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Checkpoint for Section 1.4
1.13 This is a way to break a program into smaller pieces, with each piece accomplishing a task.
1.14 Pseudocode uses English phrases instead of actual code to design a program. It allows the
programmer to think through the logic of the program design without worrying about specific
syntax.
1.15 The diamond
1.16 Answers will vary
Checkpoint for Section 1.5
1.17 The type (type = javascript)
1.18 It will display alternate content for users who have disabled JavaScript.
1.19 nothing
1.20 An alert will pop up which will say Boo!
1.21 An alert will pop up that will say Ouch! Be gentle, friend!
1.22 When you want some JavaScript code to occur as soon as the page is finished loading.
Checkpoint for Section 1.6
1.23 properties and methods or attributes and functions
1.24 write()
1.25 document.write("<h2>Welcome to my world!</h2>");
Use the following code for Checkpoints 1.26 and 1.27
<html>
<head>
<title>Checkpoints 1.26 and 1.27</title>
<script type="text/javascript">
function getValue()
{
fill in the blank for Checkpoint 1.26
document.write("Your car is a <br />");
fill in the blank for Checkpoint 1.27
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3 id="cars" onclick="getValue()">Lamborghini</h3>
</body>
</html>
1.26 var auto=document.getElementById("cars");
1.27 document.write(auto.innerHTML);
1.28 document.window.open("","extraInfo", "width=400, height=600");
Checkpoint for Section 1.7
1.29 A group of instructions that can be used by other parts of a program.
1.30 function warning()
{
document.write("<h3>Don't go there! You have been
warned.</h3>");
}
1.31 Values that are passed into a function
1.32 parameters are first and last
1.33 <html>
<head>
<title> JavaScript Events</title>
<script type="text/javascript">
function ouch()
{
document.write("<h2>Don't be so pushy!<br />One click is
enough.</h2>");
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h2 id ="hello"2>Who are you?</h2>
<button type="button" ondblclick="ouch()">Enter your name</button>
</body>
</html>
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with the otherwise stately ways of the people. In Spain thousands
beg who could quite well be earning a living, and the mendicancy of
these defeats the case of the paralyzed, the blind, the aged, from
whom few would otherwise turn away.
In Toledo, however, lurks the great Cathedral, like some strange,
rare monster of the past. It is horribly cramped, and seems to be
trying to hide its vast, aged form from modern gaze. There lies the
dust of kings, emperors, archbishops; undisturbed, unprovoked. It
seems the low notes of the organ should never swell to anything
clamorous and new. All is hushed as you walk around; gloom of
unlighted centuries is upon you.
From this to the blue sea, what a change! From this to the fresh and
breezy harbor of Cadiz. To Spain's window on to the New World, her
most romantic starting point in all her history.
It is a long journey! I prefer to go third class. It makes a tremendous
difference, for the carriages are always full, always emptying,
changing, filling again with Spanish humanity. The second- and first-
class coaches are more or less empty; empty also that curious
apartment called a "Berlin." There is a train de luxe from Madrid to
Cadiz. In that, of course, you can travel in comfort and sleep at
night, sleep also by day, and pass the scenery and Spain as rapidly
as a millionaire could wish.
This train is called a "mixto," like the smeshanny in Russia. When it
comes to a halt the engine-driver gets out. A man on an ass starts
off to tell the village that the train has come and that if any one
wants to catch it he had better begin packing. It doesn't matter
where you get to or when you get there. I took my first day's ticket
to a name of a place at random—Vadollano. The booking clerk bade
me repeat it, and then sold me the ticket. I occupied myself trying to
imagine what sort of a hotel I'd find there. The train commenced its
uneasy retardation onward, crawling upward over Spain. Dark but
gentle-looking folk filled the carriage, always saluting with a buenos
dias when they entered and an adios when they got out, and never
starting to eat or drink anything without offering all around to do the
same. My wife and I kept a nicely filled basket and a bottle of sherry,
and we joined very happily in the children's game of offering our
food, knowing it would be declined. We found, however, that two
invitations to a glass of sherry usually overcame the modesty of the
peasants who, surprised and pleasantly shocked at finding the wine
to be of Xeres, seemed, upon drinking it, to become our friends for
life.
The men wore close-fitting black caps or those broad-brimmed, box-
topped hats that one associates with pictures of West Indian
planters. The women wore long earrings, commonly of tortoise-shell;
the men and the children wore many rings; they traveled with birds,
frequently bringing their canaries, of which they seemed very fond,
into the train with them. In came beggars, in came singers. A blind
boy sang folk-songs in a strange, wild tone, rather harsh at first
hearing, but growing on the ear. His melodies went from the guttural
into the minor, and touched one's heartstrings truly enough. Girls are
wearing flowers in their hair, and here comes a sight that reminds
me well of the Caucasus—a tight pig of wine. From out the little
window we look upon many vineyards, brown, stubbly, scarce
shooting green though the season is advanced. It is high land and
bracing and yet also a wine country. Men come in with wooden
boxes and in these boxes are bungs which they withdraw to drink
from the hole.
How the people talk, as if there were springs in their mouths, and
each sentence was rapidly and mechanically let loose from the lips.
