supposed that all lands had been discovered except the North and South
Poles, and it was pretty well believed if they were ever discovered it
wouldn't go very far toward reducing the high cost of living--it was
pretty thoroughly believed that it wasn't a good farming country
around either of those poles--but to discover, dropped right out of
the blue, a veritable Garden of Eden, a land flowing with milk and
honey, as big as New England, New York, and New Jersey--our nation
went mad, delirious with joy. You all recall it.
When George came sailing home from that wonderful cruise we were for
making him President of the United States, and I guess we might have
done it if he had known whether he was a Democrat or Republican.
As soon as his flagship was seen in the offing on his return, we went
off in a small boat to meet him, clambered on deck, and the first
question we popped at him was, "George, are you a Democrat or a
Republican?"
George said he didn't know--he thought he was a Democrat. Then on
second thought he said he _was_ a Democrat.
But things were in such shape at that time that the slightest
suspicion of doubt in a candidate's mind as to whether he was a
Democrat or Republican spoiled his chances for the Presidency.
Well, I guess!
Why, a fellow out for the Presidency in those times would wear a great
big feather plume stuck in his hat and you could hardly see the plume
for the prominent words, "I Am a Democrat," displayed on it.
He might buy a new hat, but the same plume would be stuck in it. And
_vice versa_ some other chap seeking the Presidency--while he couldn't
wear a plume in his hat saying "I Am a Republican" (the fellow with
the plume had that device copyrighted), he would have something else
just as effective--a newspaper, or a tariff bill, or a sombrero, or
something with which he would proclaim from shore to shore, "I Am a
Republican."
While it was tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum which you were, a term of
years of that blatant, persistent advertising declaration was
necessary to cop out the Presidency.
George had been so busy discovering new lands that he wasn't hep to
this, so when we shot that question at him, he said he didn't know. He
knew he was a patriot, and all coons looked alike to George, so that
was what he said.
Shucks! With that answer George didn't have any more show for the
Presidency than a rabbit.
While we couldn't give him the Presidency, we gave him the most
popular outburst of a country's gratitude--the most hilarious,
spontaneous, delirious paean of praise ever awarded any discoverer of
new lands--Christopher Columbus was a piker.
We bought George a house--he shook the sea, married a wife and settled
down and lived happily ever after.
We were so grateful to Spain for locating the islands for George that
we paid her $20,000,000, because she needed the money.
[Illustration: I hit a prominent official in Washington for a free
pass on a transport to the Philippines]
I got so excited over the new find that I packed my grip, hit a
prominent official in Washington for a free pass on a transport to the
Philippines--on the grounds of my being an ultra patriotic
American--and made a bee line for the Pacific coast. When I got to
San Francisco I learned that the next transport for the Philippines
wouldn't leave for a week. There was a liner leaving for the Orient
that day, so I forfeited my pass and bought a ticket on the liner--I
was in a hurry to see these islands. When I got here, shortly after
George had discovered them, the Filipinos tried to stuff me with a
story about a fellow by the name of Magellan having discovered the
islands way back in 1521--blamed if they didn't try to knock out
George's patent with a claim of priority.
I looked the islands over from Luzon to Mindano--had a "lovely" time.
I told the Filipinos I didn't take any stock in that alleged Magellan
discovery. On their own story about it that discovery was nearly four
hundred years old, and, even if it were true, it was moth-eaten,
rust-worn, and had no cutting edge.
If they had been discovered nearly four hundred years ago it was high
time that there should be some evidence of that discovery to prove
it--they hadn't made any use of the discovery.
Manila was the toughest city in the Orient. Dirty, cholera and
plague-ridden, out at the elbows and down at the heel, and that
general description would apply all over the islands.
But the Filipinos set some store by that Magellan myth. The shock of a
real discovery set them off and stirred them up, and they set up a
republic, alla samee melican man, and proclaimed Aguinaldo President.
Aguinaldo was running around in the woods somewhere, current
historians didn't seem to know just where, and wasn't having any
marked success with his Presidency; and, after some argument, was
persuaded to quit the Presidency and go to farming.
XVII
WHITE FILIPINOS, AGUINALDO, AND THE BUSY MOTH
In my last letter I believe I changed my style somewhat and became an
historian. I realize I'm serving up several different styles of
narrative in these letters, and know it's taking a chance to adopt the
historical. History is dry stuff, but another chapter of it seems
necessary to clear the situation at this mile-post I'm passing--the
Philippine Islands.
