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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 Rev. X. Y. Z. Smith, of Wang-kiang,
China, will speak on mission work
on the Upper Yangtse.

All are invited.

But they counted without their host. The Captain had never schooled himself to look on
missionaries with favor, and he accordingly made arrangements to cross the meridian
where the circle of time changes and a day is dropped early on Sunday morning. He
calculated to a nicety, and as the passengers came down to Sabbath breakfast they saw
posted below the other notice, in big letters, the significant words:

Sunday, Nov. 29th.

Ship crosses 180th meridian

9.30 A.M.,

After which it will be Monday.

In Yokohama and Hong Kong the wiseacres were free in saying they wouldn’t be found
dead in Manila or the Philippines for anything. They had never been there, but knew all
about it, and seemed ready to wave any one bound thither a sort of never’ll-see-you-
again farewell that was most affecting. It is these very people that have made Manila the
side-tracked capital that it is and have scared off globe-trotters from making it a visit on
their way to the Straits of Malacca and India.

Hong Kong, the end of the China’s outward run, bursts into view after a narrow gateway,
between inhospitable cliffs, lets the steamer into a great bay which is the centre of
admiration for bleak mountain-ranges. The city, with its epidemic of arcaded balconies,
lies along the water to the left and goes stepping up the steep slopes to the peak behind,
on whose summit the signal-flags announce our arrival. The China has scarcely a chance
to come to anchor in peace before a storm of sampans bite her sides like mosquitoes, and
hundreds of Chinawomen come hustling up to secure your trade, while their lazy
husbands stay below and smoke.
Hong Kong rather feels as if it were the “central exchange” for the Far East, and from
the looks of things I judge it is. The great bay is full of deep-water ships, the quays teem
with life, and the streets are full of quiet bustle. It is quite enough to give one heart
disease to shin up the hills to the residence part of the town, and it took me some time to
find breath enough to tell the Spanish Consul I wanted him to visé my passport to
Manila.

This interesting stronghold of Old England in the East is fertile in descriptive matter by
the wholesale, but I can’t rob my friends in the Philippines of more space than enough to
chronicle the doings of a Chinese tailor who made me up my first suit of thin tweeds.
Ripping off the broad margin to the Hong Kong Daily Press, he stood me on a box, took
my measure with his strip of paper, making sundry little tears along its length, according
as it represented length of sleeve or breadth of chest, and sent me off with a placid “Me
makee allee same plopper tree day; no fittee no takee.” And I’m bound to say that the
thin suits Tak Cheong built for $6 apiece, from nothing but the piece of paper full of
tears, fit to far greater perfection than the system of measurement would seem to have
warranted.

The voyage from Hong Kong to Manila, 700 miles to the southeast, is one of the worst
short ocean-crossings in existence, and the Esmeralda, Captain Tayler, as she went aslant
the seas rolling down from Japan, in front of the northeast monsoon, developed such a
corkscrew motion that I fear it will take a return trip against the other monsoon to
untwist the feelings of her passengers. On the morning of the second day, however, the
yawing ceased; the skipper said we were under the lee of Luzon, the largest and most
northern island of the Philippines, and not long after the high mountains of the shore-
range loomed up off the port bow. From then on our chunky craft of 1,000 tons steamed
closer to the coast and turned headland after headland as she poked south through
schools of flying-fish and porpoises.

By afternoon the light-house on Corregidor appeared, and with a big sweep to the left
the Esmeralda entered the Boca Chica, or narrow mouth to Manila Bay. On the left, the
coast mountains sloped steeply up for some 5,000 feet, while on the right the island of
Corregidor, with its more moderate altitude, stood planted in the twelve-mile opening to
worry the tides that swept in and out from the China Sea. Beyond lay the Boca Grande,
or wide mouth used by ships coming from the south or going thither, and still beyond
again rose the lower mountains of the south coast. In front the Bay opened with a grand
sweep right and left, till the shore was lost in waves of warm air, and only the dim blue
of distant mountains showed where the opposite perimeter of the great circle might be
located.

It was twenty-seven miles across the bay, and the sun had set with a wealth of color in
the opening behind us before we came to anchor amid a fleet of ships and steamers off a
low-lying shore that showed many lights in long rows. Next morning Manila lay visibly
before us, but failed to convey much idea of its size, from the fact that it stretched far
back on the low land, thus permitting the eye to see only the front line of buildings and a
few taller and more distant church-steeples. Not far in the background rose a high range
of velvet-like looking mountains whose tops aspired to show themselves above the
clouds, and on the right and left stretched flanking ranges of lower altitude.

In due season my colleague came off to the anchorage in a small launch, and we were
soon steaming back up a narrow river thickly fringed with small ships, steamers, houses,
quays, and people. It was piping hot at the low custom-house on the quay. Panting
carabao—the oxen of the East—tried to find shade under a parcel of bamboos, shaggy
goats nosed about for stray bits of crude sugar dropped from bags being discharged by
coolies, piles of machinery were lying around promiscuously dumped into the deep mud
of the outyards, natives with bared backs gleaming in the sun were lugging hemp or
prying open boxes, and under-officials with sharp rods were probing flour-sacks in the
search for contraband. Spanish officials in full uniform, smoking cigarettes, playing
chess, and fanning themselves in their comfortable seats in bent-wood rocking-chairs,
were interrupted by our arrival, and made one boil within as they upset the baggage and
searched for smuggled dollars.
 Our Office and the Punkah under which the Old Salts Sat for Free Sea Breezes.

See page 8.

Here, then, was the anti-climax to the long journey of forty days from Boston, and those
were the moments in which to realize the meaning of the expression made by the
Captain of the China as she left the Golden Gate: “Take a last look, for you’re leaving
behind God’s country.”

Before arrival, while yet the Esmeralda was steaming down the coast, I was resolved to
refrain from judging Manila by first impressions. I felt primed for anything, and was
bound to be neither surprised nor disappointed. At first, I may admit, my chin and collar
drooped, but on meeting with my new associate I gave them a mental starching and
stepped with courage into the rickety barouche that, drawn by two small and bony
ponies, took us to the office of Henry W. Peabody & Co., the only American house in the
Philippines.

And having entered the two upstair rooms, that looked out over the little Plaza de
Cervantes, I was introduced to bamboo chairs, a quartette of desks, and half a dozen
office-boys, who were rudely awakened from their morning’s slumber by the scuffle of
my heavy boots on the broad, black planks of the shining floors. Across the larger room,
suspended from the ceiling, hung the big “punka,” which seems to form a most
important article of furniture in every tropical establishment. On my arrival the boy who
pulled the string got down to work, and amid the sea-breezes that blew the morning’s
mail about, business of the day began.