No one has any interest in the view from the window; the only
interest is human interest. However, we pass at points through bull
farms, herds of Andalusian bulls waiting for their testing for the bull
ring or, having been tested, waiting for that gory last half hour of
torment and red flags. The bulls always take the eyes of the people.
They have an enormous interest in them. One might almost say that
the Spaniard had got a reflection of the bull in his countenance now.
The bull is his national animal.
It was very dark by the time Vadollano was reached, for the train
was late. I got out and was followed by a half-naked beggar boy
who answered no questions, being so intent on begging. Outside the
station there seemed to be nobody and no town. I sought a shelter
and could find none. In dismay I returned to the station and found
the ticket checker of the train, and he advised me to take another
ticket to Baeza. The old train was waiting, had not budged, and
would wait half an hour more.
And so to Baeza and a mosquito cage bed in a hotel which smelt as
hotels smell when they are the worst. Next day we went on to
beautiful Cordoba. Here was a new vision of Spain, one less ascetic
and fierce than that of the North. The sun had driven out the
somber. In Cordoba with its white houses and fresh-blooming
flowers, its beautiful gates and doors and interior courts with palms
and fountains, we had a vision of beautiful living. The whole of
Cordoba is like a precious work of art. I suppose every one who
learns to love it must be loath to leave it.
But we are making for that window on to the New World, longing for
that new way to India—the new Spain. The train goes on along the
Guadalquiver valley through all the sherry vineyards growing green
for miles, the town of Xeres itself, and onward to Gibraltar and the
end of the world. And there at the end, far out on a loop of land on
the loveliness of the sea, was Cadiz, the city of Armadas and the
going and coming of the Plate Fleet, a city now of white houses,
Spaniards, cats of all kinds, and innumerable parrots who out-talk
humanity on its streets—of all that, but of few ships. I walk along
the sea front on that street that bears the proud name Vasco Nuñez
de Balboa, and I see three ships, and among them the one that is
waiting for me.
BOOK II
THE INDIES
CHAPTER III
THE COLUMBUS JOURNEY
1
We left the beautiful harbor of Cadiz, with its white houses and palm
trees and its daintily silhouetted towers and turrets, and the shores
unclasped the blue bay and we rode upon the billows of the ocean.
The ship was a Spaniard and all the people on it were Spanish or
West Indian, and the voyage we were making was the one
Columbus made, seeking a new way to India and coming upon the
Indies. And the first evening and every evening we pushed "our
prows into the setting sun," not seeking, of course, but knowing,
with the romance of the first journey mostly forgotten.
The passengers are mostly Cubans, and they kiss their hands to tell
me what a fine place Cuba is, how perfect their capital. They put salt
in their café au lait, plaster salt on their sliced oranges before eating
them, and pour from the salad oil bottle on to every dish they eat.
Their children, with bare legs, black hair, gold earrings, run about all
day with little dogs on strings, and shout. There is no dancing on the
ship, no orchestra, but instead Mass three times a week and the
saloon made up as a chapel. The ladies are very big, if young, and
lie in deck chairs doing nothing. The men play dominoes and smoke
cigars.
We put in at Teneriffe and take on crates of onions for twenty-four
hours. Boys in boats beset us with canaries in cages, pups in sacks,
and fat, wise-looking parrots on perches. The reek of onions drives
out the stowaways from the hold. Onions litter the bottoms of the
empty barges, squashed onions disfigure our decks. Indeed,
everybody and everything smells of onions for two days.
The food is Spanish and of a sort the sailors of Columbus must have
known. All is cooked in olive oil, and I notice the Cubans and Porto
Ricans are not pleased if the plates do not gleam. Heaped-up plates
of rice and chicken, rice and little bits of rabbit, rice and bits of beef
come nearly every day, and Spanish omelettes and olive stew and
remarkable dishes of highly spiced fish covered with flaming
pimento. There is an excellent table wine of which there is an
inexhaustible supply and it is free as air, and there is a glass of
sherry for every one on Sunday evening. The Spaniards do well on
this. Even little Maria Luisa, aged ten, and Ysabel, aged eight, my
two best friends, have their wine and sherry and disperse with vigor
the oily heaps of food. One evening these precious little girls
borrowed some matches—what to do?—to finish smoking a fat
Habana cigar which one of the men passengers had left on deck!
The children talk to one another more by gestures than by words,
and I shall never forget how one of them, Palmyra, described a
bullfight she had seen at Barcelona and the horror of it, lowering her
head between her shoulders and looking out with gleaming eyes to
imitate the bull, jumping to indicate terror and assault, putting her
little hand before her eyes at the thought of the disemboweling of
the horses, and showing with a horrified twinkling of her fingers the
impression of the flowing of the blood. Bullfights are forbidden in
Cuba, but these children had been to Spain on a holiday and so had
seen the national and traditional festival for the first time.
In fifteen days on a little ship with two dozen passengers one
naturally learns a great deal. An English person is a rarity on such a
ship, and every one sought to engage me in conversation. They
were as much interested in Cristobal Colon and Ponce de Leon and
Nuñez de Balboa as I was, and had pictures of Columbus in their
pocketbooks, and thought how greatly he'd have been struck to be
traveling on such a boat as ours.