You can't get the President of a republic running around in the woods,
and as goodly a land as the Philippines in chaos, and then go off and
leave it without some further word of explanation than I gave in my
last letter, in which I left the President safely anchored on a farm.
The Philippine Islands at this time were in a fearful mess. The
natives were half child, half savage. Dirt, vice, degradation, war,
pestilence, everything but famine, were the rule--you cannot starve
these people; they live in a land of perpetual summer: clothing not a
necessity; and they can pick their living off the trees.
[Illustration: You cannot starve these people; they live in a land of
perpetual summer]
Under the stimulus of being named "Little Brown Brothers" to the
nation which had discovered them, they bucked up and went to it; and
they have made the most wonderful progress in the past sixteen years!
From the worst city they have made Manila the best city in the Orient.
There is not another city in Japan, China, or India that can equal it
in cleanliness and healthfulness, with well-paved roads running
through it, and leading out from it in all directions. One of these
roads they have made, a hard macadam, none better anywhere, reaches
clear across the Island of Luzon, from Manila Bay to the Pacific
Ocean, 110 miles. They have actually eclipsed their big white brothers
in respect to roads.
We wait until population and improvements in the way of well-tilled
farms strike us, and then, after a great while, in rare instances,
after enough wagons and horse flesh have been worn out hauling produce
over muddy soft dirt roads to build a good road several times, we get
wise and build a good road. Not so our progressive Filipinos. They put
the road through first. Then, when the country settles up, and the
natives decide to come down out of the trees and till the land, there
will be a good hard road to haul their produce over.
[Illustration: There is not another city in Japan, China, or India
that can equal it in cleanliness]
_We_ ought to be jarred out of our rut--get discovered.
That 110 miles of road runs largely through rich bottom land, the
major part of which is as innocent of cultivation as Adam and Eve were
of clothing before the Lord caught them stealing apples.
Occasional villages of nipa palm shacks, stuck up on bamboo poles, are
passed, the chief industry of the owners of the shacks being to roost
in them out of the sun and rain, when they are not out gathering
something to eat that Nature provides without labor. But they have
made good roads.
There is not another city in the Orient that equals Manila in hotel
accommodations; in an up-to-date telephone system; in electricity and
ice; in rapid transit by trolley, carriages, and automobiles; in a
fire department, and a live and enterprising press.
These Filipinos are truly a wonderful and progressive people!
I've been so busy stepping over the ground in seven-league boots,
jumping from premise to conclusion, that I haven't, perhaps, dwelt
enough on details.
[Illustration: The chief industry of the owners of the shacks is to
roost in them out of the sun and rain]
The inhabitants of the islands are not all of the same color. There
are two colors--white and chocolate brown. The latter is the popular
shade--you might say they are the style. The whites are the most
dejected, forlorn bunch I've ever seen. They give me the jimjams, the
willies, and I want to get away. The Filipinos' wonderful progress
dates back sixteen years, from the time the white population began to
make its appearance here, and the casual observer might draw
conclusions.
But conclusions are the last thing in the world an historian should
tamper with. He should confine himself to reciting facts, and let
statesmen and politicians draw conclusions--and their pay.
The white population is leaving the islands--those who can get away.
Those who can't, whose fortunes are tied up in the islands, put one in
mind of a lot of ship-wrecked voyagers, who, with all hope of succor
abandoned, are waiting for their ship to sink.
They have expatriated themselves (it amounts to that), and for sixteen
years have become acclimated--invested their lives and fortunes in the
islands. But they are not the right color--their color is against
them.
Back in the old district school days in one of McGuffey's readers (was
it the Fifth?) there was a very eloquent speech by some statesman
(name has slipped my memory), entitled: "Whither Are the Cherokees to
Go?"
It was an impassioned appeal. The reading of that speech used to swell
my little chest till the buttons on the little bob-tailed jacket we
used to wear in those days, called "a round-about," gave way. Won't
someone make a speech for these white Filipinos? They ought to have an
advocate somewhere, even though they _are_ white. They aren't to blame
for that. The Lord made them that way.
