by Mackenzie, where the
women destroy their female children, whenever they have a good
opportunity; and of the eloquent reproaches addressed by the Paraguay
woman to her mother, that she had not, in the same way, saved her from
the anguish and weariness of her lot.

More weariness than anguish, no doubt, falls to the lot of most of these
women. They inherit submission, and the minds of the generality
accommodate themselves more or less to any posture. Perhaps they suffer
less than their white sisters, who have more aspiration and refinement,
with little power of self-sustenance. But their place is certainly
lower, and their share of the human inheritance less.

Their decorum and delicacy are striking, and show that when these are
native to the mind, no habits of life make any difference. Their whole
gesture is timid, yet self-possessed. They used to crowd round me, to
inspect little things I had to show them, but never press near; on the
contrary, would reprove and keep off the children. Anything they took
from my hand, was held with care, then shut or folded, and returned with
an air of lady-like precision. They would not stare, however curious
they might be, but cast sidelong glances.

A locket that I wore, was an object of untiring interest; they seemed to
regard it as a talisman. My little sun-shade was still more fascinating
to them; apparently they had never before seen one. For an umbrella they
entertain profound regard, probably looking upon it as the most
luxurious superfluity a person can possess, and therefore a badge of
great wealth. I used to see an old squaw, whose sullied skin and coarse,
tanned locks, told that she had braved sun and storm, without a doubt or
care, for sixty years at the least, sitting gravely at the door of her
lodge, with an old green umbrella over her head, happy for hours
together in the dignified shade. For her happiness pomp came not, as it
so often does, too late; she received it with grateful enjoyment.

One day, as I was seated on one of the canoes, a woman came and sat
beside me, with her baby in its cradle set up at her feet. She asked me
by a gesture, to let her take my sun-shade, and then to show her how to
open it. Then she put it into her baby's hand, and held it over its
head, looking at me the while with a sweet, mischievous laugh, as much
as to say, "you carry a thing that is only fit for a baby;" her
pantomime was very pretty. She, like the other women, had a glanc