The first thing I noticed was that cloth instead of plaster formed the walls and ceilings,
and seemed far less likely than the mixture of lime and water to fall into baby’s crib or
onto the dinner-table during those terrestrial or celestial exhibitions for which Manila is
famous. For the Philippines are said to be the cradle of earthquake and typhoon, and in
buildings, everywhere, construction seems to conform to the requirements of these
much-respected “movers.” Tiles on roofs, they say, are now forbidden, since the passers-
by below are not willing to wear brass helmets or carry steel umbrellas to ward off a
shower of those missiles started by a heavy shake. Galvanized iron is used instead, and,
while detracting from the picturesque, has added to the security of households who once
used to be rudely awakened from their slumbers by the extra weight of tile bedspreads.

And Manila houses. Down in the town, outside the city walls, the regular, or rather
irregular, Spanish type prevails, and nature, in her nervousness, seems to have done
much in dispensing with lines horizontal and perpendicular. The buildings all have an
appearance of feebleness and senility, and look as if a good blow or a heavy shake would
lay them flat. But in the old city, behind the fortifications, are heavy buttressed buildings
of by-gone days, built when it was thought that earthquakes respected thick walls rather
than thin, and the sturdy buttresses so occupy the narrow sidewalks that pedestrians must
travel single file. The Spanish—so it seems—rejoice to huddle together in these gloomy
houses of Manila proper, but the rich natives, half-castes, and foreigners all prefer the
newer villas outside the narrow streets and musty walls; and just as much as the Anglo-
Saxon likes to place a grass-plot or a garden between him and the thoroughfare in front
of his residence, so does the Spaniard seek to hug close to the street, and even builds his
house to overhang the sidewalk. Save for carriages and dogs, the lower floors of city
houses are generally deserted, and, on account of fevers that hang about in the mists of
the low-ground, everyone takes to living on the upper story. Balconies, which are so
elaborate that they carry the whole upper part of the house out over the sidewalk, are a
conspicuous feature in all the buildings of older construction, and with their engaging
overhang afford opportunities for leaning out to talk with passers-by below, or a
convenient vantage-ground from which to throw the waste water from wash-basins.
Huge window-gratings thrust themselves forward from the walls of the lower story, and
are often big enough to permit dogs and servants to sit in them and watch the
pedestrians, who almost have to leave the sidewalk to get around these great cages.

It may be just as well, before going farther, to say something about this town that is
sarcastically labelled “Pearl of the Orient” and “Venice of the Far East” by poets who
have only seen the oyster-shell windows or back doors on the Pasig on the cover-labels
of cigar-boxes. It seems big enough to supply me with the pianos and provisions which
kind friends suggested I bring out with me in case of need, and the main street, Escolta,
is as busy with life and as well fringed with shops as a Washington street or a Broadway.

Spanish, of course, is the court and commercial language and, except among the
uneducated natives who have a lingo of their own or among the few members of the
Anglo-Saxon colony—it has a monopoly everywhere. No one can really get on without
it, and even the Chinese come in with their peculiar pidgin variety.

The city squats around its old friend the river Pasig, and shakes hands with itself in the
several bridges that bind one side to the other. On the right bank of the river, coming in
from the bay and passing up by the breakwater, lies the old walled town of Manila
proper, whose weedy moats, ponderous drawbridges, and heavy gates suggest a troubled
past. Old Manila may be figured as a triangle, a mile on a side, and the dingy walls
seem, as it were, to herd in a drove of church-steeples, schools, houses, and streets. The
river is the boundary on the north, and the wall at that side but takes up the quay which
runs in from the breakwater and carries it up to the Puente de España, the first bridge
that has courage enough to span the yellow stream.

The front wall runs a mile to the south along the bay front, starting at the river in the old
fort and battery that look down on the berth where the Esmeralda lies, and is separated
from the beach only by an old moat and the promenade of the Malecon, which, also
beginning at the river, runs to an open plaza called the Luneta, a mile up the beach. The
east wall takes up the business at that point, and wobbles off at an angle again till it
brings up at the river fortifications, just near where the Puente de España, already spoken
of, carries all the traffic across the Pasig. Thus the old city is cooped up like pool-balls,
in a triangle three miles around, and the walls do as much in keeping out the wind as
they do in keeping in the various unsavory odors that come from people who like garlic
and don’t take baths. Here is the cathedral—a fine old church that cost a million of
money and was widowed of its steeple in the earthquakes of the ’80s—and besides a lot
of smaller churches are convent schools, the city hall, army barracks, and a raft of
private residences.

Opposite Old Manila, on the other bank, lies the business section, with the big quays
lined with steamers and alive with movement. The custom-house and the foreign
business community are close by the river-side, while in back are hundreds of narrow
streets, store-houses, and shops that go to make up the stamping ground of the Chinese
who control so large a part of the provincial trade.

Everything centres at the foot of the Puente de España, which pours its perspiring flood
into the narrow lane of the Escolta, and people, carriages, tram-cars, and dust all sail in
here from north, east, south, and west. As on the other side, the busy part of the section
runs a mile up and down the river and a mile back from it, while out or up beyond come
the earlier residential suburbs. In Old Manila, the Church seems to rule, but on this side
the Pasig the State makes itself felt, from the custom-house to the governor’s palace—a
couple of miles up stream.

As to population, Manila, in the larger sense, may hold 350,000 souls, besides a few
dogs. Of the lot, call 50,000 Chinese, 5,000 Spaniards, 150 Germans, 90 English, and 4
Americans. The rest are natives or half-castes of the Malay type, whose blood runs in all
mixtures of Chinese, Spanish, and what-not proportions, and whose Chinese eyes, flat
noses, and high cheek-bones are queer accompaniments to their Spanish accents. Thus
the majority of the souls in Manila,—like the dogs—are mongrels, or mestizos, as the
word is, and the saying goes that happy is the man who knows his own father.

Plaza de Cervantes, Foreign Business Quarter.

See page 8.

I spent my first night in Manila at the Spanish Hotel El Oriente, and it was here that I
became acquainted with that peculiar institution, the Philippine bed. And to the newly
arrived traveller its peculiar rig and construction make it command a good deal of
interest, if not respect. It is a four-poster, with the posts extending high enough to
support a light roof, from whose eaves hang copious folds of deep lace. The bed-frame is
strung tightly across with regular chair-bottom cane, and the only other fittings are a
piece of straw matting spread over the cane, a pillow, and a surrounding wall of
mosquito-netting that drops down from the roof and is tucked in under the matting. How
to get into one of these cages was the first question that presented itself, and what to do
with myself after I got in was the second. It took at least half an hour to make up my
mind as to the proper mode of entrance, when I was for the first time alone with this
Philippine curiosity, and I couldn’t make out whether it was proper to get in through the
roof or the bottom or the side. After finally pulling away the netting, I found the hard
cane bottom about as soft as the teak floor, and looked in vain for blankets, sheets, and
mattresses. In fact, it seems as if I had gotten into an unfurnished house, and the more I
thought about it the longer I stayed awake. At last I cut my way out of the peculiar
arrangement, dressed, and spent the decidedly cool night in a long cane chair, preferring
not to experiment further with the sleeping-machine until I found out how it worked.

