A Palm Grove.
So the opening of a green cocoanut was the means of dispelling almost the last of my illusions about a Tropic Island! I have so often read about the nectar and ambrosia of the green nut, and the wonderful yarns of travellers who say there is no drink on earth like the green milk—one book I remember went so far as to compare the stuff favourably with lemonade! Perhaps it is all right if you have been shipwrecked and your mouth is full of sea water, but then I imagine so few people who write the descriptions can ever have had that advantage.
From the huts we went on till we came out upon wide, open mud-flats, where there were a great many salt pits, which fill with water when the tide rises, for the sea water stretches right up to this place and farther. The pits were surrounded by pumps, after the fashion of the shadoofs on the Nile, and wells and all sorts of curious contrivances of bamboo, with long rows of pipes for drying the salt—it is marvellous what these people will do with bamboo. It was nearly dark by this time, and the mud-flats looked very weird and melancholy, the strange frames and poles appearing ghostly in the dusk.
We came out upon the river bank again and walked to the place where we had left the boats. On the way I picked some sprays of small pink blossoms which grow on big ragged bushes with thorns, and look like May, and smell like sweet currant. They look very pretty in a vase in the sala, and are the only flower I have yet brought home or had given to me, that has lasted for so long as twenty-four hours.
C—— has been having more trouble with the Customs, and this time over a boat he had to get from Hong Kong, as such a thing is not made and not to be had here. It is an ordinary boat for going out to the ships, and cost 40 pesos, but when C——, on being asked to value it, mentioned this sum to the Customs authorities, they exclaimed “Impossible!”
Unfortunately it happened that he could not produce a bill for the boat, as he had got it through an agent in Hong Kong, who charges it to his account with the Firm in Manila, and he had not even a bill of lading, as a friend had brought it from Hong Kong for him. The Customs flatly refused to take his word about the price, and sent for some local sages to value the boat. One of these worthies gave it as his opinion, off-hand, that it was absurd to say you could buy a boat like that for less than 60 pesos. Another said, “Probably ninety.” A third, “Sixty at the lowest.”
So the authorities, like Solomon, struck the happy medium, and charged C—— the duty (30 per cent.) on 80 pesos!!
And there is no redress, for the Firm’s accounts will not be settled till the end of the month, or even later, by which time the dues on the boat will have been paid long ago, and when once a receipt is given by the Government, no power but a special Act of Congress can get one cent of it refunded. Oh, and we know this to our cost! For, during all these months, we have not ceased from appealing, reappealing, and worrying tooth and nail about the extra £40 we had to pay for our wedding presents. I wish to goodness we had a “pull.” We should get it back in a week.
The tariffs here seem to be put on in an incomprehensible way. In a civilised old country it might help trade if there were an import tax against things the people could produce themselves, but the system here works out quite differently, for while a desire is being inculcated for things which the natives cannot and never will be able to produce, those articles are taxed at the same rate as they are in the most highly developed country full of manufactories. You will think I have become a regular blue-stocking when you read these long discourses! But you need not have any fears on that score, for I am only trying to describe to you the conditions under which we struggle for existence in one of the most fertile countries in the world, and these questions are of such vital and burning interest that I hear them discussed by the most unlikely and domesticated ladies!
What the newspapers call “Religious Circles” have been in a great state of excitement lately, as the Pope has sent a Cardinal Delegate to the Philippines to rouse the Orthodox to a sense of their peril from the Iglesia Independiente, the Aglipayanos. When I was in Manila, this prelate was there, an Irishman of the name of Agius. I saw him and his suite at the Governor’s reception, and people told me he was a very charming person. Now he is touring about the Philippines, and this week arrived here on a visit to the Bishop of Panay—an American, whose name I forget.
There were great ceremonies and processions, arches and welcomes on the arrival of the Cardinal. But the Aglipayanos did not let the occasion pass without comment, for they turned out in full force with counter-processions and, it must be confessed, with far larger crowds of followers.
The day before yesterday the Cardinal arrived in great state. He drove off to Jaro, and the road out to that town swarmed with priests, and little carriages dashing about full of mysterious, greasy-looking hangers-on in black coats and bowlers, the like of which no human eye has ever before seen this side of Suez.
The next day, yesterday, there was frantic excitement! The Filipino Archbishop arrived! With no official state, but greeted by an immense demonstration of crowds of Independientes, who went out to meet their pastor in decorated boats and launches, with bands playing, Chinese crackers popping about, and revolutionary marches with songs. He, also, went to Jaro, under more triumphal arches, with Welcomes, and one with his name, Monsignore Hijaldo, in huge red letters all across it.
We drove out to Jaro in the evening to see the fun, and were well rewarded, for the whole Plaza was as good as a play—far better than anything the Iloilo theatre could produce intentionally.
Jaro is a collection of rather fine old houses, of the prevailing two-storied pattern, but large and handsome, some of them with carved wooden ornamentations and balconies with pretty pillars. They stand round a very large green space, with a bandstand in the middle, which is the Plaza. At one side of the Plaza is the cathedral, a long, ugly building, like a stone tunnel, and alongside it is a smaller church, on much the same lines, which is the Aglipayano place of worship. Opposite the two, on the green Plaza, stands a handsome old grey stone belfry, thrown out of the perpendicular by earthquakes, and crumbling with decay. At each corner of the upper story is a huge white stone statue of a saint leaning forward with some giant emblem clasped in his or her arms—such a cumbersome, melancholy old edifice! We always stop by the belfry, when we drive into Jaro, to let the pony rest and crop the grass, which overflows liberally into the road, and five times out of six it happens that we are there when a small lamp is swung up over the cathedral door, and a couple of Filipino boys come across and go into the belfry to ring the Angelus, which they do by swinging themselves fearlessly about on the beams of the big bells.
Cathedral and Belfry at Jaro.
When we drove out yesterday evening, we first met landaus containing the Delegate and the Bishop of Panay bowing and smiling to right and left, and lifting up hands of benediction; with many priests, secretaries, and retainers, most of them very fat men with very white faces.
Then, on the other side of the water, in the suburb of La Paz, which is a big town in itself, we met the Aglipayanos—Aglipay himself and his followers—all brown, flat-faced Filipinos, dressed something like the R.C. priests, only with fantastically bent up hats, and driving in the native quilezes or calesas.
In Jaro itself the fun was fast and furious, for both the churches had a great display of decorations outside—the Independiente considerably embellished by a long covered way built out, of latticed bamboo with palm-branches lashed to it, and paper lanterns, and quantities of little flags.