This one is a beautiful voyage, so serene, with blue skies every day
and a just-waving sea and a breeze behind the boat that wafts our
smoke ahead of it. It is delicious to sit up on the very nose of the
vessel and be a Columbus now. We are splashing it new, splashing it
white, in stars and white balls and darts of surprised foam. Green
and yellow seaweed sags up from the depths of the ocean and, like
untraversed liquid glass, the sea is ahead of us in curving lines, in
natural wild parallels to the sun. It is afternoon, the sun is going
over and will go under. He is drawing us on, and I could almost
believe our steam counts for naught. He is illuminating the wide
empty ocean, and we stare till we veritably see latitude and
longitude upon it. We ascend, we lift, we rive a way o'er the mirror
in virginal v's of new frothing foam. We are making for the center of
the far horizon, the sun ahead of us; we are making a new way to
India; we are going to make West East.
2
Each still night we seem to pass through something, as it were
through mists and veils which are hiding something new. Each
morning we rush on to the decks whilst they are still wet and the
Castilian sailors are swabbing them. We peer with glasses over the
virginal, fresh, foaming blue. The sailors go. The sun dries the
timbers. We partake of coffee and smoke a sweet-scented Habana
cigarette. The sailors return and pull up white canvas awnings at the
cracks and at the sides of which glimmers blue of sky and brightness
of sea. The children come out from their cabins to play, tumbling
over their pet dogs. All is happiness.
The men indulge in a new sport to while away the time—they try to
catch the fast-passing seaweed which lies in sponges and coils in the
limpid sea. While Columbus took heart of grace because of the
banks of seaweed his ship encountered, believing it a sign of the
proximity of land, we on our Spanish ship making in prosaic fashion
a bought-and-paid-for passage to the Indies, find the same seaweed
a means of fun. Four or five Cubans and Spaniards take a bottle and
a rope and a tangle of wire, and fish for seaweed from the bows.
The weather-side gets quite a little crowd upon it, for the crew also
take part in the joy of throwing out a bottle and wire to entangle
floating green tresses of sea-maidens or big floating sponges of their
toilets. Often the bottle flies through the air and often goes up the
chorus of disappointment as it hits a wave instead of a bank of
weeds. But the exultation is great when a tangle is caught and
brought up on deck. It is very pretty and hairlike, and the little
children press it between the pages of Ibañez' novels which form the
only literature on board. That which heartened Columbus diverted
us.
Then we entered the tropics and slept in the hot noontides, waking
to clatter up on deck into the freshness of afternoon breezes. The
evenings were very beautiful, sunset always giving a pageant. One
night there came the most flaming and devastating sunset, descried
beyond perilous and mountainous clouds, and from the north all the
way to the west a grand processional mass of shadows was seen
fleeing, like the pageant of the world's vanities going to judgment.
To us it was poetry, but to Columbus and his companions it might
well have suggested a growing nearness to the actual place of
doom, to where the sun actually dipped down and went under the
flat earth—a terrible thought, yet for a daring spirit a haunting and
alluring one also.
I suppose there came a point in Columbus' voyage when he might as
well keep on as turn back. Turning back became more terrible the
longer they kept on. And curiosity must have fed on itself and
increased. At any rate, it is still terrible to stand in the stern at night
and look back. There in the darkness lies the past like a book that is
read, or written, and a door that is shut. It breathes silence. The
clamorous Old World is far behind and cannot be heard.
We started with a young crescent moon, and she grew to the full
with us over the still ocean. The stars seemed to wave, and our
mainmast jagging to and fro seemed intent on sighting and taking
aim at the loveliness in the sky. We are escaping; we are going
away; we are doing what they did; we are shooting the moon.
All the Cubans and Porto Ricans and Haitians seem to take on more
life, become more vivacious. There is no mistaking it, they are
nearing their homes. They have been as homesick for the Indies as
the mariners were homesick for Spain. It's all in reverse order.
"You'd like Habana—it's bigger and better than Barcelona," I am
told; "yes, better than Madrid."
The ship comes into more humid airs, and in the evening all the
passengers begin to croon Spanish songs. They are all together and
happy, men, women, and children, and they feel they are getting
near their blessed islands. It infects the crew, infects every one, like
an extra idleness, till we come at last one night to a balmy and
dreaming coast, where the coconut palms like cobweb dusters rise
up to the low clouds of the sky, and the full moon through the mists
shines in silver—from the waves to the shore. We are there at last.
We have got to the other side.
The ship goes still and hoots. We have our last supper together.
There is plenty of wine. "Drink deep," cry the Cuban passengers to
those of us who disembark at Porto Rico. "It is ultimo vino, your last
glass of wine."
"Porto Rico is not dry?"
"Oh, yes," say the Porto Ricans, mournfully. "You see, it belongs to
the United States. Cuba is only under supervision of America, but
Porto Rico belongs to her, and is dry."
"Seca! Seca!" they cry explanatorily in Spanish.
"Well, with the last glass, here's to Christopher Columbus, who
discovered the island. He made the bridge from Old Spain and
incidentally brought the first firewater too. All we who arrive, arrive
after him."