Next morning my breakfast was brought up by a native boy, and consisted of a cup of
thick chocolate, a clammy roll, and a sort of seed-cake without any hole in it. How to
drink the chocolate, which was as thick as molasses, seemed the chief question, but I
rightly concluded that the seed-cake was put there to sop it out of the cup, after the
fashion of blotting-paper. Fortified with this peculiar combination, I started on my
second business day by trying to remember in what direction the office lay, and
wandered cityward through busy streets, often bordered with arcaded sidewalks, which
were further shaded from the sun by canvas curtains.

After beginning the morning by ordering a dozen suits of white sheeting from a native
tailor—price $2.50 apiece—I was introduced to the members of the English Club, and
began to feel more at home stretched out in one of the long chairs in the cool library. It
seems that the club affords shelter and refreshment to its fourscore members at two
widely separated points of the compass, one just on the banks of the Pasig River, where
its waters, slouching down from the big lake at the foot of the mountains, are first
introduced to the outlying suburbs of the city, and the other in the heart of the business
section. The same set of native servants do for both departments, since no one stays
uptown during the middle of the day and no one downtown after business hours. As a
result, on week-days, after the light breakfast of the early morning is over at the uptown
building, the staff of waiters and assistants hurry downtown in the tram-cars and make
ready for the noon meal at the other structure, returning home to the suburbs in time to
officiate at dinner.

At the downtown club is the 6,000-volume library, and after the noonday tiffin it is
always customary to stretch out in one of the long bamboo chairs and read one’s self to
sleep. This is indeed a land where laziness becomes second nature. If you want a book or
paper on the table, and they lie more than a yard or two from where you are located, it is
not policy to reach for them. O, no! You ring a bell twice as far off, take a nap while the
boy comes from a distance, and wake up to find him handing you them with a graceful
“Aquí, Señor!” In fact, I have even just now met an English fellow who, they tell me,
took a barber with him on a recent trip to the southern provinces, to look after his scanty
beard that was composed of no more than three or four dozen hairs, each of which grew
one-eighth of an inch quarterly.

On the day before Christmas one of the guest-rooms at the uptown club was vacated, and
I moved in. The building is about two and a half miles out of the city, and its broad
balcony, shaded by luxuriant palms and other tropical trees, almost overhangs the main
river that splits Manila in two. The view from this tropical piazza is most peaceful.
Opposite lie the rice-fields, with a cluster of native huts surrounding an old church,
while, blue in the distance, sleeps a range of low mountains. To the left the river winds
back up-country and soon loses itself in many turns among the foothills that later grow
into the more adult uplifts on the Pacific Coast, while to the right it turns a sharp corner
and slides down between broken rows of native huts and more elaborate bungalows.

The club-house is long, low, and rambling. The reading, writing, and music rooms front
on the river, and the glossy hard-wood floors, hand-hewn out of solid trees, seem to
suggest music and coolness. It is possible to reach the city by jumping into a native boat
at the portico on the river bank, or to go by one of the two-wheel gigs, called
carromatas, waiting at the front gate, or to walk a block and take the tram-car which jogs
down through the busy highroad.

It is very difficult to absorb the points of so large a place at one’s first introduction, so I
won’t go further now than to speak of that far-famed seaside promenade called the
Luneta, where society takes its airing after the heat of the day is over.

Imagine an elliptical plaza, about a thousand feet long, situated just above the low beach
which borders the Bay, and looking over toward the China Sea. Running around its edge
is a broad roadway, bounded on one side by the sea-wall, and on the other by the green
fields and bamboo-trees of the parade-grounds. In the centre of the raised ellipse is the
band-stand, and on every afternoon, from six to eight, all Manila come here to feel the
breeze, hear the music, and see their neighbors. Hundreds of carriages line the roadways,
and mounted police keep them in proper file. The movement is from right to left, and
only the Archbishop and the Governor-General are allowed to drive in the opposite
direction.

The gentler element, in order not to encourage a flow of perspiration that may melt off
their complexions, take to carriages, but the sterner sex prefer to walk up and down,
crowd around the band-stand, or sit along the edge of the curbing in chairs rented for a
couple of coppers. Directly in front lies the great Bay, with the sun going down in the
Boca Chica, between the hardly visible island of Corregidor and the main land, thirty
miles away. To the rear stretches the parade-ground, backed up by clumps of bamboos
and the distant mountains beyond. To the right lie the corner batteries and walls of Old
Manila, and to the left the attractive suburb of Ermita, with the stretch of shore running
along toward the naval station of Cavité, eleven miles away. To take a chair, watch the
people walking to and fro, and see the endless stream of smart turn-outs passing in slow
procession; to hear a band of fifty pieces render popular and classic music with the spirit
of a Sousa or a Reeves, is to doubt that you are in a capital 8,000 miles from Paris and
11,000 miles from New York. Footmen with tall hats, in spotless white uniforms, grace
the box-seats of the low-built victorias, while tastefully dressed Spanish women or
wealthy half-castes recline against the soft cushions and take for granted the admiration
of those walking up and down the mall.

Puente de España. Manila’s Main Highway Across the Pasig.

See page 12.

The splendidly trained artillery-band, composed entirely of natives, but conducted by a

Spaniard, plays half a dozen selections each evening, and here is a treat that one can
have every afternoon of the year, free of charge. There are no snow-drifts or cold winds
to mar the performance, and, except during the showers and winds of the rainy season, it
goes on without interruption.

After the music is over the carriages rush off in every direction, behind smart-stepping
little ponies that get over the ground at a tremendous pace, and the dinner-hour is late
enough not to rob one of those pleasant hours at just about sunset. There are no horses in
Manila—all ponies, and some of them are so small as to be actually insignificant. They
are tremendously tough little beasts, however, and stand more heat, work, and beating
than most horses of twice their size.

Our Christmas dinner at the club has just ended, and from the bill of fare one would
never suspect he was not at the Waldorf or the Parker House. Long punkas swung to and
fro over the big tables, small serving boys in bare feet rushed hither and thither with
meat and drink, corks popped, the smart breeze blew jokes about, and everyone unbent.
Soups, fish, joints, entrées, rémoves, hors-d’œuvres, mince-pies, plum-puddings, and all
the delicacies to be found in cooler climes had their turn, as did a variety of liquid
courses. Singing, speeches, and music followed the more material things, and everyone
was requested to take some part in the performance. By the time the show was over the
piano was dead-beat and everybody hoarse from singing by the wrong method.
 II

Shopping at the “Botica Inglesa”—The Chit System—Celebrating New Year’s Eve—Manila

Cooking Arrangements—Floors and Windows—Peculiarities of the Tram-car Service—
Roosters Everywhere—Italian Opera—Philippine Music—The Mercury at 74° and an Epidemic
of “Grippe”—Fight Between a Bull and a Tiger—A Sorry Fiasco—Carnival Sunday.