Across the Plaza were the two houses, both blazing with lights and flowers, the balconies full of men in white suits and women in their smartest dresses. In front of each house a band was playing, as if no other music were within a hundred miles, and the din was awful—the constabulary brass band, which was serenading the Papal Delegate, or his house, smashing and braying Sousa Marches; while the Aglipayano mandolines, guitars, and violins twiddled and thumped steadily at “Hiawatha” and other Filipino airs.
To anyone blessed with a glimmering of humour you may imagine that the whole show was a source of pure delight, and we lingered quite late, driving up and down in the hope that there might be a speech or a row or something. But apparently peace, if not goodwill, was the motto, as, when we at last had to return home, we left all hands as contented and jolly as if the other fellows did not exist at all, or lived in another continent.
You must imagine all this in heat such as you have never felt, all the priests, devotees, and bandsmen limp and dripping, and the faces of the Filipinos like wet mahogany. We are in a chronic state of discomfort, too, ourselves, which makes the sight of the black and purple robes, the berettas, and the outfit of the secretaries and hangers-on a very tangible addition to our own discomfort. I “guess” the “Dallergit” wishes the “call” had “come right along” in the cool season!
I told you about the little love-birds which had been presented to me, I think? “I had a dove, and the sweet dove died” ... but my first lovebird did not die of grieving, for I found him one morning with a gash in his throat which looked very like the work of a bad cat. When the wee bird was dead and buried, the other little scrap did not seem to mind much at first, but presently took to having fits, and soon expired too.
I miss them very much, for they were dear little creatures, and such companions to me, with their sweet little chirping noises. People tell me it is very difficult to keep birds at all out here, as the little ants that swarm everywhere get under their feathers and worry them to death in a few hours.
Iloilo, May 29, 1905.
I know you will be glad to hear that we are having a lull in the great heat, as the rain is beginning, or, at any rate, the Monsoon is blowing through rain, steadily from the S.-W., and the thermometer has gone down from 95° to 90°, which makes a vast difference to us, though it must still sound like great heat to you.
I have just had a letter from a Manila friend, who is spending the hot season at Benguet, whither the “Gubernatorial party” and the Commissioners have also fled; and where, according to the Manila papers, I see they are having gay times ... lots of Bridge. She says:—“We are very chilly people up here, fires every evening, and hot-water bottles at night! This is a lovely country, all pine-woods and tree-ferns—a curious mixture. We ride about here a very great deal, play cards, walk, and generally have a thoroughly quiet, lovely time. I am going to a euchre party this afternoon at a house near by; there are to be very nice prizes, I hear. This climate is like England. You and Mr Dauncey would like it when he can get leave. There is a sanatorium, hospital place here, where you can go for one dollar, gold, a day per head. There is also this house, but you could not live at that here, at least I think not. I think this climate would do most people as much good as going home. It is a beautiful place, and they shortly expect a railway to run within 15 miles of it, which will make it cheaper to get here, and quicker; at present it takes three days from Manila.”
That all sounds very tantalising to us sweltering down here, but I think we shall wait till that mythical railway is ready, for we have several times discussed the pros and cons of a health trip to Benguet, but when C—— went into the matter, he found that the expenses from here and back would be more than to go to England! And then, if we did go to this paradise of pine-trees and hot-water bottles, we should only be that much to the good, for we should be still living on the awful Philippine food, and the question is, should we get rid of that cuirass of prickly heat? Also, would the water there still give sarna—which I think they call in India “dhobey-itch”? And these things being so, is it not better to go home? And being at home, would it not be the utmost folly ever to venture within a hundred miles of a Philippine island again as long as life lasts? I feel inclined to answer my own questions by saying—American fashion—“That’s so!”
I missed my little love-birds so much that C—— got me some other pets, which we hope will flourish better—three baby mongeese. They are the dearest little things, so soft and gentle, and look like very fluffy weasels, with large dark beady eyes and long, busy, smelling-about noses. The people here call them Gato del Monte, which is, being translated, mountain-cat, though the animal we call by that name is a very different creature. They are found all over the islands, I believe, and there are many in Guimaras, whence these were brought by a countryman who was going round the offices trying to sell them, with the little things nestled in his coat. So C—— bought them for me for a couple of pesos. They are very young and very tame, in fact more than tame, for they run after me all over the house, and as soon as I sit down, climb up and sit on my shoulders, or curl up on my lap, and I daresay the warmth of their woolly little bodies would be grateful and comforting amongst the pines and tree-ferns at Benguet! C—— has made them a beautiful large cage out of a packing-case and some wire-netting, where they spend their time asleep in a box full of cotton wool, or else clamouring to be let out, with a curious guggling, rippling cry, a sort of cross between a nightingale’s “jug-jug” and a cab-whistle.
Half the ground-floor of this house was let a little time ago to a rabbit warren of low-class Filipinos, who keep all sorts of animals in the rooms, and throw all their refuse out into the narrow alley between this and the next house. Unfortunately, this is all on the side where our bedrooms are. After a time we got accustomed to the mysterious noises to a certain extent, though the bleating of goats remained tiresome, and the person with consumption who coughed all night still disturbed us. The natives here die like flies of consumption, and the dreadful cough, hollow cheeks, and glittering eyes are a very common feature in the landscape.
Well, we weathered through the noises, though we were often inclined to shift our quarters to the other side of the house, to the rooms which that persistent American wished to inhabit. Fancy breakfasting with them! I have not got over that yet! But on that side, unfortunately, the construction of the house is such that there is no through draught, without which one cannot sleep. Finally, however, the smell of the refuse gave C—— an attack of tonsilitis, with a touch of fever, and as I myself had also had some sore throats, we made the move across, and found it was not so bad after all, for the S.-W. Monsoon blowing straight in kept the air quite bearable.
The smells on the other side got worse and worse, and we put bowls of disinfectant about, and complained to the landlord of the house. He said he had no power, meaning that he was really afraid to offend and lose his tenants, but he “would speak to the people,” advising us, at the same time, to go to the Sanitary Inspector of the town, who would set things right. Now, the municipality consists of natives, and the Sanitary Inspector is a Filipino with a Filipino’s notions of sanitation, so he can’t see what we have to complain about, and we went on sending in complaints and protests, which met with vague replies at first, and latterly with none at all. So at last C—— told the landlord that if he did not have the alley cleared, we would leave the house, whereupon jornales (labourers) were promptly hired, and unimaginable arrears of horrors dug out and removed—oh, the smell! And as to future transgressions of the laws of cleanliness and decency, C—— has adopted his own method for that, which consists in the simple plan of leaning out of the window when the people below do anything he does not like, and calling them “Babuis” (pigs), or “sin verguenza” (without shame) in a very loud voice, which they don’t like at all; and this method has more effect than anything else, for he says: “You can always ‘get at’ a Filipino by making him ashamed of himself.”
