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Temescal (sweathouse), in Riverside County, although a place of no great importance in itself, is interesting in that its name recalls one of the curious customs widely prevalent among the natives of the Southwest. The word itself is of Aztec origin, and was brought to California by the Franciscans.

The temescal is thus described by Dr. A. L. Kroeber, in the University of California Publications in Archaeology and Ethnology: “At the Banning Reservation a sweathouse is still in use. From the outside its appearance is that of a small mound. The ground has been excavated to the depth of a foot or a foot and a half, over a space of about twelve by seven or eight feet. In the center of this area two heavy posts are set up three or four feet apart. These are connected at the top by a log laid in their forks. Upon this log, and in the two forks, are laid some fifty or more logs and sticks of various dimensions, their ends sloping down to the edge of the excavation. It is probable that brush covers these timbers. The whole is thoroughly covered with earth. There is no smoke hole. The entrance is on one of the long sides, directly facing the space between the two center posts, and only a few feet from them. The fireplace is between the entrance and the posts. It is just possible to stand upright in the center of the house. In Northern California, the so-called sweathouse is of larger dimensions, and was preëminently a ceremonial or assembly chamber.”

Dr. L. H. Bunnell, in his history of the discovery of the Yosemite valley, gives us some interesting details of the use of the sweathouse among the Indians of that region: “The remains of these structures were sometimes mistaken for tumuli, being constructed of bark, reeds or grass, covered with mud. It (the sweathouse), was used as a curative for disease, and as a convenience for cleansing the skin, when necessity demands it, although the Indian race is not noted for cleanliness. I have seen a half-dozen or more enter one of these rudely constructed sweathouses through the small aperture left for the purpose. Hot stones are taken in, the aperture is closed until suffocation would seem impending, when they would crawl out, reeking with perspiration, and with a shout, spring like acrobats into the cold waters of the stream. As a remedial agent for disease, the same course is pursued, though varied at times by the burning and inhalation of resinous boughs and herbs. In the process of cleansing the skin from impurities, hot air alone is generally used. If an Indian had passed the usual period of mourning for a relative, and the adhesive pitch too tenaciously clung to his no longer sorrowful countenance, he would enter and re-enter the heated house until the cleansing had become complete. The mourning pitch is composed of the charred bones and ashes of the dead relative or friend. These remains of the funeral pyre, with the charcoal, are pulverized and mixed with the resin of the pine; this hideous mixture is usually retained upon the face of the mourner until it wears off. If it has been well-compounded, it may last nearly a year; although the young, either from a super-abundance of vitality, excessive reparative powers of the skin, or from powers of will, seldom mourn so long. When the bare surface exceeds that covered by the pitch, it is not a scandalous disrespect in the young to remove it entirely, but a mother will seldom remove pitch or garment until both are nearly worn out.”

This heroic treatment, while possibly efficacious in the simple ailments by which the Indians were most often afflicted, usually resulted in a great increase of mortality in the epidemics of smallpox following upon the footsteps of the white man. One traveler speaks of a severe sort of intermittent fever, to which the natives were subject, and of which so many died that hundreds of bodies were found strewn about the country. Having observed that the whites, even when attacked by this fever, rarely died of it, he was inclined to ascribe the mortality among the natives to their great cure-all, the temescal.

A number of places in the state bore this name, among them a small town lying between the sites now occupied by the flourishing cities of Oakland and Berkeley. Its citizens became discontented with the undignified character of the name, and changed it to Alden.