January 7th.

My third Sunday in Manila is a cool breezy day, with fresh winds blowing down from
the mountains. The weather has lately been as temperate as one could wish, and has
corresponded to some of our soft spring conditions. From noon until three o’clock has
usually seemed warm, but the mornings have made walking pleasant, the afternoons
have given opportunities for tennis, and the evenings have hinted that an overcoat would
not be amiss. One could hardly ask for any more comfortable place to live in than
Manila as it stands to-day, and although sanitary appliances are most primitive, the city
seems to be healthy and without noisome pestilence.

During the holiday season, just over, foreign business has been suspended and everyone
socially inclined. Shopping has been in vogue, and on one of my expeditions for
photographic materials I was introduced to the “Botica Inglesa,” or English chemist’s
shop, which seems to be the largest variety-store in town. Here it is possible to buy
anything from a glass of soda to a full-fledged lawn-mower, including all the
intermediates that reach from tooth-brushes to photographic cameras.

And speaking of shopping brings mo to the “chit” system, which has been such a curse
to the Far East. In making purchases, no one pays cash for anything, since the heavy
Mexican dollars—which are the only currency of the islands—are too heavy to lug
around in the thin suits made of white sheeting. One simply signs an “I.O.U.” for the
amount of the bill in any shop that he may choose to patronize, and thinks no more about
it till at the end of the month all the “chits” which bear his name are sent around for
collection.

Result: one never feels as if he were spending anything until the first day of the
incoming month ushers in a host of these big or little reminders. If your chits at one
single shop run into large amounts, the collector generally brings along with him a coolie
or a wheelbarrow with which to lug away the weight of dollars that you pour into his
hands, and when two or three collectors come in together the office reminds one of a
“money-’changer’s. Counterfeit money is so prevalent that one after the other of your
callers bites the silver or drops it on the floor to detect lead, and to listen to the resulting
sound is not to feel complimented by their opinion of your integrity. So it goes, many of
the shop-keepers being swindled out of their dues by debtors who choose to skip off
rather than to pay, and waking up at the end of the month to find their supposed profits
existing only in the chits whose signers have skedaddled to Hong Kong or Singapore.

New Year’s Eve was celebrated with due hilarity and elaborate provisions. The club bill
of fare was remarkable, and when it is realized there are no stoves in Manila, the wonder
is that the cooking is so complex. A Manila stove is no more nor less than a good-sized
earthen jar, shaped something like an old shoe. The vamp of the shoe represents the
hearth; the opening in front, the place for putting in the small sticks of wood; and the
enclosing upper, the rim on which rests the single big pot or kettle. In a well-regulated
kitchen, there may be a dozen of these stoves, one for each course, and their cost being
only a peseta, it is a simple matter to keep a few extra ones on hand in the bread-closet.
And so, as one goes through the streets where native huts predominate, he sees a family
meal being cooked in sections, and is forced to admire the complexity of the greasy
dishes that are evolved from so simple a contrivance.

As the Manila cooking arrangements are rude, so I suspect are the pantry’s dish-washing
opportunities. I really should hesitate to enter even our club-kitchen, for certain dim
suggestions which are conveyed to the senses from spoons and forks, and certain plate
surfaces that would calm troubled waters if hung from a ship’s side, all hint at
unappetizing sights. All in all, the less one sees of native cooking, in transitu, the greater
will one’s appetite be.

I had expected an early introduction to earthquakes, but none have occurred so far, and I
am almost tempted to get reckless. Soon after my arrival I was inclined to put my
chemical bottles in a box of sawdust, empty part of the water out of my pitcher, and pack
my watch in cotton-wool in anticipation of some nocturnal disturbance. For the old
stagers who saw the city fall to pieces back in the ’80’s deem it their duty to alarm the
new arrival, and almost turn pale when a heavy dray rolls by over the cobblestones in the
street near the club, or make ready to fly out-of-doors at the first suspicion of vibration.

A word or two more about the floors in Manila houses. I don’t suppose there is a soft-
wood tree in the islands, and as a result one sees some very interesting hard-wood
productions. The floors come under this category. Rough-hewn as they are—out of huge
hand-sawed hard-wood planks—they are models. By certain processes of polishing with
banana leaves and greasy rags, they are made to shine like genius itself, and give such a
clean, cool air to the houses that one is compelled to regard them with admiration. In
fact, there is a certain charm in Manila about many specimens of hand-work that one
encounters everywhere. The stilted regularities—as our good professor used to say—of
machine-made articles are frequently conspicuous by their absence, and instead one sees
the inequalities, the lack of exact repetition, the informality of lines that are not just
perpendicular or horizontal, all of which make up the charm of work that is handmade,
that reflects the movements of a living arm and mind rather than those of a wheel or a
lever.

The Busy Pasig, from the Puente de España. Old Manila on the Left. Business Quarter to the Right.

See page 13.

The curious windows that are everywhere are likewise instructive. Like the blinds, they
slide in grooves on the railings of the balconies, and serve to shut out the weather from
the interior. They consist of frames containing a multitude of small lattice-work squares,
into which are placed thin, flat, translucent sea-shells which admit light, but are not look-
throughable. We have all heard of shell-roads, but never of shell-windows, and one
misses the presence of glass until he has got accustomed to a Manila house, whose
sliding sides are one vast window that is rarely closed.

Manila streets, outside of the city proper, are smooth, hard, and well shaded by the
arching bamboos. They are already proving attractive to the bicycle, which, though very
expensive out here at the antipodes, is growing in favor, especially among the wealthier
half-castes, or mestizos.
Tram-car service is slow, but pretty generally good. The car is a thing by itself, as is the
one lean pony that pulls it. It takes one man to drive and one to work the whip, and if the
wind blows too hard, service is generally suspended. The conductor carries a small
valise suspended from his neck, and whistles through his lips “up-hill” to stop, and
“down-hill” as the starting-sign. The usual notice, “Smoking allowed on the three rear
seats only,” is absent, for everyone smokes, even to the conductor, who generally drops
the ash off a 15-for-a-cent cigarette into your lap as he hands you a receipt for your dos
centavos. The chief rule of the road says:

“This car has seats for twelve persons, and places for eight on each platform. Passengers
are requested to stand in equal numbers only on both platforms, to prevent derailment.”