A Suburb of Iloilo.
We are lucky to be no worse off, however, for it is a marvel to me how this town is not swept clean of inhabitants by some awful plague, when one thinks that it is absolutely without drainage or sanitation of any sort, and when one sees and smells the awful and ghastly rubbish heaps which fester right amongst the houses in the town. The only saving of the place is the Monsoons, and it is no wonder everyone feels so ill and languid, even the natives, as soon as the wind drops. There is a costly School of Tropical Medicine in Manila, and many learned articles appear in the papers from time to time about germs and bacilli, and so on, assuring us that, when the Filipinos know more mathematics and Latin, they will know how to live more healthily; but sound common-sense would seem to lie in the direction of a strong and efficient sanitary control of white experts and a few schoolma’ams replaced by some paved and drained streets.
Oh, the streets! They are a disgrace to civilisation, for I have never, no, not in Morocco, not in little towns in the Canaries, known such neglect, such dirt, such squalor, and such smells!
Grass grows at the sides of the streets, and in wet weather many stagnant pools appear on pieces of waste ground and between the houses, looking very pretty indeed amongst the brilliant greenery when the sun comes out again, with beautiful reflections mirrored in their shallow depths, and making little gems of scenes like bits out of a fairy pantomime. All the same, one could quite willingly sacrifice their beauty in the cause of health, and for the sake of matter-of-fact drainage!
Mosquitoes breed in the swampy places in which the native houses generally stand, and at night the inhabitants frequently light fires under their flimsy dwellings to dry the ground and destroy the insects. At first sight these fires look very strange and alarming; we often pass them as we drive in the evenings, and it is yet another of the local miracles to see the dry thatch huts not taking fire from a pile of leaves and grass burning underneath.
In connection with the swamps too, or I suppose so, the Filipinos have another curious custom, which is, as soon as anyone is taken ill, to shut the house up tightly, with the screens let down and fastened over the openings that serve as doors and windows, and whenever you pass a house all dark and hermetically sealed with tiny slits of light here and there, you know some unfortunate soul is ill inside, and in all probability dying, for the Filipinos have no physique, and if they get seriously ill, they snuff out like a taper. When a poor person is dying—really at the point of death—he or she is taken out of bed and carried to the priest to be assoiled, which generally has the effect of killing the invalid outright. Only two evenings ago we met one of these melancholy little groups going along the Jaro road, two of the men carrying a long bamboo pole on their shoulders, with a canvas hammock slung to it, and I think the poor woman, whose head was lolling out, was dead already.
An American hospital, to which we have all contributed by request, is being provided for the town, and when we drive out, we often pass down the road where this remarkable building is rising slowly from a pile of beams and planks, all stacked ready, and cut to certain lengths. I say it is remarkable because the hospital has apparently been designed in America by someone who has never heard of the Philippines, for the main supports (the arigis), instead of being made of great trees of hardwoods, are quite slender posts of Oregon pine; and the cross-beams and, in fact, all the timber work, are of the same wood, which is about as much good as so many pieces of cardboard against insects, typhoons, earthquakes, and so forth. I daresay these plagues do not prevail in the country where this fantastic building was evolved.
Awaiting Shipment.
Coffins containing Bones of American Soldiers stacked in Malate Cemetery, Manila.
But if the substructure of the hospital was the laughing stock of the town, and the subject of many rather acid jests on the part of those who had contributed to such a monument of folly, you can imagine what was thought and said when the wards were seen in the making, and observed to consist of screens of nipa and bejuco matting! All so hasty, so shoddy, such a piece of blatant jobbery—but to hear its advocates talk you would think the finest hospital in Eu-rope was being rendered silly and out of date!
To-morrow is Decoration Day, the anniversary of the close of the war of the North and South, when the graves of the soldiers who fell in that struggle are decorated in the United States.
Out here the day has also been established as a public holiday; observed with bands and processions; and they have so ordered the ceremony that the graves of those who fell out here in the war with Spain and the Insurrection are supposed to be decorated, Americans and Filipinos alike. But the two events become hopelessly confused in the native mind; and it is no wonder that the Filipinos have some dim idea that they are rejoicing over the fall of those of the Americans whom they managed to kill in the Insurrection. There are not many American soldiers’ graves out here to decorate, however, as the dead American warriors are being dug up everywhere and sent back to their homes—such a queer idea! Fancy if we dug up all the men who fell in our innumerable wars and sent them to their relations at home! There is nothing left but bones, of course, but each man is identified by a bottle containing his name, etc., which was buried with him. At least, they are identified to a certain extent; but a man who had the job of bringing a lot of these defunct warriors down the Pasig for shipment told C—— that the only thing to be done as a rule was to put a name on a coffin and then lay inside as many bones as you could find to make a complete skeleton. It sounds rather horrible, but I must say one can’t have much sympathy with such unheroic and superstitious sentimentality, which seems to me no better than the customs of the Chinese.
Iloilo, June 5, 1905.
I don’t think I have yet mentioned to you the great excitement in Manila, and in the Philippines generally, which are convulsed by the wind of the coming of Mr Taft, the Secretary of War in the U.S.A., who, as I told you before, used to be Governor out here. He is returning now to the Philippines on a sort of tour of instruction for the benefit of a party of Senators who, so say the papers, have been opposed to Philippine interests at Washington, owing to these interests clashing with their own sugar plantations, mines, and tobacco industries. Everyone seems to think this expedition a very good idea, and it is going to be gay and social as well, for a good many ladies—wives and other relations of the Senators—are to be included, and they say that the President’s daughter, Miss Alice Roosevelt, may come too. Some say that she will come for the trip, as a pleasure party, and others declare that she is only to be sent as a pawn and symbol of the President’s goodwill towards Mr Taft and his schemes.
In the meantime the papers are full of personal descriptions and puffs preliminary of the members of this party, but by far the most popular figure seems to be that of the President’s daughter, about whom we get columns of description and narrative. She must be a very fascinating and charming and lovely girl, for though she is only twenty, she has refused numberless offers of marriage from all sorts and conditions of men, including the “effete hand” of Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, he to whom our Princess Margaret of Connaught is now engaged. About this latter affair there is a very long account copied from another American paper—I mean a U.S.A. one, not a Manila paper—where it is said that Miss Roosevelt had declined to be a princess because she will not marry a man she does not love. I think that is highly creditable to her, don’t you? And such a fine example to some of her countrywomen.