* * * * *
I've been to see Aguinaldo at Cavete, about twenty-five miles from
Manila, over a good automobile road. I went in company with Dr.
Fitzsimmons, of the Manila Municipal Commission, and Mr. Watson, of
the Manila Cable News. Mr. Watson acted as interpreter, as Aguinaldo
does not speak English.
We found Aguinaldo at a neighboring village, where he had just been
initiated into the order of Masons.
He invited us to go to his home, where we paid him a short visit. I
found Aguinaldo a very courteous and genial gentleman, and when I told
him that he was spoken of as the George Washington of the Philippines,
he modestly protested at the honor of such a comparison.
When I reminded him that he, like Washington, had retired to the farm,
he reminded me that Washington took up agriculture after his people
had secured their independence, while the Filipinos were still looking
for theirs.
I asked him if he thought it for the best interests of the Filipinos
to have the islands turned over to them at this time, and he thought
it was. I told him it was a great object lesson to the Filipinos to
see their foremost countryman turning his attention to the soil, the
islands' chief source of wealth, and he told me that many of them were
doing the same thing.
After some general remarks we left Aguinaldo on the piazza of his
home, which, in comparison with the average Filipino's residence, was
commodious and palatial.
He is very much in earnest in tilling his 3,000 acres; and we gave
hearty assurance of our most earnest wish that he would come out
victorious in the battle he was waging against a pest of moth which
was disputing with him the title to his crops.
XVIII
SINGAPORE--THE HUMORIST'S CLOSE CALL
There are more different ways of getting in bad than there are to keep
out of trouble--a lot more. Indeed, straight and narrow is the road.
But there are lots of by-ways leading off from the safe and beaten
path, from which one's feet should never stray. In going around the
world one can't keep too sharp a lookout for the prescribed highway.
This homely, safe and sane reasoning comes to me with force as I sadly
pen these lines here in Singapore, having turned off on a side street
that _looked_ all right when I swerved--_i. e._, I knew it wasn't
exactly the middle of the road, but I took a chance, because it looked
inviting and I felt sure I could see my way back to the main line.
Leaving the Philippine Islands for Hong Kong, and taking a ship from
there to Singapore is only a detail of my present perturbation.
That Hong Kong was an infected port, Black Plague being prevalent, is
largely to blame.
I'd be easy in my mind this minute if Hong Kong had not been an
infected port. Anyway, if my feet had slipped it would have been on a
different orange peel or banana skin.
Singapore has very stringent health regulations against passengers
arriving from Hong Kong.
To get into Singapore, to land at the port, one must sign what is
called an "Undertaking"; the same being an agreement that if you stay
in the town over twenty-four hours you agree to report at the health
office in Singapore at 3 P. M. every day. Failing to do this, the
penalty is arrest and a fine of $500.00.
The exact minute at which you must report is prescribed--3 P. M. There
is no leeway given, as, between the hours of two and three, or three
and four.
If you hail from Hong Kong you may land at Singapore, and stay there
more than twenty-four hours if you sign an agreement that you will
report at the health office at 3 P. M. sharp, daily. Failing this, to
the dungeon and $500.00, please.
My only object in coming to Singapore is to tranship for Rangoon; and,
as we sailed up to quarantine at 8 this morning, we passed my ship
laying at anchor, scheduled to sail for Rangoon at 5 P. M. today.
A row of "undesirables" from Hong Kong for Singapore ranged up in the
dining saloon before an austere and awful health official, and were
put through the thirty-second degree--it was a meek and patient lot of
lambs that passed before the throne of his majesty.
When it came my turn, with my eye on the ship that was going to bear
me hence from Singapore, as the gruelling questions were put to me, I
told the official I was going to shake Singapore at 5 P. M. today.
Now it will be necessary for you to know the English better than
perhaps you do, indeed, even with this increased knowledge you'll
still be short unless you know the Singapore English, and, even with
that knowledge, you won't be fully enlightened unless you've come in
contact with the Singapore English official, to realize what a regular
Daniel in the lion's den I was to tell that being that I proposed to
"shake" Singapore.
Shake Singapore!
Ye gods!
Tell a Singapore official to his face that you are going to shake the
town! A Yankee at that, and from Hong Kong to boot!
[Illustration: Ye gods! Tell a Singapore official to his face that
you are going to shake the town!]