And so if there are four “fares” on the front and six on the back platform, somebody has
to stumble forward to equalize the weight. No one is allowed to stand inside, and if the
car contains its quota of passengers, the driver hangs out the sign, “Lleno” (full), and
doesn’t stop even for the Archbishop. It is just as well, perhaps, to sit at the front end of
the car if you are afraid of small-pox, for the other morning a Philippine mamma
brushed into a seat holding a scantily clothed babe well covered with evidences of that
disease. One sympathizes with the single pony that does the pulling as he sees thirty
people besides the car in his load, and it is no uncommon thing on a slight rise or sharp
turn for all hands to get off and help the vehicle over the difficulty. The driver holds the
whip by the wrong end and lets the heavy one come down with double force on the
terribly tough hide of the motive power. Aside from tram-cars some of these little beasts,
however, are possessed of great speed, and with a reckless cochero in charge, it is no
uncommon sight to see three or four turnouts come tearing down the street abreast, full
tilt, clearing the road, killing dogs and roosters, and making one’s hair stand on end.

Speaking of roosters, they are the native dog in the Philippines. The inhabitants pet and
coddle them, smooth down their plumage, clean their combs, or pull out their tail-
feathers to make them fight, to their heart’s content, and it is a fact that these cackling
glass-eaters really seem to show affection for their proprietors, in as great measure as
they exhibit hatred for their brothers. Every native has his fighting-cock, which is reared
with the greatest care until he has shown sufficient prowess to entitle him to an entrance
into the cock-pit. In case of fire, the rooster is the first thing rescued and removed to a
place of safety, for babies—common luxuries in the Philippines—are a secondary
consideration and more easily duplicated than the feathered biped. It is almost
impossible to walk along any street in the suburban part of the town without seeing
dozens of natives trudging along with roosters under their arms, which are being talked
to and petted to distraction. At every other little roadside hut, an impromptu battle will
be going on between two birds of equal or unequal merit, the two proprietors holding
their respective roosters by the tails in order that they may not come into too close
quarters. The cock-pits, where gatherings are held on Thursdays and Sundays, are large
enclosures covered with a roof of thatch sewed onto a framework of bamboo; they are
open on all sides, and banked up with tiers of rude seats that surround a sawdust ring in
the centre. Outside the gates to the flimsy structure sit a motley crowd of women, young
and old, selling eatables whose dark, greasy texture beggars description, while here and
there in the open spaces a couple of natives will be giving their respective roosters a sort
of preliminary trial with each other. As the show goes on inside, shouts and applause
resound at every opportunity, and at the close of the performance a multitude of two-
wheeled gigs carry off the victors with their spoils, while the losers trudge home through
the dust on foot.

Other familiar street-scenes consist of Chinese barbers, who carry around a chair, a pair
of scissors, and a razor wherever they go, and stop to give you a shave or hair-cut at any
part of the block; or Chinese ear-cleaners, who scoop out of those organs some of the
unprintable epithets hurled by one native at another. Cascades of slops not uncommonly
descend into the street as one walks along beneath a slightly overhanging second story of
some of the houses, and one is impressed, if not wet, by this favorite method of laying
the street-dust.

Besides the daily afternoon music on the Luneta, a full-fledged Italian opera troupe has
come to town and has begun to give performances in the Teatro Zorilla. “Carmen” and
“The Cavalleria Rusticana” are on the bill for this week, and many other of the old
standbys are going to have their turn later.

In respect to music, side-tracked though it is, Manila seems to be more favored than her
sister capitals in the Far East, and everyone appears to be able to play on something.
Such of the native houses as are too frail to support pianos shelter harps, violins, and
other stringed instruments, while some of the more expensive structures contain the
whole selection. Of an evening—in the suburbs—it is no uncommon thing to hear the
strains of a well-played Spanish march issuing from under the thatch of a rickety hut, or
to find an impromptu concert going on in the little tram-car which is bringing home a
handful of native youth with their guitars or mandolins. Every district has its band, some
of the instruments in which are often made out of empty kerosene-cans, and the nights
resound with tunes from all quarters. In fact, the Philippine band is one of the chief
articles of export from Manila, and groups of natives with their cheap instruments are
shipped off to Japan, India, and the Spice Islands, to carry harmony into the midst of
communities where music is uncultivated. All in all, it is extremely curious that out of all
the peoples of the Far East the Filipinos are the only ones possessing a natural talent for
music, and that the islands to-day stand out unique from among all the surrounding
territory as being the home of a musical race, who do not make the night as hideous with
weird beatings of tom-toms as they do poetic with soft waltzes coaxed from gruff
trombones.
 January 18th.

Manila is pretty well, thanks. The weather has been cool and comfortable. Showers have
come every day or two to lay the dust, and one could not want a more salubrious
condition of things. The sunsets from the Luneta have been more than pyrotechnic, and I
now believe that nowhere do you see such displays of color as in the Orient, Land of the
Sunrise. During these three weeks of my stay, so far there have been five holidays, and
we have had ample time to take afternoon walks up the beach, or play tennis at the club,
or indulge in moonlight rows on the Pasig.

A Philippine Sleeping-machine.

See page 14.

A week ago on the island just opposite the club, where lies a good-sized village,
containing an old church, there was a religious festival, which lasted all the week. This
was the Fiesta of Pandacan, and all the natives for miles around came pouring down by
our veranda, in bancas and barges, on their way across the river. Every night during the
week, bands of music played on one side of the stream and on the other side, and then
crossed to their respective opposites, playing in transitu, and then setting up shop on
shore again. Then there were fireworks, bombs, and rockets galore, so that the early
night was alive with noise and sparks. On the evening of the grand wind-up we crossed
over to see the sights, in one of the usual hollowed-out tree-trunk ferryboats. Crowds of
gayly dressed natives surged around the plaza, near the old church, while everywhere
along the edges squatted old men and women, cooking all sorts of greasy “chow” on
those peculiar Philippine stoves described in the last chapter. Everybody smoked, as well
as the pots and kettles, and the air was therefore foggy. The little, low-thatched houses
were jauntily decorated with lanterns and streamers, and at all the open fronts leaned out
rows of grinning natives.

Here and there were small “tiendas,” or little booths, where cheap American toys, collar-
buttons, pictures, and little figures of the Saviour were sold, and great was the hubbub.
The houses, as well as the people, are very low of stature, and as we walked along the
narrow, almost cunning streets, our shoulders level with the eaves of many of the
shanties, and above the heads of many of the people, we felt indeed like giants. Many
were the pianos in those native huts, and peculiar mixtures of strikingly decent playing
fell upon the ear from all sides.