This last week has been sunny every morning, and then clouded over in the afternoon, and generally there is rain towards evening, so we cannot make up our minds about our second trip to Nagaba, which has been on the tapis for some time. We were going last week, but put it off for various reasons till to-morrow. Now, however, the weather looks so threatening that I doubt if we shall go at all. We are not without compensations, though, as the cool-looking grey skies are delicious, and the nights almost cold, so that a sheet is necessary, and sometimes even a blanket. In spite of the lowness of the temperature, however, I do not feel refreshed, as I had hoped to do, for the S.-W. wind is very enervating and relaxing, and everyone really feels more languid than in the heat. This wind has unshipped our green sunblinds, as it comes in great gusts, roaring and tossing in the thick belt of high palms that fringes the beach in the distance. The sound of the surf and the wind in the palms is delightful to me, for it reminds me of the pine-woods at home.
A few evenings ago we got into some real country by leaving the trap on the Molo road and walking along a path that led away through some tall brakes of bamboo. These clumps of bamboo are very graceful and beautiful, and the outline of their tapering stems and little flat leaves against the sunset skies always reminds me of that embroidered Japanese screen we have at home—by which you are perhaps sitting as you read this! We passed the bamboos and bushes by the roadside, and came at once to big grass fields and palm-groves, with ramshackle huts dotted about and half-clad native—how well I can sympathise with their prompt abandonment of the unnecessary extras of the civilised wardrobe, and only wish it were our fate out here to be able to wear one garment in a palm-grove! We wandered about there for a long time, up and down paths and tracks, and enjoying wonderful glimpses of glades and green vistas that were like impossible fairylands. There was the pink and orange bloom of a fine sunset, too, to add to the unearthly beauty of the palm-groves, where we lingered a long time, just admiring everything in sight, and smelling the delicious freshness of the wet earth.
We are very anxious to go there some day and try to get a few snap-shots, as a reminder of the scenes, though nothing could reproduce the colour. It is difficult to get enough light, as C—— is very busy just now, and does not get home before six. Eight to twelve and two to six—good long hours for office-work in the tropics! Still, we manage sometimes to get out before the daylight has quite gone, as the days are getting longer, but then it is, of course, too late to take the camera. That, by-the-bye, is another illusion dispelled, for I am sure I have always read and heard that the sun in these latitudes sinks suddenly at the same moment all the year round. I have already told you that I have watched in vain for this phenomenon. I don’t know what happens in other places, but since the sun has come North here, the sunset has gradually changed to quite half an hour later than it was in December. In fact, it may be even later than that, for I can read on the balcony for a long time after tea before the light fades. Of course the twilight is brief compared to the length of time it lingers on at home, and I suppose it is sudden if it is compared to a long summer evening in England, but then you can think of our longest twilight as a flash if you compare it with Greenland!
About a month ago the basement of the empty house next door was taken by a typical Eurasian family—such a crew! beginning with an old father who goes about in a vest, slack, dirty trousers, and blue socks; an old mother, vastly fat, in petticoat, chemise, and slippers; some sons and daughters of all ages, and their husbands and wives and children, and two native servants. The basement they occupy consists of three large rooms. From our side windows we look right down into their windows, and get many astounding glimpses of their vie intime, including fearful revelations of déshabillé, which are the delight of C——’s life.
This family, who are quite well known in Iloilo Filipino and Mestizo society, and turn out great swells at the band, sleep about on petates (mats) on the floor, in native fashion, and some of their notions of sanitation are indescribable. The old father has a fearful voice, a loud, not-human bellow of insanity, which echoes in our rooms sometimes and quite frightens me, and C—— says I should be still more alarmed if I could understand the awful expressions he is using. They are always having horrid rows amongst themselves, all in slatternly rags in their filthy rooms—in the streets they are well-dressed and well-behaved, in true Eurasian fashion, all the world over. The sons are in various employments, which would keep the whole family in comfort, if not in decency, but one need hardly say that it all goes in Monte and buying diamond rings.
About a week ago, just as we had finished breakfast, there was a terrible hullabaloo coming from the dovecote next door, and we said to each other that they must be having a worse row than usual; when we heard yells and loud voices, and the old man bellowing out even worse words than the awful things he shouts out when he wants salt, or a cigarette, or a sock. We rushed to the side of the house looking on their windows, but a hand was pulling the shutters together, and the screams and yells and oaths were terrible. So we ran out on to the balcony in time to see one of the sons-in-law shoot out of the house, as from a cannon, yelling “Policia! Policia!” and go running up the street to the police station at the corner. A crowd began to collect at once in the street, while heads appeared at every window, and the pandemonium in the house became deafening.
Then, suddenly, a young woman in two garments ran out sobbing, with her hair down; followed a minute later by the fat old woman in her chemise and petticoat, wringing her hands and moaning, and running up and down, till someone caught hold of her and led her away to a house up the street. Then Juanita, the little native servant, with her hair streaming, rushed out with the baby in her arms; and the little girl of six came running in to the people below us, terrified and white and blubbering. Then another daughter—with a white, handsome face like a Bouguereau Madonna—hurried out, and after her a woman carrying clothes, whereupon a polite native clerk stepped across from an office and conducted her to the shelter of a friendly house.
All this time the bellowing and voices in the house went on undiminished, till the son-in-law arrived with a trim blue linen-clad native policeman. They went into the house together and shut the shutters and closed the door, and the noise died down, and the crowd outside melted away!
Nothing more happened all that day, and no human eye saw the policeman come out again. But next day we noticed that the old man was living with the natives under us; and C—— made some enquiries, whereupon they said, “The old man is mad,” adding quite casually that he stuck a knife into someone, so his family chucked him out.
Well, so he lived there for a few days, with the windows of the house next door all shuttered so that he should not be able to see in, and every now and then he roared out “Ramon y Ju—a—ni—ta—aa!” or “Juanita y Raaaaa—mooooon!” always the names of both servants, when the two natives would go trembling to him, with the children for him to play with!
This went on till yesterday, when there was an afternoon of shouting and cursing and futile advice, and the street blocked with carabao-carts, and natives swarming in and out of the house carrying furniture upside down, and trying to force it into the carts broadside on. We hear the reason and result of all this is that the old man has moved, some say to Manila, others, to the next street. I think the poor trembling old fat wife must have gone too, as I have not seen her about again since then. The house next door has its windows open on this side again, and there seem to be more people than ever lying about there—they never do anything—and Juanita-a-a-a still takes the babies out in a large wicker washing-basket mounted on squeaking wheels; and the young men and women look great swells at the bandstand on Sundays and Thursdays.