3
We enter the harbor of San Juan de Porto Rico and leisurely pass the
old stone castle on the rock and the Spanish fortifications. They look
to be several centuries older than they are and are not unlike the
weather-beaten ruins at the entrance to old ports on the east of
Scotland. They mounted Spanish guns but were without power to
repel the North American invader of 1898. The island was then
wrested from Spain and added territorially to the United States.
Natives of Porto Rico are now ipso facto American citizens. It was
novel to me to realize that a whole population of American citizens
was without English and that many did not know George Washington
from Abraham Lincoln.
The boat was hailed by the quarantine authorities and stopped. The
Spanish captain, the doctor, and the officers all seemed very
nervous. This was apparent to the American doctor and immigration
officials, who strove to keep them calm. There was nothing to worry
over—the inspection was only a formality. The crew and the
passengers lined up and showed their arms to be free from skin
disease. The "aliens" were vaccinated. The immigration officers were
remarkably polite. They brought copies of the New York Times on
board, and those who could read English glanced at the news. They
sat us one by one in front of them and asked us all those funny
questions—what is your nationality? what is your race? are you a
polygamist? do you believe in subverting an existing government by
force? have you ever been in jail? how much money have you got?
where is your final destination? are you booked through? Imagine
old Columbus being questioned by an immigration officer—there's
something humorous about it. And Spaniards, whose forefathers
manned the galleons of the Plate Fleet and lorded it on land and
sea, now pay, in addition to ten dollars for passport visa, a head-tax
of eight dollars ere they land. But all that is prose.
There is no poetry in it, as there is little poetry in the "White Books"
of the United States—"lies, damned lies and statistics," as we say in
England. The Americans are a light-hearted, humor-loving people,
but they are dull and forbidding as officials. The Spanish, even in an
old Spanish harbor, felt nervous.
At last the ship is free and moves upon the silken water towards the
palm trees and the white houses and the brigantines and schooners
and sailing boats beside the shore. Negroes all in white, with fat
cigars in their mouths, handle our luggage, and in ten minutes the
passengers are dispersed to hotels and to their homes.
CHAPTER IV
PORTO RICO
Porto Rico was discovered by Columbus in 1493, and he entered the
port of San Juan, naming it San Juan de Porto Rico—St. John of the
Fine Harbor—hence the name of the island itself—Porto Rico. The
Indians there were in a low state of civilization and showed little sign
of wealth. The island seems at first to have presented less interest
than its neighbors: Santo Domingo became the beloved of
Columbus, Cuba became the chief Spanish base for exploration and
conquest. Porto Rico enjoyed therefore comparative peace for
sixteen years after its fatal discovery. Then came Ponce de Leon,
and after him plunderers and pacificators with sword and hemp;
killing, ravishing, enslaving. The despoiling of the Indians of their
gold and jewels was followed by dispossession of their lands and
then the capture of their persons for the slave trade. Ships were
fitted out in Cuba, with the sole mercantile objective of capturing the
Indians of the islands and selling them into bondage.
Slaving may have proved profitable, but in the long run it was
unpractical. The Indians entirely disappeared, and at the beginning
of the seventeenth century were reported to Spain as extinct. There
were no longer enough servile hands to do the hard work. So in
place of the lost Indians the Spanish colonists felt forced to import
Africans.
The Negro slaves throve under conditions which killed Indians; they
increased, and the Spaniards mixed their blood with them and bred
from them. Hence the large Negroid population of the Indies at this
day.
The same happened in Darien, Panama, Costa Rica—Negroes largely
displaced Indians. In Mexico, however, Africans were not imported to
any extent, as the Indians, though rebellious, were in large numbers
and there were many tribes accustomed to slavery.
The Spaniards settled Porto Rico, and grew sugar and bananas
which they brought over from the Canaries, and tobacco which was
indigenous. They lived in a humdrum state, taxed, of course,
interfered with a great deal by Spanish governors, but generally
enjoying the wealth and ease of a luxuriant tropical island—thus for
three centuries, when suddenly all the Spanish colonies followed the
example of the North American demarche and endeavored to throw
off the yoke of the mother country. Mexico, Guatemala, Salvador,
Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Colombia, Ecuador, Venezuela, Peru, Bolivia,
Argentina, Paraguay, Chile, all gained their freedom before 1825.
Porto Rico fought for three years and failed (1821-1823). Spain
remained in possession. Fifty years later slavery was abolished. The
free republics of Central America had abolished it in 1824. However,
in 1873 the Negroes of Porto Rico became free Spanish subjects. In
1897 Porto Rico even obtained Home Rule under a Spanish
Governor-general. But next year came the war between the United
States and Spain, and Porto Rico was annexed.
Cuba had also failed in 1823, and for the rest of the century
remained disaffected. The Cuban is of a much more violent
disposition than the Porto Rican. Cuba has never been wholly in a
state of peace and contentedness since it was discovered. A
widespread guerrilla warfare lasted from 1868 to 1878, and in 1895
Maximo Gomez led another revolutionary war. By that time, despite
constant unrest, foreigners had acquired considerable property in
Cuba. There were American, British, and French planters besides
Spanish ones. Naturally, in a state of civil war, as in Mexico during
1910-1920, there was much damage done to foreign property. At
this, the United States took umbrage.