The whole circus wound up with a grand pyrotechnical illumination of the old church
from base to tower, and a score of loud explosions, caused by the setting off of many
dozen bombs at the same time, made up in noise what the religious celebration lacked in
spirituality. Then all the bands came back and played their lungs out as they crossed the
river, and all the people rushed for bancas, and came chattering home. Thus did this
pretty little religious show consume, in noise and sparks, the contributions of a very long
time.

The grand opera company which is here is doing remarkably well, and “Faust” was
given the other evening to a crowded house. The theatre Zorilla is round, like a circus,
and in the centre of the ring sit the holders of our regular orchestra seats, facing the
stage, which chops off the segment of the circle opposite the main entrance. In a rim
surrounding the central arena stretches the single row of boxes, a good deal like small
open sheep-pens, separated from each other only by insignificant railings. Next comes
the surrounding aisle, and in the broad outside section of the circle, rising up in steep
tiers, are the seats for the natives and gallery gods, who invariably bring their lunch with
them, to pass away the time during the long intermissions. The orchestra is a native one,
led by an Italian conductor, and doesn’t tuck its shirt into its trousers. The musicians,
who battle with the difficult score, grind out their music quite as successfully as some of
our home performers, who would scorn the dark faces and flying shirt-tails of their
Philippine brethren.

During the performance the management introduced a ballet, whose members were
native Filipinas. It was too laughable. The faces and arms of the women who formed the
corps seemed first to have been covered with mucilage, and then besprinkled with flour
in order to bring the dark-brown complexion up to the softer half-tints of the Italian
performers. The native lady, as a rule, is unacquainted with French shoes or high heels,
slippers being the every-day equipment, and when these flowery beings came forward on
to the stage, saw the huge audience, and tried to go through the mazes of the dance in
European footgear, they felt entirely snarled up, even if they didn’t look more than half
so. But this only served to keep the audience in a good humor, and everybody seemed to
enjoy both the singing and the deviltry of Mephistopheles, whose part was well taken.
The waits between the acts were long, and the drop-curtain was covered with barefaced
advertisements of dealers in pills, hats, and carriages. But there were cool little cafés
across the roadway running by the theatre, and one forgot the delay in the pleasure of
being refreshed by Spanish chocolate and crisp buñuelos.

In front of the main entrance to the theatre stood two firemen, with hose in hand, ready
to play on anything as soon as the orchestra stopped or a lamp fell, but otherwise nothing
was particularly strange. The whole structure was oil-lighted with rickety chandeliers,
which shed a dangerous though brilliant glare down upon a large audience of most
exquisitely dressed Spanish people, mestizos and foreigners. Pretty little flower-girls
wandered about trying to dispose of their wares to the rather over-dressed dudes of the
upper half-caste 400, and their mammas often followed them around to assist in making
sales. If it begins to rain in the afternoon, before the performance, everybody
understands that the show is to be postponed, provided clearing conditions do not follow,
and those who hold tickets are, as a rule, grateful not to be obliged to risk their horses
and their starched clothes to the treatment of a possible downpour.

The Luneta is still a close rival to the opera, and each afternoon a dozen of us will
generally meet there to refresh ourselves with the music and the passing show. Toward
sundown, in the afternoons, of late, the big guns in the batteries up along the walls of
Old Manila, hard by, have been used in long-distance sea target-practice, and it has been
interesting, on the way from the office to the promenade, to walk along the beach and
see the cannon-balls zip over the water and slump into it miles from their destination.
The same target serves every afternoon, and seems perfectly safe from being hit. I wish I
could say as much for the fleet of American ships that are lying off the breakwater, at the
anchorage.

February 8th.

It seems peculiar to see the moon standing directly overhead o’nights, and casting a
shadow of one’s self that is without meaning. I never yet realized we had so little shape
before, looking from above, as when I saw this new species of shadow the other night,
and was really sorry that the angels never had a chance to look at us from a better point
of view.
To be politic, and begin with the weather as usual, a cold snap lately has given everyone
the “grippe.” The mercury actually stood at 74° all one day, and couldn’t be coaxed to go
higher. Think of the suffering that such low temperature would occasion among a people
who have no furnaces or open fireplaces. You may think I am facetious, but 74° in the
Philippines means a great deal to people who are always accustomed to 95°.

The opera-talk continues, and “Fra Diavolo” was most successfully performed to a
crowded house the other evening. “The Barber of Seville” was given Sunday night with
equal éclat, and the prima donna was a star of the first water, whose merits were
recognized in the presentation of some huge flower-pieces, probably paid for by herself.
But the opera has had a rival, and those who are not so musically inclined have spent
most of their spare moments in discussing the great bull and tiger fight which took place
Sunday afternoon.

It was a queer show, and not altogether edifying. The old bull-ring, squatting out in the
rice-fields of Ermita suburb, was to be used for the last time, and the occasion was to be
of unusual interest, since the flaming posters announced, in grown-up letters:

STRUGGLE BETWEEN WILD BEASTS.

Grand Fight to the Death between Full-

blooded Spanish Bull, and Royal Bengal Tiger,
Direct from the Jungles of India.

For days before the show came off, conversation in the cafés along the Escolta
invariably turned to the subject of the coming exhibition, and it was evident that the
managers fully intended both to reap a large harvest of heavy dollars and to wind up the
career of the bull-ring association in a blaze of blood and glory.

The steaming Sunday afternoon found everybody directing his steps toward the wooden
structure which consisted of a lot of rickety seats piled up around a circular arena. The
reserved sections were covered with a light roof, to keep off the afternoon sun, but the
bleaching-boards for those that held only “billetes de sol” were exposed to the blinding
glare. The audience, a crowd of three thousand persons, with dark faces showing above
suits of white sheeting, found the centre of the ring ornamented with a huge iron cage
some two rods square, while off at the sides were smaller cages containing the “fieras,”
or wild beasts.

The show opened amid breathless excitement, with an exhibition of panthers, and a man
dressed in pink tights ate dinner in the big cage, after setting off a bunch of firecrackers
under one of the “fieras,” who didn’t seem inclined to wake up enough to lick his chops
and make-believe masticate somebody. The daring performer lived to digest his glass of
water, with one cracker thrown in, and a deer was next introduced into the enclosure.
The panther, at command of the keeper to get to business, seemed unwilling to attack his
gentle foe, and on continued hissing from the big audience, the two animals were at
length withdrawn.