I mentioned the way these people slept on the floor. That is a curious Filipino habit, but I daresay it is very nice and cool, and the floor can’t be any harder than the Filipino bed. The servants sleep about on mats, generally in the hall of the house, but ours refuse to sleep in this house, as they say it is haunted by the spirit of a young Spaniard who died here when it was occupied by the Spanish Consulate. So they spread their mats on the Azotea, and if I wake up thirsty and go out into the hall for a glass of water, I see them through the open door, lying asleep on their mats in the moonlight, looking like pictures of the corpse on the battlefield, out of the Graphic, and rather weird and uncanny, with their clothes very white in the moonlight, and their dark hands and faces and dark bare feet; but on damp or cold (or what we call cold!) nights they look still more uncanny, rolled in blankets, and looking like mummies.
A friend who was here the other day told me an amusing instance of Filipino methods which happened a few days ago. A policeman came for his cook one morning, with a summons on the part of the cook’s wife for assaulting her. So off the cook went to the court, not the High Courts where American dignity administers the highest justice with his boots off and his feet, with holes in his socks, on a table before him, but the police court where a Filipino tries to deal with small offences.
In the evening our friend noticed that his own cook and not a substitute was in the house, so he asked the man what had happened in the morning.
“Oh,” said the cook, “they fined me five dollars and my wife five dollars too, and sent us away.”
“But,” said Mr —— “you beat her.”
“No one said I did not beat her. But they fined us both, you see, so I was allowed to go away again, free, in time to cook the señor’s dinner.”
And you may think that sounds like a sentence out of the Hunting of the Snark, but it is perfectly clear logic to the Filipino mind, and all parties seemed to think the most lucid and satisfying law had been administered.
June 15, 1905.
You must forgive the writing of this letter being rather bad, as I am ill in bed again, and likely to remain there for some time, for I have developed a tiresome complaint, which takes, so people tell me, a long time to heal. It sounds very simple, for what has happened is that the mosquito bites, with which my feet are covered, have become poisoned with something in the water, or the touch of a fly, and I hobbled about for a long time in great pain, being doctored and told to lie up, but I would not consent to, as it is so dull, and the warmth of lying even on a mat makes one’s prickly heat unendurable. Now, however, I am forced to give in, for I can’t walk across a room. An American friend tells me she has had this malady, and it extended all the way up her limbs, and she suffered great pain, and was ill for months. I am afraid this does not console me much, for I am a bad patient, as I have never had anything the matter with me before I came out here. The climate is certainly trying, but some people seem to be able to weather through it pretty well, though I have never met anyone who is really what one would call robust. Some become wrecks, as I apparently should do if I stayed much longer. I can’t tell you how thankful I am to think that there is a chance of going home!
Our dear little mongeese are flourishing. We let them out of the cage nearly all day now, and they go running and smelling about the house; squeaking when they think they are lost, and then I have to go and find them, when they crawl up me as up a large tree, and go to sleep on the branches, quite safe and happy. I think you would love them. They have the sweetest little innocent faces I ever saw, and such pluck and individuality, each with its own little fads and manners. In India, I believe, people keep mongeese to kill snakes; but here they seem to be ready to pursue any and everything, and the house evidently affords good hunting, especially the space under the roof. I saw one of the mongeese under my wardrobe the other day, struggling with what looked like some dreadful grey insides of a little animal, and I hauled her out, thinking she had got hold of something that might poison her. It was the mangled body of a house-lizard—horrible sight! Then another of the little creatures caught an immense spider yesterday, and sat under the sala table tearing off the long hairy legs, and then choking the body down in great gulps—ugh!
One night last week I was awakened by a police-whistle in the street, sounding an alarm, which is one long note and two short ones. We found this alarm note out in a rather curious fashion, as one evening we whistled for one of the servants like that—we were sitting on the balcony at the time—and a few moments later a policeman knocked at the door and wanted to know what murder or other trouble we were in! And when C—— enquired about it at the police station, they asked him not to blow a whistle in that way in the street again unless we were in danger. It was a comfort to know that the signal would work so well.
So when we heard the long note and two short ones in the night, we turned out on to the balcony, whence we saw the glow of a big fire at the end of the street towards the point, and Filipino policemen were running along below with clanking buckets.
The building that was on fire was the Military Corral (stables), which made a fine blaze, and there was a stirring scene when the poor frightened horses came tearing down the quiet, dark street in a maddened rout. They were the American horses, which look so big and powerful and quite alarming to eyes accustomed to the little Filipino ponies. They clattered down the street in batches, tossing their heads and trying to pass one another, with the glow of the fire in the sky behind them, and we heard the sound of their hoofs dying away and away through the empty town. After a while the light in the sky faded out, the policemen with their buckets returned slowly, and we went back to bed; but no one else in the street had so much as looked out of a window!
We learned afterwards that many of the horses were found wandering far out in the country, but I believe some of them have not been caught even yet. The Corral was burnt to the ground, as they had to wait till the police arrived to put it out, because there were only two soldiers sleeping there, all the rest living in houses in the town and suburbs with their queridas (native mistresses). This seems a very strange state of affairs, but it is a well-known fact, and on this particular occasion was referred to quite casually by the soldier on duty (of whom C—— was asking information), and who apparently thought it was the most natural arrangement for troops in a disaffected country.
I have been reading a great deal since I have taken to bed, and besides all the home papers you send me, I have the Manila papers and El Tiempo (Iloilo), which I find I can read quite easily now. The Manila Times of June 10 had a long article about the eternal education question, headed “Arbitrary Race Distinctions,” in which, as you may gather from the title, some American works out his nation’s theory that there is no real difference between East and West. The writer very amiably wishes to point out that Filipino children are just as intelligent at school as are American children, and I think this is about the hundredth article I have read to that effect; but I have still to read or hear any observation to the effect that precocity is the natural heritage of every Oriental child. Americans always appear to judge the Philippines by no standard, precedent, or parallel; which I suppose is very natural for anyone coming straight from such an absolutely different country as the U.S.A. In this article, of which I am speaking at present, there are many long and fine words recklessly thrown about, such as “introspection,” “collective individuality,” and so forth, which I think are meant to prove that if a Filipino child is precocious, he will grow up a clever, cultured, and enlightened man or woman; whereas every unprejudiced person knows that the Filipino people learn with intelligence (an intelligence which is, after all, only remarkable when compared to a very ordinary white child) till they reach manhood or womanhood, and then it is as though a veil were drawn over the brightness of their minds, and they not only progress no further, but even go backwards!
