, having preferred settling all such matters, so far as I had control, on Saturday evening.

“At the appointed hour they assembled in the court before my office, accompanied sometimes by their wives and children, and if I happened to be engaged in any business, (despatching the couriers, for instance, when, in the absence or illness of my companions, I have been employed many hours of the day ‘writing against time’) these people would remain, without evincing the slightest impatience, and never approach to ask to be settled with till called by name as they stood upon the list of the major-domo.

“They always expressed their thanks when they received their wages, upon which subject we never had the most trifling misunderstanding, and only once upon another, namely, upon the subject of a pickaxe that had been stolen out of our ingenio. It was worth fifteen shillings at Potosi, and might have been worth five in England; but the example, not the value, determined me upon giving a color of infinite importance to the case.

“After the depredation had been made known to me, and when the workmen had assembled to receive their week’s wages, two shillings _per diem_ each man, I called them all into my office, merely for the sake of exhibiting myself in the highest possible degree of dignity, (a clerk never looks so dignified as behind his own counter,) and whilst they stood like culprits in humility before me, with their hats off, I sat proudly elevated upon my judgment-seat, with my hat on, and in my hand a pen--a just emblem of my office, it is true, and at the same time calculated to convey terror to the mind of the thief, who knew that, if detected, I should instantly employ it in an application to the _alcade_ for the infliction of fine and imprisonment.

“When I had fixed the attention of the party, I commenced the dread inquisition. Alas! many of their forefathers, for crimes of as little note, or even the bare suspicion of them, had been condemned by a more horrible inquisition, and before judges less disposed to render justice and mercy than their present one, although it will appear that even he was obdurately relentless. I put the question,--

“‘Who stole my pickaxe?’--Dead silence, each looked at each, and all looked at me.

“‘Who stole my pickaxe, I say?’

“‘_Quien sabe?_’ (who knows?) said a low voice in the crowd.

“‘Who knows?’ said I; ‘why, some of you know; and I, too, must know, before I pay you one rial of your wages.’ I then proceeded to question each individual by name.

“‘Gregorio Medrano, did you steal the pickaxe?’

“‘_No, Señor._’

“‘Bernandino Marquete, did you steal the pickaxe?’

“‘_No, Señor._’

“‘Casimiro Chambi, did you?’

“‘_No, Señor._’

“And so on through the whole list with the same profitless result.

“The Indians, like the lower class of Irish, preserve inviolable secrecy respecting their own concerns; an informer is looked upon as a wretch unworthy to live among _honest men_, or if permitted to live is loathed as a demon. Assured, therefore, that I should never succeed in detecting the exact thief, although we all well knew he was one of the party present, I proceeded to judgment upon all of them.

“‘Know, then, _hermanos mios_, (dear brothers,) that my sentence is this; that the major-domo do now, immediately, and on the spot, put into his hat as many grains of _mais_ as there are of you here present; that those grains shall be all white save one, which shall be black; and he who draws that black grain shall pay for a new pickaxe.’

“Here consternation became general and evident, but, from the natural darkness of the Indian complexion, it was impossible to discover the delinquent from any change produced on his countenance by the inward workings of his mind.

“‘Now, señor major-domo, shake your hat well--shake it! I say, that no suspicion of partiality may be entertained. Let each man in succession put his hand in and take one grain of _mais_, then withdraw it, taking care to keep his hand shut, and not to open it until ordered so to do.’

“This being done, they all stood before me with their right arms stretched out at full length, and the hand firmly closed.

“‘Now for the detection of the thief! Open! _Que es eso?_ (what is all this?) Major-domo! what is the reason of this?’ said I, for to my astonishment every hand was empty.

“‘I really don’t know, sir; they must have drawn the grains and swallowed them, for not a single one remains in my hat!’ said the major-domo, turning his hat-mouth downwards to prove that nothing was there.

“Amazement was at its height; it was evidently a case of _bruxeria_, (witchcraft.) Inaquinte Sambrano observed that it was the miraculous interference of Saint Dimas,[1] to prove that there was no thief among them. But, notwithstanding my surprise and confusion, I determined that the saint should not keep my pickaxe without paying for it.

“I desired the major-domo to give me his hat; upon examining it the witchcraft was explained. In obeying my orders ‘to shake the hat well,’ every grain of maize had absconded through a rent in the crown, and the floor being covered with thick straw matting, they fell upon it unheard.

“We therefore proceeded with more caution to a second drawing, when the black bean appeared, on the show of hands, in that of Basil Calamayo, from whose wages I directed the major-domo to purchase the best pickaxe that could be had in Potosi. From that hour I never heard of any pilfering.”