Then great shouts of “El toro! El toro!” arose, as off at the small gate, at one side,
appeared the bull, calmly walking forward, under the guidance of two natives, who
didn’t wear any shoes. And renewed applause arose, as the small heavy cage containing
the R. B. tiger was rolled up to a sliding-door of the central structure. The bull was
shoved into the iron jail, the gate closed, a dozen or more bunches of firecrackers were
set off in the small box holding the tiger, in order to waken him up, the slide connecting
the two was withdrawn, and, with a deafening roar, the great Indian cat rushed forth and
tried to swallow a man who was standing outside the bars waving a heated pitchfork.
The bull stood quietly in one corner wagging his tail, and after blinking his eyes once or
twice, proceeded to examine his antagonist, in a most friendly spirit. In fact, there
seemed to be no hard feeling at all between the two beasts, and the tiger only wanted to
get at the gentleman outside the cage, not at the bull. The audience howled, jeered at the
tiger, bet on the bull, and criticised the man with the pitchfork as he gave the tiger
several hard pokes in the ribs. This served to anger the beast so that he finally did make a
dive at the bull, and promptly found himself tossed into the air. But as he came down, he
hung on to the bull’s nose, and dug his claws into the tough hide. Curiously enough, the
bull didn’t seem to mind that in the least, and the two stood perfectly still for some five
minutes, locked in close quarters.
 The English Club on the Banks of the Pasig. A Banca in the Foreground.

See page 16.

To make a long story short, there occurred four or five of these mild attacks, always
incited by the man with the pitchfork, during which the bull stepped on the tiger, making
him howl with pain, and the latter badly bit the former on the legs and nose. After the
fourth round, both beasts seemed to be in want of a siesta. It was growing dark, and the
dissatisfied audience cried for another bull and another tiger. The first animal was finally
dragged away, after the tiger had retreated to his cage, and a fresh bull with more spirit
was introduced. Now, however, the tiger was less game than ever, and no amount of
firecrackers or pitchforkings could induce him to stir from the small cage. He seemed far
too sensible, and literally appeared to be the possessor of an asbestos skin.

It had now got pretty dark, and the audience joined in the pandemonium of howls
coming from the various cages. People began to light matches to see their programmes,
and the circus-ring looked as if it were filled with fireflies. Then the programmes
themselves were ignited for more light, and cries of “Give us back our money,” “What’s
the matter with the tiger?” and others of a less printable order, arose. Men jumped into
the ring, but the tiger refused to move for anybody. In the hope of stirring things up, a
couple of panthers were again hastily wheeled up and pushed into the cage, where the
bull was standing with an expression of wonder on his face. But the bull merely licked
one panther on the nose and wagged his tail at the other, while the show was declared off
on account of darkness. Then everybody filed out in disgust, and the man with the tiger,
panthers, and pitchfork made arrangements to sail for foreign shores by the first steamer.
Such was the last performance in the Plaza de Toros de Manila.

It was a pleasant contrast after the fight to adjourn to the Luneta. The day was Carnival
Sunday, and all the young children of the community were rigged up in many sorts of
inconceivable gowns. Clowns and ballet-dancers, devils and angels, all wandered up and
down the smooth walk, and the crowd was immense. Numbers of the older people also
took part, and many of the smart traps were occupied with grotesque figures. The
artillery-band rendered some of its finest selections. The ships off in the bay were almost
completely reflected in the calm water. The mountains rose blue, like velvet, in the
distance, and a red glow in the Boca Chica told where the sun had gone down for us,
only to rise on the distant snows of New England.
 III

A Philippine Valet—The Three Days Chinese New Year—Marionettes and Minstrels at Manila
—Yankee Skippers—Furnishing a Bungalow—Rats, Lizards, and Mosquitoes—A New Arrival
—Pony-Races in Santa Mesa—Cigars and Cheroots—Servants—Cool Mountain Breezes—
House-snakes—Cost of Living—Holy Week.

February 16th.

News to begin with. I have engaged a Philippine valet, price $4.50 per month; a man
with a wife, two children, and a fighting-cock, who buys all his better half’s pink calico
gowns and all the food for the party on this large salary. It is a wonder what revolutions
have taken place in my wardrobe. My heavy clothes, already grown musty from disuse,
have been taken out, sun-dried, and laid carefully away. I no longer have to decide what
to wear each morning, for it is settled for me beforehand. Everything that my “boy”
wishes me to don is laid out on a chair during my early pilgrimage to the bath, and all
that is necessary to do on my return is to get into them. It is quite a luxury, and I shall
certainly be inclined to bring this cheap gentleman back with me when I return to
Boston. My neckties, which have hitherto snarled themselves up in the corner of a
drawer, now are hanging from a neat clothes-line, side by side. My books and papers on
the centre table are arranged with unnatural formality, and the smaller articles, such as
lead-pencils, buttons, pin-cushions, are all adjusted in definite geometrical formation. At
breakfast and dinner in the club-house I no longer have to whistle to be waited on, for
my slave is always behind the chair, ready to spill the soup on my coat or pass the plum-
pudding. These serving-boys all belong to the Tagalog race, which seems to include in
its numbers most of the native inhabitants in Manila and the adjacent towns. They all
have straight, thick black hair, speak their peculiar Tagalog language, and only pick up
enough Spanish to carry them through the performance of their simple duties.

And still the holidays, more or less, continue. About this time of year there is one a
week, and just now the Chinese New Year occupies about three days. The business part
of the town is quiet. All the Chinese merchants have driven off on a picnic, and it is
impossible to hire carriages of any sort.

Manila, on the whole, is waking up, and besides the opera we now have the marionette
troupe, something entirely new to the average citizen. It seems there are four sisters
travelling around the world with their little collection of string-pulled puppets, giving
exhibitions in all the larger centres. Their fame had preceded them, and so the other
night when the doors of the Teatro Filipino were thrown open, a huge crowd assembled
to see the performance. The stage was a fairly large one, but so arranged optically that it
made the figures appear larger than they really were. The actors (puppets) were
remarkable for their lifelikeness, and if one had not seen the strings stretching upward he
would have taken them to be animate beings. Their costumes were complete and
elaborate in every particular. First came a tight-rope walker, then an acrobat balancing a
pair of chairs, and then Old Mother Hubbard, out of whose voluminous petticoats
jumped half a dozen little men and women, all of whom danced and cut up as if they
were really reasoning bipeds instead of material, loose jointed, wax-faced dolls. Old
Mamma was especially good, and as she stirred up her little children with a long staff,
looked at first this one and then that, shook her head, pointed her finger, and danced with
the others, she brought down the house with applause.