This optimist also pictures a future “in three generations,” when “the iron horse will spin merrily up and down the passes,” by which I take it he implies that means of communication will at last (instead of at first) be established; and after a lot of hyperbolical descriptions of machinery, he winds up with this, “a sleek, well-nourished Filipino will garner the grain and check the tree boles”—which is very fine talk, but, to begin with, no one ever saw a Filipino who was not sleek and well-nourished, and what one wants to know is, what labourers will toil at the “iron horse” and the machinery with sufficient thrift and honesty to make those concerns worth the attention of the American or even Filipino capitalist? It is easy to imagine that some day the natives of the Philippines may be allowed to administer their own government and deal out laws of life and death to each other, but where is capital to come from? For the notion of Wall Street putting money into a business run by a Filipino, would be beyond the wildest dreams of the most uninstructed voter in the remotest State.
Now, what I can’t make out is this, are all these essays and writings and leaders about the absolute equality of the Filipino mind with the best white intellect really genuinely what the Americans think of these people, or are they just so much dust in the eyes of the native as well as the foreign critic to excuse and justify the position the U.S.A. has chosen to assume towards these Islands?
Iloilo, June 26, 1905.
C—— and another man got up a paper-chase last Sunday, and, by way of being cordial, advertised the event in El Tiempo a day or two before, C—— and his friend arranging to be the hares, and let all Iloilo chase them, if it cared to. They were very keen and excited about their venture, which was something quite new in the way of local enterprise. The “meet” was in Plaza Libertad at six in the morning, and when they got there and found a large company of Spaniards, Mestizos, Swiss, and one or two other Englishmen, they were delighted, and set off in great feather. Our pony is a very good “goer,” and can fly along ahead of almost any other pony here, so C—— and his friend started and tore along the Jaro road in the cool morning, with the “field” after them.
Beyond Jaro, where they were out in the open country, they noticed that the hunt was far out of sight and hearing, so they ambushed in some bamboo brake, and hung about, peeping round bushes for about a quarter of an hour, and then went cautiously back a few yards and hung about again, and so on till by degrees they got back into Jaro. Imagine their disgust when they at last tracked the other sportsmen to a bar where they were sitting at little tables drinking cold beer! Their fury about the incident is comical, but one cannot help sympathising with them after all the trouble they took to infuse a little sport into the place.
One of the chief things Cebú crows about is possessing a race-course and a Jockey Club, and I think they are quite right so to crow, as something of the sort would be a boon here. One need hardly say that when anything like that is done in Manila or anywhere else, the Americans have no part in the initiative, as they are not a very sporting people, and all they do to keep themselves alive is base-ball. It seems so odd to be in a garrison town, and not see officers with sports or a club, or polo or gymkhanas or anything. The Filipinos have no games, and the great idea is to teach them base-ball, which, by-the-bye, the Americans call ball-game. When I say the Filipinos have no games, I forget a sort of ball they throw about, in the streets or anywhere, made of strips of bamboo bent into a hollow, spherical frame; but the throwing about is not conducted on any principle or according to any rules.
When I am feeling well again, I should like to ride in the mornings, but I wish I had brought my saddle, as there is not such a thing as a side-saddle to be bought in Iloilo, or, the shopkeepers tell us, in the whole Islands. This is because the Mestizas never ride at all, and the American women ride astride in large loose trousers that look like two skirts.[9] There are very few here who ride, but I saw several going about in Manila, and am confirmed once and for ever to my allegiance to the side-saddle, for a more hideous and ungainly effect than women astride I never saw, to say nothing of its vulgarity. The attitude also brings out all the disproportions of the female figure, making it look top-heavy and ill-balanced. It is all very well for the Amazons to look well on a Greek sarcophagus, but no modern woman of over sixteen is shaped like that—and I very much doubt if the ordinary ancients were either, quite apart from corsets, boots, and collars. Besides all that, from the point of view of sense, a woman’s knees can’t be strong enough to grip the saddle. So as I have not brought my own saddle I shall not be able to ride, and now we are thinking of going home, it is not worth while to send for it.
I read in my Manila papers that there is a fearful row going on in Manila now, because the committee who are arranging the banquets and receptions for Mr Taft and his party have invited heads of every religious sect except the Iglesia Filipina, and the latter are making a terrible fuss, and insisting on Father Aglipay being included amongst the official guests. Of course, if he is asked, the R.C. won’t come, and the Pope will be furious, and the Insurrectionist Party will score one important point in the public eye. On the other hand, if the authorities fall out with Aglipay, they fall foul of his powerful following, who give quite enough trouble as it is, so they are in a very uncomfortable cleft stick, besides the fact of partizanship for any one religion being entirely unconstitutional. And the trouble is aggravated, you see, by Mr Taft being such an ardent pro-Filipino, and all the natives believing that his advent is to be a sort of second coming to announce the millennium of freedom.
What he is coming for, besides the personal conducting of the anti-Filipino Senators, is a staple subject of conversation, many thinking he will be allowed to announce a great reduction in taxation as a sort of halo to his visit. Whatever it is, I am so anxious not to miss his visit, and I do hope our return journey will not have to begin before he and his party arrive.
Besides the Taft excitement, Manila has been convulsed for months by efforts to get fireworks from America for “the 4th.” Already in the month of April there were huge “scare-heads,” as they call them, in the papers, with letters big enough for a poster, beginning
FIREWORKS NOT GONE OFF YET,
and then another headline to the effect that
THEY WILL NOT REACH MANILA TILL JUNE.
Sometimes these headlines are very comical, whether intentionally or not I don’t know—for instance, when the transport Sherman left, there was a headline in enormous letters,
Sherman’s LIVING FREIGHT,
which I at first took to mean cows or horses, but found to my surprise it was only a list of officers’ names.
I am sure you will be sorry to hear that one of our dear little mongeese is dead, the little man of the party. He was very sick for a day or two, lying on the floor on his stomach as if in pain, and when the others came running into my room in the morning, he could only crawl very slowly after them. At last, at about ten in the morning, he died, poor, gentle little beast, and I made Domingo take him out and bury him in the garden. We don’t know what he died of, but we think it was tough cockroach, as his poor little throat was full of hard brown wings, which we hauled out, but it did him no good to get rid of them. What I fear is he may have picked up a cockroach which had died of rat-poison. I gave him weak sherry and water to revive him, but he brought it all up again with pitiful little groans and squeaks, and soon afterwards he died.
The little widows did not seem to mind much, they hopped about as usual; but now one of them has injured an eye in some way, and has gone blind in it, and is very sick and sorry, and I am afraid she won’t live long either. I bathed the poor eye with cold tea, which gave the little creature some relief, for she lifted the lid slowly, and then I saw that the eye had a cut right across, as if some animal had scratched it. She can only move very slowly, with her head on one side—a very sad sight—just able to crawl as far as wherever I am, and then sit in a heap waiting to be lifted up, when she goes to sleep on my lap, and lies still for hours.