On February 15, 1898, the U. S. battleship Maine blew up in the
harbor of Habana. The Spaniards say it blew up accidentally; the
American impression given in the American press was that the
Spaniards, to whom the presence of the vessel was thought to be
distasteful, had blown it up on purpose. Others think the Cubans
blew it up to instigate the war. On the other hand, some Cubans
aver that the Americans themselves blew it up—but that is not
credible. Probably it was an accident.
But this was the spectacular event which an emotional public
needed, like the hauling down of the Flag at Fort Sumter in 1861,
like the supposed onslaught of the Mexican Army upon the forces of
General Taylor in 1846, the sinking of the Maine was just what was
needed to rouse the democracy of the North to war. An ultimatum
was presented to Spain.
Spain must make immediate peace in Cuba. Spain was very polite
and promised to do what she could. But the war feeling demanded
more. On April 19, 1898, the United States Congress voted that
Cuba was henceforth an independent state, and called upon Spain to
give up Cuba. Next day the Spanish Ambassador left Washington
and there was war.
In the arbitrament of force Spain stood no chance. There were a few
months of one-sided warfare, and the honor of Spain was satisfied.
Spain faced her challenger, shots were exchanged, Spain was
wounded and retired from the field. Cuba was given liberty. Porto
Rico was annexed.
Does one need to stress the annexation of Porto Rico? Is it worth
while inquiring whether the Porto Ricans should also have been
given their liberty? Perhaps not, generally speaking, as the
government of States and Empires goes on to-day. Porto Rico has
only a million and a quarter inhabitants, is only 3400 square miles in
extent. But I stress the annexation in this study because it seems
specially important in the development of the power of the United
States of North America.
The Spaniards took Porto Rico for greed. No tears need be shed over
them. The United States did not take it over from that motive. But it
was a step forward in her quest of power. The Castilian flag went
down—the flag of the quest for gold. The American flag went up—
the flag of the quest for power.
San Juan de Porto Rico is a gay and pretty little city, without crime,
without dirt, and without much poverty. Revolvers are not fired
promiscuously. Heaven's water-carts lay the dust each afternoon.
There is a luxurious American hotel, and Spanish ones which are less
luxurious. You eat to music, and can be fed in airy restaurants by
eager Italians. Babbitt orders his stacks of hot cakes and soft-boiled
eggs for breakfast; Francisco Morales sits down meekly to coffee and
a small roll. The well-fed, broad-faced business men of the States
walk with india rubber step—happy, tubby Texans, lordly lumps of
Louisiana. The tropic, which dries the Spaniard, does not reduce the
North American. The young men are clean-cut and handsome, but
soon sag, owing to lack of exercise and the habit of bathing in hot
water instead of cold. The Porto Rican is not so dependent on a car,
eats less, and certainly bathes less, be it in hot or cold. You know
the ex-Spaniard by his spare form and swarthy complexion. The
Spanish sombrero is being chased off the island by standard
American hats; likewise the Spanish shirt by the more expensive silk
shirt of the American working man. The blue overalls or "slops" of
the laborer are also common. It is difficult to buy an article of attire
which is of local manufacture and style; even Panama hats it
appears have to be sent to New York and reëxported. Inter-island
trade is very scanty; once a month a small Dutch cargo boat arrives
from Jamaica, but it seems to bring very little.
Characteristic of modern San Juan is the barber shop with its striped
pole revolving in glass case: there the Spaniards getting their hair
cut have their necks shaved also and a bareness left above the ears;
and having "gotten" a shave they get an American hot towel also
pressed upon their brows and temples.
Truly, as you stand on the quay and watch the ferry boats, modeled
on those of the Hudson River, go screaming across the harbor, you
feel there is some justification for the saying that San Juan is a
miniature New York.
One thing, however, it lacks, and that is an adequate number of
"shoe-shine parlors." Like the Bedouins who have a monopoly of the
visitors to the Sphinx, so a tribe exists in San Juan who hold the
blacking brush to the world. When an imperial race arrives there is
great competition among the natives as to who shall clean their
boots. The tribe especially swarms around the town square which,
banked with flora and shaded with luxuriant palms, might otherwise
be a pleasant place of rest. Even at night, after supper, when the
town band is playing to a flocking crowd under a dreaming moon,
you are treated to a sort of jazz interposition of "Shine! Shine!
Shine!"
The voices of the street urchins and news venders have the same
quality of voice as those of Cadiz. Boy babies come forth from their
mothers' wombs howling "Demokratia." The stones of the high
houses repeat their cries. But there are no parrots shouting on the
streets of San Juan. There used to be, for Spanish sailors brought
them. But in some streets of Cadiz one might have thought there
was a riot, what with the news venders below and the parrots in the
upper storys. Coming direct from Cadiz one noticed many
divergencies in the detail of life. For instance, Cadiz had no cinemas;
San Juan had five or six, showing all the Californian stars. In Cadiz
there were several theaters with dancing and singing. In San Juan
there was only one with a visiting Spanish artist. In Cadiz no one
rocks or swings on a veranda. In San Juan, on the other hand, there
are no bullfights. Most of what bound the island to Spain has been
now cut. Only a few educated people know who is King of Spain.
Out in the country, however, life is more definitely Spanish and
American influence is less felt. The Negro life is greater there and
seems to relate neither to Spain nor to America. It hardly seems to
relate to Africa either.