Later on came a minstrel troupe, with two end-men, a leader who waved a baton, a
harpist, and two other musicians. They all played, and the end-men cracked jokes. Next
came a clog-dance between two darkies, and it was difficult to believe that they were not
alive. Further on came a bulldog, which grabbed a policeman by the nether breeches and
pulled a huge piece out of them; a bull, who chased a farmer and threw him over a rail
fence (this took wonderfully well, for the Spaniards go crazy over anything with a bull in
it); then a boarding-house scene, with a folding-bed that shut up its occupants inside;
next, a balloon ascension, in which a man on the ground was suddenly caught up into the
air by an anchor thrown out from the balloon; then the death of the two aëronauts, who
fall from a dizzy height; next, a ride in a donkey-cart by two lovers, who find themselves
run away with and get snarled up on the wagon, to be kicked black and blue by the
donkey. Finally came a very complete little play of “Bluebeard,” with complete scenery,
costumes, and ballet. All of the scenery was of the lightning-change sort, and the
Spaniards, mestizos, and natives in the audience sat and looked on with open-mouthed
wonder, too astonished to laugh, too senseless to cry, and able but to clothe their faces
with expressions of wonder.
 The Bull and Tiger Fight—Opening Exercises.

See page 38.

To change the subject rather abruptly, the captain of the Esmeralda, the little steamer on
which I came from Hong Kong, has been good enough to ask me on board his vessel to
tiffin as often as she comes into port. As Captain Tayler’s table is noted both for its
excellence and profusion, the very few of us who comprise the American colony, as well
as all the Englishmen in town, always covet an invitation to spend Sunday in his
company and enjoy various dishes that are not to be procured in Manila markets.

Besides the several steamers that ply between ports on the neighboring coast, there is
now a large fleet of American ships at anchor in the bay, and our office, which shelters
the only American firm in the Philippines, is a great centre for the various Yankee, nasal-
twanged skippers, who, dressed in hot-looking, ready-made tweeds, come ashore
without their collars to ask questions about home topics and read newspapers six weeks
old. They delight to enjoy the sea-breezes generated by our big punka, and only leave the
office on matters of urgent necessity. Several of the captains have their whole families
with them, and one, who is especially well-to-do, owns his own ship, carries along a
bright tutor, who is preparing some of the skipper’s sons for college, and has
transformed the vessel into a veritable institution of learning. On nearly every evening
the whole fleet in a body go to some one ship, sing songs and have refreshments, and the
other night Governor Robie was the host. Being invited to partake of the festivities, we
two Yankees went off into the bay at about sunset, ate a regulation New England dinner,
with rather too much weight to it for hot climates, and met all the belles of the fleet. The
moon overhead was full, and with a good piano, violin, hand-organ, and a couple of
ocarinas, giving vent to sweet sounds, we had an impromptu dance on the quarter-deck.
We stayed out on the ship of our host and hostess all night. They apologized because the
bunks in the state-rooms assigned to us were so hard, little realizing that we couldn’t
sleep worth a continental on account of their being so ridiculously soft after our
Philippine cane arrangements.

Everybody is talking horse now, and business will be at a standstill during the first few
days of the coming month, when the pony races take place at the suburban course in
Santa Mesa. As a result, every afternoon that some of us do not go rowing or play tennis,
we adjourn to the race-track, and, in company with groups of Spaniards and wealthy
mestizos, watch the smart ponies circle around the track.

And, speaking of the race-course, I have just made arrangements with one of my new
friends to take a bungalow situated on a low rise that backgrounds the track at the
quarter-mile post. It stands, prettily shaded by bamboo-trees, on practically the first bit
of upland that later grows into the lofty mountains of the interior, and the view off over
the race-course and low-lying paddy-fields, squared off into sections, toward the city, is
most picturesque. On another side we look off over the winding river toward the
mountains, which hardly appear five miles away, and still another view is a bamboo
grove, against which is backed up our little stable with various outbuildings, including
the kitchen. A broad veranda runs entirely around the main building, where the living-
rooms are located, and Venetian roll-blinds let down from the piazza-roof keep off the
afternoon sun.

Yesterday I had my first experience in making extensive purchases of furniture, and was
interested to see about twelve coolies start off from the city toward our country
residence, three miles away, loaded down with beds, tables, chairs, and other articles.
Four of them started off later on with the upright piano balanced on a couple of cross-
sticks resting on their shoulders, and trotted the whole distance without sitting down to
play the “Li Hung Chang March” more than twice. These living carriers rather take the
place of express wagons in the East, and a long caravan of furniture-laden Celestials,
solemnly going along through the highway at a jog-trot, is no uncommon sight. We shall
need dishes, knives, pots and kettles, and a whole World’s Fair of trumpery, before we
get started, and I shall have to be busy with a Spanish dictionary, in order to get familiar
with the right names for the right things.
You have asked me how the mosquitoes fare upon the newly arrived foreigner. To tell
the truth, I have not seen more than half a dozen since coming to Manila, and those all
sang in tune. Everybody sleeps under nettings, of course, but so far I have not seen as
many biters flying around at night as there are in the United States of America. To be
sure, one sees a good many lizards hanging by the eye-teeth to the walls, or walking
about unconcernedly up-side-down on the ceilings, but they do good missionary work by
devouring the host of smaller bugs, and it is one of our highest intellectual pursuits here
in Manila to stretch out in a long chair and go to sleep gazing upward at these
enterprising bug-catchers pursuing their vocation. And, now and then, from some piazza-
roof or ceiling will drop on your face a so-called hairy caterpillar whose promenade on
one’s epidermis will cause it to swell up in great welts that close one’s eyes and ruffle
the temper.

Rats are more numerous than mosquitoes, and the other day, on my opening a drawer in
some of our office furniture, three jumped out. The office was transformed into an
impromptu race-course, and all hands were called to take part in the slaughter. But
Manila doors are loose-jointed, and the rodents escaped somewhere into the next room.
Since then I have had the legs sawed off of my desk, so that these literary beggars, who
delight to eat up one’s valuable papers, should not climb in and make a meal off of my
private cable code—a thing which they started to do some time ago. They have already
several times run off with the candle which was used for heating sealing-wax, and
possess such prowess that they even took it out of the candlestick.

We had a new arrival at the club lately in the person of a young Englishman who came
fresh from Britain. Someone had stuffed him with tales of indolent life in the Far East,
for he came in to his first dinner at the club clad only in pajamas and green carpet-bag
slippers. He also thought that the Spanish language consisted in adding final a’s to words
in the English tongue and shouted all over the club next morning for sopa, sopa, with
which to cleanse himself. But the servant brought him a plate of soup, and he is now
trying to remember that soap in Spanish is translated by jabon, not sopa. Jamon, the
word for ham, however, is close enough to give him trouble and he will no doubt ask for
soap instead of ham at our next repast.

March 16th.

The pony races came off with great éclat on the first four days of this month, and were
decidedly interesting. All Manila turned out, and such a collection of carriages I have
never seen. All the Spanish ladies put an extra coat of paint on their complexions, and,
dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, made somewhat of a ghastly show in the searching
light of early afternoon. The high, thatched-roofed grand stand presented a duly gay
appearance as the bell rang for the first event, and the dried-up paddy-fields, far and
near, crackled with natives directing their steps toward the centre of attraction.