Iloilo, June 29, 1905.
The weather is becoming more stormy, and typhoons are signalled, but so far they seem to go wide of us, which is a very good thing. The thermometer the last few days has been very low, 78° to 80°, but the damp makes it more trying and relaxing than when we had over 90° to contend against. With the rain, all sorts of trees have come into bloom—things with coarse, strong foliage and huge bright flowers. The fields are all covered with very vivid green grass and corn coming up, and sometimes when there is a purple thunder-cloud across half the sky and all these colours in the sun, wet with rain, shining against it, the effect is simply like a scene cut out of glittering metals.
As I explained to you when we first arrived, life here is adapted to dry heat, and the fears I had then about the wet season are being justified every day, for steel and silver rust while you look at them; clothes come out in feverish patches of blue mould; silk and satin “go” so that they tear like tissue paper; and all sorts of mysterious “beasts” are stowed away in our garments, while shoes have to be shaken before putting on more carefully than ever.
C—— amused me the other day with an account of an American millionaire who came down by the last boat from Manila to “prospect” in this island and Negros for sugar. It seems that the fancy of this plutocrat, who is quite a common, roughly-dressed old man, is to buy up half the island, with which object he went to the office, as C——’s firm are the largest, if not the only exporters of sugar in these islands. C—— said the old chap’s notions filled everyone with amusement, for he wants to get control of some plantations, and put up sugar mills that will crush 10,000 tons of cane daily! The price and scarcity of labour were represented to him as a factor in his schemes, as well as the Export Tax, lack of roads, and other trifles. But he was not much depressed, and I daresay he will tackle the enterprise in the American sink or swim style, which seems rather a pity, as what the Philippines want is small and prosperous farms—not huge trust-like businesses to produce vast sums to be spent in New York or Paris.
You remember my telling you about the fracas next door? That family all moved away, eventually, but not to Manila, only to the next street parallel to this. The next-door basement is now occupied by a dressmaker, a jolly fat old Tagalo woman with a deep voice like a man, and her hair scraped up into a knob with a comb (an ordinary white bone one for combing) stuck across it. Besides the comb, she wears nothing but a chemise, petticoat, and slippers. The work-girls are all natives, and they sit about the big front room on mats on the floor, sewing and cutting out and talking all day long. They are there at five in the morning, and often work till after dark. Two have sewing machines on tables, and they look so queer in their tight native sarong and muslin camisa, sitting on a Viennese cane chair at a treadle-machine.
The husband of the Tagalo is a fat, greasy Spaniard, with side-whiskers, and an eternal cigar, who lounges all day in a cane chair in vest and trousers, reading the Heraldo, and balancing his slippers on the tips of his bare toes. They appear to hit it off very well, he and his old native wife, for he is quite content to blowze and loaf all day, and roll off to his club now and then, while she is a typical, thrifty, hard-working Tagalo,[10] always amongst her work-girls, and generally sewing herself. She sits in a chair, though, and every now and then picks up an old cigar-box that is for ever within her reach, and rolls herself a cigarette, scooping up very carefully every crumb of tobacco that falls into her capacious lap.
This Filipina keeps the house much cleaner than the Mestizas did, and has more regard for privacy, in the shape of curtains of bright cretonne nailed across the side windows. The old lady has a very pet dog, which is exactly like herself—a huge, fat, sleek, brown creature, perfectly good-natured, with a deep, full voice. They have a spaniel too, and other dogs that run in and out, and I can’t make out how many belong to the house, or how many are only friends; but I got to be quite certain of one, which nearly always lies on the window-ledge, and to know it by sight. After a time, however, it gradually dawned on me that this particular spaniel never moved—and then I discovered that he was stuffed! Till I knew that, he was, to me, a quiet, contemplative dog; but since I found he was stuffed, he has become a horrible, uncanny demon.
Yesterday morning a little old native woman appeared wandering round the balcony with a bundle under her arm. When she caught sight of me she darted away, and in a few minutes Sotero came into the sala saying that a mujer (a woman) wanted to sell some piña to the señora.
I said I did not want piña particularly, but that the woman could come and show it to me if she liked; so in she came and squatted on her heels in the doorway while she undid the bundle, first a piece of cotton, and then an old newspaper, then more cotton, and at last a lot of rolls of muslin. They were very pretty pieces of stuff, dyed in pale greens, pinks, blues, and mauves, but she wanted sixteen or eighteen pesos apiece (thirty-two to thirty-eight shillings) for them—dress lengths of fifteen narrow yards. I said: “I will give you nine pesos.”
“Santa Maria!” she threw up her hands. “I could not live. My mistress would beat me!”
I said that was nonsense, because she knew no Filipino lady would dream of giving her more than seven.
“Fourteen at the very lowest, señora, and the American ladies gave me eighteen without any questions.”
“That is very silly of them,” I said. But I knew it to be true, for I had been present at a great buying of piña by American tourists, and the prices they gave were simply idiotic.
“I am not Americana,” I said.
“I know that” (I daresay she did, for on that point a native rarely, if ever, makes a mistake), “so I would not think of asking the señora more than thirteen, which I hope she will not mention to anyone.”
“Why should I pay thirteen for stuff that I know is to be had in the Filipino houses for nine?”
“If I say twelve, may the señora say a prayer that I may not be dismissed by my mistress.”
“I am Protestante. I think each person must say their own prayers.”
“The señora is wise and good. She will give me eleven and a half.”
And so on, and so on. Before we had done, I was the kindest, wisest, most humane, and beautiful and polite woman the sun ever shone on; I was blessed by all the Saints in turn—but I paid nine pesos for a roll of blue piña, and the old woman said she would come any day and sell me any amount more at the same price.
Iloilo, July 4.
This is a tremendous day here, and a universal public holiday—Declaration Day, you know; the anniversary of the day when the States declared themselves independent of the Mother Country. All the town is gay with palm-branches and myriads of Stars and Stripes, while the fun began at sunrise this morning by a great letting-off of Chinese crackers, and Americans coming out on their balconies in pyjamas and firing pistols into the air.