The Negroes live in saffron- and marine-colored boxes little bigger
than bathrooms, and what they crowd into these cabins makes them
like Noah's arks with all the toy furniture and animals inside. You'll
see them stuck right in the midst of a swamp with thousands of land
crabs crawling on the tips of their claws and feeling in the air with
their portentous extra talons.
The mangoes hang their fruits like tassels. The palm trees rise up
like vast, lissom, feminine forms swathed to the waist and then
bright naked to their matted heads, where cluster their giant nuts.
The banana palms bask in solar radiance and hot mist; and last
year's shabby sugar plantation stretches for a mile of bashed canes
and sprawling withered leaves. And naked children improvise a throb
of music with a tin can band while others dance to it a natural
shimmy shake.
Living among the colored folk are poor white Spanish Porto Ricans
on quite an equal basis, and their pale babies run about in the sun,
too, only they are not musical and do not dance. The grown girls,
white and black, are beautiful creatures, dazzling with their bright
dresses, their vitality, and their unthwarted curves. The Negro men
are finer than the Spanish ones, however, and naturally a long way
simpler. I never saw Negro men so happy and untroubled as here—
the Negro without a complex, without the blues.
Nearby goes the military high road, hard and straight, and along it
hoot America's cars. The little island is traversed by a whole series of
magnificent roads of great value from the point of view of war, but
now a happy means of touring the country. The automobile parade
from Packard to Ford goes past before your eyes, and beside private
cars fly strings of little motor buses, all packed with people. Each
bus has a name, and that adds greatly to the amusement of the
road. Thus we have "Coney Island," "Cristobal Colon," "Excuse my
Dust," "Maria Luisa," and a hundred more. These are worked by the
Spanish-speaking people for Spanish-speaking people. You will
seldom meet an American in one. I found afterwards in Colon and
Mexico City, in Santo Domingo and Port au Prince, and other places,
these converted Ford trucks swarm, and are a great if risky means of
locomotion. The Porto Rican wagonettes are if anything quieter in
their demeanor than the Mexican ones. So they scour the ways from
ports and tobacco-towns, over the low ranges of tree-covered sugar-
loaf mountains, to other towns and ports and villas and resorts.
When far away on the verdure-covered hills they show where the
roads are by their turbulent dust.
You see almost the whole range of class life in Porto Rico from the
bottom to the broad top, from yellow wooden cabin to the latest
type of American home. For whites an American standard of life has
been set. Rich as the island is, and simple and remote, the artificial
prices of New York, nevertheless, range. Your room at the hotel,
with bath and telephone, will cost you from three to five dollars a
day. You will sit down to the characteristic breakfast of grapefruit,
ham and eggs, corn cakes, and coffee. Ice and water continually
tinkles in glasses. Yonder is the ice-cream soda bar. The suit pressers
are all busy keeping proper creases in the breeches of the islanders.
American men, wearing their white suits and linen collars, look
smarter than the Porto Ricans, and the women, if quieter in looks, at
least keep to the fashions.
Business of course is king. You feel that, at every turn, by the look of
the advertisements and the trend of the talk. Porto Rico hums as it
has never hummed before. It goes. It is a real live place. The
dominant spirit of the Anglo-Saxon has overcome the gentle,
sluggish conservatism of old Spain. Rich Porto Ricans, and there are
many of them, live in luxury, in beautiful villas with every possible
means of material happiness—books, baths, electric light, fans, tiled
floors, perfect mosquito nets, and the whitest sheets and the softest
of pillows. And the water is pure and the drains are good—thanks in
great part to a quarter of a century of ownership and exploitation by
the U. S. A.
The material benefit which has come to Porto Rico through
annexation is considerable. In 1901 she was included within the
American tariff union and all her products could enter American
harbors duty free. She entered the American postal unity. The
American dollar became her unit of currency. American traders
taught Porto Rican middlemen how to make money, and American
planters from Louisiana showed the proper way to raise sugar. The
annual output of sugar has been increased to ten times what it was
in 1898.
On the other hand, there are material and political disadvantages.
Though Porto Rico has free trade with America she has it not with
the rest of the world. A high tariff excludes European goods. Spanish
America has profited immensely by cheap German wares. But the
Fordney tariff keeps them out of Porto Rico. Porto Rico pays
excessively for scores of articles and commodities which she could
otherwise import cheaply from France and Spain, to say nothing of
England. Prohibition of wines and spirits is said to have been
achieved by local option—but, if so, it was before the population was
able to vote. Trial by jury is not given in Porto Rico. Porto Ricans are
citizens of the U. S. A., by virtue of the Jones Act of 1917. They were
enabled to be conscripted for the Army. But they do not have the
power to vote. They are represented in the United States Congress
only by a Commissioner. They have no Senator. They have no part in
electing the President.