A Singapore Englishman feels about Hong Kong, even when not infected,
as a St. Paul man used to feel about Minneapolis before Minneapolis
put it out of the running.
That Rangoon steamer was due to sail at 5 P. M. this very day, or I
wouldn't have dared.
A laugh went down the line of crushed candidates for landing at the
heavenly port of Singapore, which helped me to bear the jove-like
frown of the official--it helped a lot. It egged me on to further
deeds of daring; for when he handed me a duplicate of the undertaking
I had signed, to remind me of what I was up against if I didn't report
to him at 3 sharp the following day, if I was still in town, with the
remark: "Right-o, see that you report at the health office daily at
3 P. M. every day you're in town after today"--with my eye on that ship
for Rangoon I came back with: "Right-o, if I don't shake Singapore
today you'll find me on the stoop of your office daily at 2:59, so you
can feel my pulse and look at my tongue. But, oh man, my only object
in coming to Singapore at all is to get out of it. Wouldn't have come
to Singapore if there had been a way around it. I don't like
Singapore. I think it a measly town. I like Hong Kong. Hong Kong is a
nice town. It's got Singapore beaten forty ways"--and it made a hit
with the crowd, and I swelled out my chest and swaggered away, and
thought I was _funny_.
[Illustration: I swelled out my chest and swaggered away and thought
I was _funny_]
Now word has just come to me that my ship won't sail today. Owing to
unforeseen delays, she won't sail till tomorrow at 5 P. M., and it's
the ship's delay, and "the haughtiness of office" for me. I feel just
like the melancholy Dane in his famous soliloquy.
I'm in the same fix another fellow was, who thought _he_ would be
funny. He was standing on the rear platform of a train that was just
pulling out from a town in Illinois, noted for its blood-thirsty,
scrappy natives. The train was getting under good headway when this
"humorist" thought it would be funny to shake his fist at one of the
natives standing along the line, a great big especially
vicious-looking citizen, and to promise him one good thrashing the
next time he (the humorist) came that way.
Just then the train stopped and backed down to the station onto a
siding.
With a blood-curdling whoop that native jumped aboard the train.
[Illustration: The "funny man" gently lifted the derby from the dozing
passenger's head and set his own sombrero in its place]
The humorist, who was wearing a wide-brimmed, conspicuous sombrero,
ducked into the car, and espying an English tourist dozing and wearing
a modest little derby, the "funny man" gently lifted the derby from
the dozing passenger's head and set his own sombrero in its place, and
sat down two seats back and was nonchalantly looking out of the
window as the native raged into the car looking for blood and that
fellow with a hat.
There was no mistaking the hat; he spotted his man and was going to
eat him alive.
The poor bewildered English tourist didn't know what it was all about.
But that didn't go--nothing but blood would answer. It was looking
dark for the bewildered Englishman when the rear platform orator
stepped up and pacified the native by telling him that the gentleman
didn't mean anything--that he wasn't quite right in his _head_, and in
that way blood was averted.
The native got off; the train pulled out, this time for good. After it
was fully forty miles from that station, and going sixty miles an
hour, the owner of the sombrero stepped across the aisle, and,
addressing the bewildered passenger, said: "Excuse me, sir, but I
believe you are wearing my hat." B. p. reached for the hat on his
head, saw it wasn't his (it was an afternoon of surprises), and handed
it to the rightful owner, and, as he was a perfect gentleman, he
thanked the man again for his presence of mind in saving him from a
beating up. The rear platform humorist, orator, funny man, begged him
not to mention it, and the incident was closed.
The funny man left the train at Milwaukee at supper time. The
bewildered passenger stayed on and sat all night in a brown
study--seemed to be trying to solve something. He reached St. Paul in
the morning at sun-up, and with the coming of a new day, light dawned
and he jumped up, shook his fist in the direction of Milwaukee, and
said: "And domned if I didn't thank him twice, when I should 'ave
punched his 'ead!"
Well, it's 7 P. M. I should have been two hours on my way to Rangoon.