I think the Americans must be a very patriotic people, for out here they keep up these anniversaries with even more fervour, I am told, than they do at home, where they are a tradition of the soil. The cult of the national flag, too, is a perfect passion with them, and I have yet to see an American house out here where the Stars and Stripes do not appear in some part or other. In very many houses the flag is used as window-curtains, as ceiling-draperies, as portières, as tablecloths, besides little extra sort of Christmas-cake flags being stuck about wherever an ornament is wanted. One does not see this sort of thing in colonies of other countries, but the American flag devotion is really so sincere that one cannot cavil at its excess. Nevertheless we should consider it odd if the houses of high officials, and of everyone, in fact, in one of our colonies were decorated with Union Jacks in this fashion! Of course the Spaniards laugh at it very much; but then they are, very naturally, rather critical of all things American. One of them was holding forth bitterly to me on this flag question a day or two ago, and when I said that I thought it very nice to see so much patriotic feeling, he waved his hands and replied, very hotly: “It is not patriotism! It is farce! We, who have been born and bred for hundreds of generations on our native soil and love our country as a mother—we hold our flag sacred! We do not use it as furniture!”
I was much amused at his vehemence, but did not dare to smile for fear of hurting his feelings. Instead, I tried to soothe him down by saying that I thought the flag cult was perhaps a benefit as a direct appeal to the elementary natures of the Filipinos. This move of mine was a failure, however, for he burst out with renewed fury: “The Filipinos! What they think of it! Ha! You should hear them!” So I gave him up as a bad job!
To get back to the Declaration Day. The popping of pistols and throwing of crackers into the streets went on intermittently till about eight o’clock, when a procession began marching about the town, and luckily the day is extremely fine, though it is very hot indeed, as, though the thermometer is as low as 84°, there is not a breath of wind stirring, and all nature is very still and bright and shining.
The procession began to pass our house at about nine, so we had no more trouble to see it than just to lean over the balcony with some friends who had come round to profit by our position. C—— tried to get some snap-shots, but I am afraid they may not come out very well, as the camera is damp, like everything else in the house, and has a good coating of the prevailing blue mould.
The first spectacle that came along was a number of American officers on horseback, in khaki, with sashes of any colour they seemed to fancy—pale blue, pink, scarlet—slung round one shoulder and tied in a large bow on the hip. They rode the big army horses, which are no larger than ordinary horses at home; but, as I told you before, they look like pantomime animals after one’s eye is used to the Filipino ponies.
There was some hitch, out of sight, as the procession reached us, and all the officers pulled up their horses and turned round to look back. I don’t know what it was, but they halted a long time, trying all the time to get into the shade of the houses, for the heat was already very great. The men’s khaki suits were dark with perspiration, quite a different colour! Their horses dripped puddles of sweat when they halted, and one white horse was gradually turning purple!
The Americans rode in the style which I notice they all adopt. It does not look well according to our ideas, for they slouch in the saddle and flap their elbows, sitting with their legs sticking out straight as if the horse had tar or something on its ribs which the rider wanted to keep clear of. They seem to hold their reins in any sort of way, in each hand and up to their chins being the favourite method, which looks awkward, to say the least of it. After them came one or two Filipinos, who all ride very well by instinct, sitting their horses firmly and gracefully, with flat thighs, and moving as if they were part of their mount, so that it is a pleasure to look at them. The little ponies and horses of the Filipinos pranced and curvetted about in a most engaging manner, which desirable result is brought about by means of an ingenious contrivance, borrowed from the Spaniards, of a sharp iron spike which runs into the roof of the horse’s mouth when the rein is pulled, causing the animal to fret and foam and sidle to the admiration of beholders, who wonder how the rider can be so brave and cool with such a spirited steed.
After this little cavalcade had got past, the procession proper came along, headed by a military band from Guimaras, playing extremely well, and a long column of American soldiers, all in khaki and wearing khaki felt sombreros, such as our troops adopted in the Boer War, turned up at one side and with a narrow blue cord knotted in front, the ends finished off with two small blue acorns. They marched very well, all looking as exactly alike as so many toy soldiers on an expanding frame—you know the things? All very tall men, with long, handsome faces, narrow shoulders, and long, thin legs, not at all a robust type, no wiriness and no depth about them.
After the soldiers came a dozen or so of ordinary civilians in white linen suits and sombreros, with stars and medals on their breasts. They were followed by a similar group of men on foot, and these two little bands represented the Veteran Army of the Philippines, which includes anyone who volunteered in any capacity during the War. We told C—— he ought to be in that company, or at least to have a medal, as he was once made a temporary “lootenant,” and fought for the Americans in Samar. I think, however, that the V.A.P., as they call it, confines itself to American volunteers. With the American craze for societies and so forth, the V.A.P. are a sort of brotherhood, and have lodges and badges and meetings, and all that sort of thing. They gave a dance when we first came here, to which we went, and were awfully disgusted when we arrived to find that we had come too late for a solemn Lodge Meeting at which some ceremony had been performed.
After the V.A.P. came a lot of Philippine Scouts, quite the opposite build to the American soldiers, as they were very small, square men, with brown, square faces, high shoulders, long bodies, and short legs. Sturdy-looking little people, and looking very trim and smart in their neat khaki uniforms. Their band followed them, and behind that came the Constabulary, more little square “brown brothers” in white gala suits, with their band.
A string of carriages came next, decorated, wheels and all, with Stars-and-Stripes flags and filled with all sorts of Americans, Filipinos, Mestizos, and Spaniards, men and women, a very gay crowd. Following them was the Fire Brigade, consisting of natives marching on each side of an old hand-pump, like a thing on a sailing ship, and carrying a most amusing banner, painted with a picture of a house on fire, where a man in the middle distance worked a hose with a Niagara pouring out of it, while in the foreground a huge woman holding a giant baby sat on a packing case amongst a lot of very small furniture.
Next came a Filipino Base-ball Team, in khaki knickerbockers and black shirts, with ATLETICA in large white letters across their chests, after the fashion of that base-ball team we once saw play in the gardens of the Borghese.
The great feature of the procession was a large car decorated with a quantity of American flags and portraits of Washington, surmounted by a big pasteboard column, striped red and white, on the top of which lay a scroll of paper, held down by a gigantic gilt ink-pot with a mammoth quill stuck in it, and on the scroll was written CONSTITUTION in big letters.
All the men in the Port Works went past, some carrying hammers, and some bearing, between five or six of them, immense long boring-rods for blasting. They were Filipinos, of course; in fact, with the exception of the American soldiers and a dozen or so of the occupants of the carriages, the whole procession was Filipino—all quite pleased and childlike to march about with banners to Sousa’s stirring tunes. I don’t suppose one in twenty of the “little brown brothers” had the vaguest idea what their big white brothers were so rejoicing about; or if they had ever heard of Townshend and the Stamp Duties they would think the commemoration of the removal of a yoke of foreign bad government and taxation was something to do with their own everlasting struggle for independence. Besides this comical side to the rejoicings, there was the absurd anomaly that a great part of the funds for this celebration had been contributed by the British commercial houses!