Now there has sprung up what may be called a Porto Rican Sinn
Fein movement, featured in a concerted attack on the
Administration. Many Americans now advocate "Statehood" for Porto
Rico. But the Porto Ricans clamor for independence. Porto Rico is in
the anomalous condition of belonging to the U. S. A. but is not a
State nor governed by the Constitution. She is a possession. And the
general Spanish discontent which rules in Cuba, Haiti, and Santo
Domingo outcrops in Porto Rico also. Just as the popular song "Es mi
hombre" which tires the ears in Madrid has gone through these
islands and is no doubt ravaging Mexico and all the mainland, so the
one insurgent Spanish emotion has infected all the islanders. And, in
Porto Rico, journalists in the newspapers and street orators in the
squares are flirting with the idea of a revolt. The street politicians
seemed very nervous when any one looking like an American came
near.
It is difficult to know what test to apply to the institutions of Porto
Rico where, for instance, trial by jury cannot be claimed. If the test
of Empire, the trouble would be hardly worth considering; but if the
test of Lincolnian democracy, the Porto Ricans have grievances
which could be removed. The removal would take little effort. The
island is well governed, and is civilized and prosperous. Given her
independence it is all too likely that her present happiness would fall
away from her.
CHAPTER V
SANTO DOMINGO AND HAITI
1
Over the sea in a tiny boat to the island of Haiti, and to the eastern
half of it which is called Santo Domingo. The voyage is still westward
and along the eighteenth parallel and not for long out of sight of
land, be it the northern shore of Porto Rico or the southern shore of
Santo Domingo. The sea reeks with warm exhalations, and in the
turgid water lurk sharks. Don't fall off the ship as she lurches and
rolls and you hold to the ropes—you may not be saved if you do.
Twenty-four hours brings you to the little tropic river where the
massed palm trees with their bushy heads peep forth out of the
jungle at the intruder. And we slush slowly along the banks through
the heat to a jaded-looking dock and some clammy warehouses, and
behold, it is the capital of the Dominican Republic; I suppose one of
the meanest and dirtiest capitals in the world. Yonder is the
Government Building, on which flies the white-crossed flag of the
Republic and level with it the Stars and Stripes of the United States.
For the republic has the brokers in. She borrowed heavily and
unwisely, and then could not pay—and so the customs were seized,
and, with the customs, government itself. Santo Domingo is now
virtually an American possession and part of the new empire which
is springing into being and promising to condition the future of the
American people. On a little hill outside the city is a training camp
with its motto picked out in white stones in an attractive pattern: "In
time of Peace, prepare for War." And one wakens in the morning to
the strains of "The Star-Spangled Banner," played somewhere afar.
Down by that tropic little river stands the stump of Columbus's tree,
the actual tree to which the discoverer moored his ship when he
came in on that morning of the fifth of December, 1492, and was
met by the amazed tribesmen. Nine months ago it was a still living
tree, and it is part of the grievance of the Dominicans that the
marines tried to preserve it for all time by cutting it open and filling
its hollow center with cement. That killed it. But it is a mighty burly
stump, some fifteen feet high and of great girth. It sprawls rather, it
has a burly moving shoulder and a bearded aspect that suggests a
sort of Rip Van Winkle Christopher Columbus, enchanted for four
hundred and thirty years and now stepping ashore.
What a change for the old man to see! Those chiefs, those red men
and women who gave jewels for beads, all killed to the last child two
hundred years ago. Africans are in their place, smooth and black,
everywhere, as if they had come and conquered it. But they came as
slaves and then won their freedom from Spaniards and from
Frenchmen. Some speak Spanish, some speak bits of French.
Further on, in Haiti all speak French. Where are the bold Spaniards
with their flashing eyes and flashing blades, their wills, their lusts?
Gone like the great trees of the river side. Gone like the Indians.
Gone like the French who came after them. Mixed and married with
the Negroes, or else gone soft and gentle as Orientals.
"These strapping fellows, these giants in sand-colored clothes?"
Columbus might ask. "American soldiers," you would reply, and then
conduct the poor old wight to the Carnegie Library and the shelves
of the Encyclopedia Americana. It needs some explaining.
Discovering America was child's play compared with explaining to
Columbus the rise of the American Republic of the North.
Anyhow, here I am at the Hotel Inglaterra, and down below me is a
bar where there is "beer on ice" and the "best old rum," for Santo
Domingo has not been made dry, and there sit marines all in white
and argue it over their pots. The question is: "Do not the Haitians
eat their children at the age of five—not all of them, of course, but
selected kids at festivals? Do not the outlaws and brigands of Santo
Domingo need to be stamped out? Or again, Who has prior rights in
the Panama Canal? Do not British warships come through without
paying dues while American warships pay? Are not all vessels towed
by electric mules through the canal?" They bet millions of dollars,
they bet their adjectival shirts, because they know.
Outside is the city market place, where are sold live crabs and
tortoises on strings and mangoes and gourds and coconuts and
sugar-candy babies on wire. And black girls with coral ornaments
and vari-colored turbans or kerchiefs do the selling—while
purchasers on asses, on backs of calves, or walking with huge
bundles on their heads, go past. The black people laugh and shout.
It doesn't seem to mean much to them that they have no President
and that their republic is in abeyance. They do not bet on what is
going to happen, and they do not know. When you buy an orange
for a cent they say to you Grand merci and are ever so pleased. In
the square is a fine statue of Cristobal Colon, who points west by
southwest to Latin America, bidding all men still think of a new
world. But I am forgetting. Did I not leave him in the Library with
the encyclopedia? Is it not there, on the shelf, that he will find his
true place, in a history that is past?