I do not record this procedure of Mr. Edmund Temple as a pattern of justice. Mr. Temple, in taking the worth of the pickaxe in the manner he did, from Basil Calamayo, without doubt punished an innocent person, and excited the superstitious fears of the ignorant Indians; both, very wrong actions. Still he pities the poor natives, and when _his own interest_ does not interfere, speaks very kindly of their character. And well he might when he had such instances as the following to record.

“When I have arrived weary and faint at a Peruvian hut, with what pure feelings of gratitude have I made my acknowledgments to the family, who, from sheer benevolence, have ceded to me the only little store they possessed. Often have I alighted from my horse at an unseasonable hour and asked for milk, offering dollars.

“The answer invariably was, ‘_No hai! no hai, Señor!_’ They would not take the trouble of getting it for money.

“But when I said, ‘I am very unwell, my brother; do me the favor and God will repay you,’ my feeble voice, pale cheek, and sunken eye, bearing testimony to what I said, the sire of the family, or the matron, twisting her ball of thread from the silken wool of the _vicuña_, would mutter something in Quichua, (the language of the country,) when instantly an earthen ware pipkin would be seized by one of the younger members, who would glide away in pursuit of the flock, and returning quite breathless from the haste he used, would present me with the milk, without a question as to the payment.

“And this is savage hospitality! could I expect more among the most polished people of the earth? Should I always have obtained as much?”

In another place Mr. Temple observes, “I felt no apprehension of losing a single article of my baggage; it had been entrusted to the Indians, and in their charge required neither guards, nor swords, nor pistols, to protect it, or to insure its safe delivery.

“On the whole, I believe I am not singular in the opinion that the worst qualities of the Peruvian Indians have been _imported_, and that their virtues are their own. They possess a peaceable, unoffending spirit, free from even an _accusation_ of those great moral crimes which disgrace civilized nations.

“The dress of the men, excepting the hat, which is precisely the shape of Don Quixote’s helmet without the niche in it, reminded me of that of the peasantry of Connaught. They wear coarse brown frieze cloth breeches, with the waistband very low, and always open at the knees, the buttons being for ornament, not for use. Shirts are seldom worn; the legs are bare, with the exception of pieces of hide under the soles of the feet, tied sandal-fashion round the instep and toes.

“The dress of the female Indians consists of a petticoat, worn much shorter by the unmarried than by those that are married, and a scarf of sundry colors round the shoulders, which is pinned on one side of the chest with a _topa_, a large silver pin; but sometimes they use a spoon, the handle of which being pointed serves as a pin.

“_Cholas_, those descended from Spanish and Indian parents, are very fond of dress. I have seen them with _topas_ of gold, set with pearls and precious stones of considerable value.”

[1] The patron saint of robbers.

Charles and his Mother.

A DIALOGUE.

_Charles._ Mother, may I play with the baby a little while before I go to school?

_Mother._ She is asleep now, my son; but you may go softly and look at her.

_C._ She is just going to wake up, mother! she is smiling and moving her little hands.

_M._ No, she is only dreaming; don’t hold the curtain back so far, the sun shines on her face.

_C._ I wonder what she is dreaming about; she looks very sober now; what a pity she can’t tell us when she wakes! Mother, I shall be glad when Susan grows a little bigger, and can run about, and talk, and play with me; I don’t think a little baby is good for much.

_M._ And what if she should never grow up, Charles?

_C._ What! be always a little baby?

_M._ No, my son; what if she should die?

_C._ Die! O, that can’t be; she has only just begun to live.

_M._ Who made her live?

_C._ God, you told me.

_M._ And cannot God make her die when he pleases?

_C._ I suppose he can; but he never does, does he? Does he ever kill such little babies as Susan?

_M._ They very often die, Charles.

_C._ I never heard of that before; I hope Susan will not die. How old is she, mother?

_M._ Eight months.

_C._ O, mother, mother, that is too young to die; I am sure she won’t. Here am I, seven years old, and I am not dead yet.

_M._ And I am twenty-seven, my dear boy; but for all that, you and Susan may both die before I do, if it should please God.

_C._ What makes the tears come in your eyes, mother? we shan’t die, I know. See how Susan keeps stirring about! see how red her cheeks are!

_M._ She is not well; she is feverish, Charles. Do you know there are two little white teeth trying to get through her gums, and they give her a great deal of pain? I shall send for the doctor to-day. The clock is striking nine, Charles, and you must go to school.

_C._ O dear! and where is my little satchel? and where is my spelling-book, I wonder?

_M._ You had better look in the breakfast-room; and, Charles, be sure you shut the window; it is very damp this morning.

