His evening sky was not cloudless--he suffered much--but his
sunset was calm and bright; his waking in the Morning Land was glorious.
If it was at that short period of silence spoken of in the Apocalypse,
we may be sure it was broken when Fisher went in.
Jack White.
The only thing white about him was his name. He was a Piute Indian, and
Piutes are neither white nor pretty. There is only one being in human
shape uglier than a Piute "buck"--and that is a Piute squaw. One I saw
at the Sink of the Humboldt haunts me yet. Her hideous face, begrimed
with dirt and smeared with yellow paint, bleared and leering eyes, and
horrid long, flapping breasts--ugh! it was a sight to make one feel
sick. A degraded woman is the saddest spectacle on earth. Shakespeare
knew what he was doing when he made the witches in Macbeth of the
feminine gender. But as you look at them you almost forget that these
Piute hags are women--they seem a cross between brute and devil. The
unity of the human race is a fact which I accept; but some of our
brothers and sisters are far gone from original loveliness. If Eve could
see these Piute women, she would not be in a hurry to claim them as her
daughters; and Adam would feel like disowning some of his sons.
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