I'll drop this letter in the mail to catch the P. & O. going west, eat
my dinner, and retire and get a good night's sleep; and after
breakfast tomorrow I'll think till 2:59 P. M. There's no use worrying,
for if worry gets you going it will keep you on the run. No matter
what the hole you're in, there is a deeper one. I'll get up in the
morning and I'll think, and think, and think how I can put that dread
official on the blink, blink, blink. But a Singapore official, oh,
he's a mighty gun, and this Singapore official he weighs about a
ton--I guess. Still, I will not worry, but then, for all of that, I
wish that _I'd_ been wearing a great big sombrero hat.
[Illustration: "And domned if I didn't thank him twice when I should
'ave punched his 'ead"]
[Illustration: No matter what the hole you're in, there is a deeper
one]
XIX
THE HINDU GUIDE A SAINT WOULD BE
Last evening I wrote you about my perturbed state of mind regarding
quarantine here in Singapore.
After _chota hazri_ this morning I thought for a couple of hours, then
ate breakfast, after which I met a Hindu in my hotel (there are thirty
thousand Indians in Singapore), who looked at me as if he were
desirous of opening a conversation.
I stopped, saluted, and said to him: "Did you wish to speak to me?"
"Only to ask you if you wanted a guide for Singapore today. I can show
you all the sights of Singapore and explain them to you in
understandable English."
"By jove!" I exclaimed. "I believe you can. You speak English like an
educated Englishman. What do you want for your day's services? You
look like ---- ----." I named an eminent American statesman, and he
did look like him, too, except for color. I asked the guide if he knew
of this statesman of whom he reminded me.
He said he didn't.
"Well," I said, "he is one of the most brilliant men on earth today."
The fellow smiled and showed a splendid set of teeth--a Hindu guide is
susceptible to compliments.
"How much do you want for your day's services?" I again asked him.
"Three dollars."
"I'll give you a dollar and a half," I said.
"Pay me anything you like and then you'll pay me more than I am worthy
of," he said.
We started off in a gharry, and he surely was a character.
Keen, bright, the most interesting guide I've ever struck--a Hindu.
We talked Hinduism till twelve o'clock, riding around Singapore; and
if you think foreign missionaries aren't up against it in their job of
converting India from Hinduism, or Brähmanism, you can think again.
He was a great solace to me.
"There are," he told me, "four great tenets to Hinduism:
"First--Don't question the mysteries. No one can solve them.
"Second--Don't worry about the future. No one knows what it has in
store."
He frankly told me that the other two had slipped his memory, but he
had cinched those two.
With me, number two was enough for today, with my job of thinking on
hand.
That guide was a wonder. He was intelligent. There is not one
Christian in ten thousand who could give a better argument for his
faith than that guide gave me for his faith. He was about as
refreshing a character as I have ever met.
He took me through a Hindu temple and laughed at Christians'
"ignorance" in condemning the Hindus' idols. Hindus didn't worship the
idols; but the Great Being the idols were to remind the worshiper of;
they were only links between the worshipers and the Great Being.
He expects to be born over again and to answer in his new existence
for the sins he has committed in this life; and the great end to be
striven for, is to fly off into nothing and nobody.
"Why," I said, "that's Buddhism."
"Buddhism," he scoffed, "Buddhism is only an offshoot from Hinduism,
borrowed from Hinduism." There were saints and sages among Hindus, he
told me. Saints could die, sages never. He had tried to be a saint,
but gave it up. No one was worthy of what they got, he the least of
all. Here he was getting $1.50 a day. If I had offered him anything
he would have taken it--10c, 20c, and even then he wouldn't be worthy
of it.
"Why in blazes didn't you tell me that before we closed for $1.50?" I
asked him.
"I told you my price was $3.00, but that I would take anything you
offered me. My offer stands," he said; "you offered me $1.50. At $1.50
I am riding around on a cushioned seat with a gentleman for four
hours, as a day's work. Out there, digging in the street, in the hot
sun, dressed only in a loin cloth, is a sweating, toiling brother
Hindu, putting in ten hours a day for thirty cents. He is entitled to
$1.50 for his day's work, more than I am entitled to thirty cents for
my day's work."
He was a sinner and admitted it. A most unworthy sinner, and expected
to get what was coming to him.
I dismissed him at lunch time to eat my lunch and prepare myself for
three o'clock.
XX
PENANG--A BIRD, THE FEMALE OF ITS SPECIES, AND THE MANGOSTEEN
I want to draw a veil over my exit from Singapore on this trip.