_C._ Yes, mother. I wonder what I did with my cap.

_M._ Don’t bang the door, Charles--and don’t forget to shut the window. I must take the baby down this morning.

TUESDAY MORNING.

_Charles meets the doctor coming out of his mother’s chamber._

_C._ Are you the doctor, sir?

_D._ Yes, my little man.

_C._ Is the baby almost well again?

_D._ O no! no!

_C._ Why, they told me you were coming to cure her, and you came three times yesterday; for I saw your old horse out of the school-room window.

_D._ But she is very sick, little boy; somebody left a window open yesterday when it was almost raining, and the nursery maid carried her into a damp room while they were sweeping the nursery.

_C._ O, doctor, what shall I do? what shall I do?

_D._ Don’t cry, my little fellow; what is the matter, now?

_C._ It was I, it was I, that left the window open! mother told me to shut it, and I was hunting for my cap and forgot all about it.

_D._ Well, that was wrong; but hush up; if your mother hears you sobbing so bitterly she will feel much worse. It was a pity you forgot the window.

_C._ O, my poor little sister! will you cure her? you can cure her sir, can’t you sir?

_D._ I will try, but God must help us.

_C._ And won’t he help you? do you think he will make Susan die?

_D._ I cannot tell, indeed; but you must ask him to make her well.

_C._ How can I ask him?

_D._ In your prayers; do you not say your prayers every night?

_C._ Yes, the Lord’s prayer, and two other prayers; but there is nothing in them about Susan’s being sick.

_D._ And can’t you make a little prayer on purpose?

_C._ I don’t know; I never tried.

_D._ Then go up into your chamber, my dear child, and kneel down where you always say your prayers every night, and pray to God just as if you could see him in the room with you. You may depend upon it. He is there.

_C._ Shall I ask him to help you cure Susan?

_D._ Ask him to cure her if it is best she should get well.

_C._ Why, it is best certainly. And will it be wrong to tell him how sorry I am that I forgot the window, and ask him to forgive me?

_D._ No, it will be quite right.

_C._ Then I will go this minute. You must come again before dinner--won’t you?

_D._ Yes, I must indeed.

WEDNESDAY MORNING.

_Charles comes softly into his mother’s chamber, half dressed._

_C._ Mother, are you there? it is so dark I cannot see you.

_M._ I am here, sitting by the bed, my son.

_C._ The fire is out, and the candle is just going out; may I open the shutter a little way, so that I can see the baby, mother? I won’t wake her.

_M._ She is not asleep, my dear boy. But what made you wake at day-break?

_C._ I kept thinking of Susan when I was asleep, mother. What makes her so still? is the pain better?

_M._ It is all gone, Charles; she will never feel it again; open the shutters wide and come here.

_C._ O, mother, mother! (_burying his face in her lap_,) I do not wish to look at her.

_M._ What is the matter, Charles? tell me.

_C._ She is dead--she is dead! the tears keep rolling down your cheeks--and she is lying just like my little canary bird--and I do believe she is dead!

_M._ Yes! my baby is dead, Charles! and--

_C._ Don’t cry, don’t cry! dear mother; you did not cry when I came in--I will leave off crying if you will, mother.

_M._ Look at her little pale face, Charles;--why are you unwilling to look at her?

_C._ I do not know. Will you take her off the bed? are you afraid to hold her in your arms?

_M._ O, no; I have held her a great while to-night, Charles, and she died in my lap.

_C_. And were you all alone?

_M._ No, there were two or three people with me then, and they were very kind; but I sent them all away at last.

_C._ Why, mother?

_M._ Because sometimes I wanted to cry, and sometimes to pray, and I liked better to be alone. I was praying when you came in, Charles.

_C._ Mother, I prayed yesterday about Susan, but God did not mind it. What makes you pray now that she is dead?

_M._ I was praying that I might remember how happy little Susan’s soul is, and that I might not be so wicked as to complain because God had taken her away again; and that I might be a better woman now, and think more of heaven.

_C._ You need not pray for that, mother; you are a very good woman, the best woman in the world.

_M._ Nobody can be good without praying, my son; and I had a great many things to beg of God. I was asking him to make the little boy who is spared to me, a good child.

_C._ Ah, mother, that is because I forgot the window!

_M._ No, my child, I was not thinking of that then; but if you should pray to God to help you to cure your faults, you will find it becomes much easier for you.

_C._ Then why did he not cure Susan’s sickness when I begged him so hard?

_M._ Are you sure it would have been better for Susan to live?

_C._ I don’t know; she would have cried sometimes, I suppose.

_M._ But she never will cry now, Charles; her soul is with God in heaven, and her body cannot feel pain now.

_C._ But it would have been better for us if she had lived to grow up, mother. What makes you cry again?

_Enter Aunt Catherine._

_C._ I am glad you have come, aunt; I have made mother cry again, and I cannot help crying too. I do think it would have been better for us if Susan had not died.

_A._ Your mother thought so at first, Charles; but now she knows it would have been wrong to have wished little Susan here just for her own pleasure, when the little creature is happier in heaven. Besides, God would not have taken her if it had been for your mother’s real good to let her stay.

_C._ I cannot understand that, do you mother?

_M._ I do! I do! but I cannot talk about it now.

_C._ So sudden! three days ago she was well!

_A._ Come, my dear child, come and let me finish dressing you, and your mother will talk to you about Susan very often; kiss the dear baby’s cheek, Charles,--your mother is holding her up to you.

_C._ O, if she could only be made alive again!

_A._ Hush--do not sob so loud! come with me, Charles, and I will tell you how we think God has already made her alive in heaven.

John Doree.

We must not always judge of a thing by first sight. Here is a picture of a fish called John Doree; and a fierce looking fellow he is; but in point of fact, he seems to be a quiet sort of fish, behaving as well as others of his race. It is difficult to get at the characters of creatures down in the deep where John lives; but as he is gaily marked with gold spots, we may believe that he passes for a kind of fop among his fellows. His name, John Doree, means the same as Gilded John. Out of the water and cooked, this fish is much esteemed for his flavor; and in England he is a favorite upon the table.

* * * * *

☞ The publishers express their hearty thanks to the writers of the following, and hope the example here set may be followed by many other black-eyed and blue-eyed friends of Robert Merry.

CARMEL, N. Y., June 23, 1841.

_Gentlemen:_--We have seen several interesting notices
of your little Magazine in the Saturday Courier, and in
other papers, which give it such good recommendation, that
we have determined to send for it. We have no doubt that
if you would send a subscription paper to this village,
many subscribers could be obtained for the Museum. We have
enclosed money enough to take the Museum for eight months,
and if it proves equal to our expectations we will take
it much longer. It is difficult to enclose $1.50 in a
letter, but if we can obtain some subscribers for you, this
difficulty can be remedied. You may be curious enough to
know why the term we is used. We will explain. A short time
since, during the winter, it was proposed in the family to
which we belong, by one of the members, to do something
to help pass away the long evenings more agreeably. One
proposed one thing, another proposed another, but finally
all determined to subscribe for some other paper, although
we already took four; none of which, however, except the
Ladies’ Garland, seemed to suit the younger portion of the
family. Instead of going immediately to our father for the
“money,” we thought the better way would be to obtain it by
our own industry. So we went to work. Each was to put in at
least a penny a week, and more if we thought proper. This
method incited the little ones to industry. In a short time
we had money sufficient to pay for any Magazine. We sounded
around some time to find one which would blend instruction
with delight. We sought in vain among the mammoth sheets;
for such trash as they contained we thought unworthy to
be let loose among the youthful portion of any family.
After a while, looking over the Saturday Courier, we came
across a notice of Merry’s Museum, and, from the hearty
recommendations given, we thought we had found the very
thing for which we had before sought in vain. And now we,
the members of this family, send the cash necessary to take
this paper for the time before named; and please direct it
to
E. L., Carmel, N. Y.

* * * * *

BEES.--When a swarm of bees settle in a hive, the first thing they do is to build cells which serve for cradles; and then they lay by something which is called bee-bread. This is gathered from the flowers like honey; and the use of this bee-bread is to feed the young bees. It is said that bees know the persons who are kind to them.

I have heard of a lady who attended a great deal to her bees, and they seemed to be pleased to hear her voice. Sometimes, after a storm, she would gather them up and wipe them, and lay them in her warm hand till they recovered; and they would never sting her, but would buzz about her as if they were pleased and grateful.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

1.

Up in the morning early;
Glad spring is here once more;
And nature wears a smiling face:
Cold winter’s reign is o’er.

2.

Up in the morning early,
And seek the gay, green bowers;
Before the sun drinks up the dew,
That glitters on the flowers.

3.

Up in the morning early;
The birds are on the wing;
The air is full of music sweet;
How merrily they sing.

4.

Up in the morning early;
There’s balm in every breeze;
It comes from every vine-clad bower,
From blossoms of the trees.

5.

Up in the morning early;
O, haste to leave your bed;
Before above the eastern wave
The sun shall peep his head.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.--No. 5.

Story of Philip Brusque.