2
Though at first sight the population of the capital of the Dominican
Republic may strike the traveler as being wholly black, there are
nevertheless a number of persons of fairer complexion—the people
of the first families, the aristokratia. One or two of these are
German. These keep within their houses more than do the Negroes
who trade and traffic and gossip in market place and main street.
The island has a bad history. Columbus loved it as the first large
materialization of his dream of a beyond—a transatlantic land. But
the Spaniards raised Cain there, and the Negroes and French after
them. The Indians were killed off early, and the Spaniards were soon
killing one another. Bandits and pirates have lived there more
securely than any one else.
It was in 1697 that the French came in. Spain ceded half the island
to her. The French bred in rapidly with the colored people. The
country became known as Haiti, and French was the spoken tongue.
French Negro slaves in considerable numbers were imported. A
hundred years later the rest of the island was ceded to France. That
was in the Napoleonic era. England was at war with Spain, and in
1809 British warships stood off the little tropic harbor and gave
encouragement to an uprising of Spanish colonists who proved
successful in wresting the city from the French. By the Treaty of
Paris in 1814 French rule was confined to the eastern part of the
island—Haiti.
There came then speedily the great liberation movement of Latin
America (1821-1825). Santo Domingo was able to succeed where
Porto Rico failed. But hardly had the new republic proclaimed its
independence when the Negroes of Haiti descended upon it and
broke it up. Haiti by that time had also won independence. For
nearly a quarter of a century the Haitians remained in control of the
whole island. In 1844 a Dominican insurrection was successful, but
there was no peace with Haiti, who seems to have been always the
stronger power. Santo Domingo was forced to try to return to the
bosom of Spain. In 1861 the president of the republic became
governor, and the republic joined Spain. Two years later war against
Spain was started and in 1865 the republic was restored. In 1868
the republic tried to join the United States, but America was not then
willing. Insurrectionary movements followed one another with
rapidity till the Negro general Ulysses Heureux obtained control of
the country. He, it is said, pursued the policy later adopted by Lenin
in Russia of having all his enemies killed, but he himself did not
escape and was assassinated at last. It is said he ran the republic
very deeply into debt. One wonders why financiers should have been
willing to lend money to such a State. Some five millions sterling
were owing, later it became six and a half millions. There was talk of
foreign intervention. Some European power might have felt entitled
to seize the country.
American policy had, however, somewhat changed. In 1899 the
United States entered into possession of Porto Rico and into control
of Cuba. Santo Domingo was one half of the island that lay between.
Rather than see a foreign power installed, America decided to
control Santo Domingo also.
The republic was asked if she still required aid from Washington, and
the United States agreed to control the customs, organize receipts,
pay interest on debts and pension the government. This she has
done very effectively and remains in economic and military control
to-day; Santo Domingo with a constitution in suspended animation
having become an American Protectorate.
Apparently now most Dominicans would like the Americans to go,
but they have no power to make them. The Americans for their part
can point justifiably to the improved conditions on the island. If they
went, the human dogfight would begin anew. However, let us to the
country!
3
I have heard it said in London that those who live in half-houses are
the aristocrats of the slums. The quaint expression may also be
applied to the colored folk who live in cabins. They are the black
aristocracy of the islands. It was in vain that I pitied the plight of the
dwellers in the marine- and saffron-colored dolls' houses of Porto
Rico. The real underdog of these parts does not pretend to any little
wooden hut. He lives gregariously in the bush like the larvae of the
Lackey Moth. He squats in the shadow and shine of tattered palm
branches, he is rustling with his family just beyond the green fans of
the wild bananas. In crossing the island of Haiti only two things
share the attention—the magnificence of untamed nature and the
wildness of man.
Not that the men and women have relapsed to primitive savagery.
They are fully dressed, as fully as any one could care to be, and,
except for little children, seem to be afraid of nakedness. In Russia,
in some parts, you may see scores of men, women, and children
promiscuously naked upon a river bank; but the wild children of the
sun of Haiti will not even bathe in the sea unless discreetly covered.
In the Africa whence they came they wore little more than a cache-
sexe, but the slaves learned a decorum of dress from the Spaniard in
the old Colonial days and it has remained.
They are very civil too, and talk to you willingly in a French patois or
in a broad Spanish which is far from the Spanish of Madrid. But they
are poor, live largely on fruit, have none of the amenities of life, and
being exposed to the tropical heat, they are also exposed to the
exhalations of the jungle and to its insects. They are magnificent
specimens of the human race till disease touches them. What erect
and beautiful women, what positively Adamlike men! My eyes fed on
many pictures of human perfection. But alas for disease! Smallpox
rages among them. You see beautiful boys and girls the color of the
mahogany trees amongst which they live, but all blurred and
shadow-marked as if there were a fault in the tissue. And when one
of them dies he is just buried somewhere at the back, like a dog or a
cat.
Little smallpox-stricken girls with the disease still on them come up
with bunches of bananas or mangoes for sale, their open faces
looking out from a hundred disease-eyes. It makes the heart ache,
and also prompts the thought—what a place for a medical
missionary!
The island swarms with bandits. There is only one road across it and
that was opened only a month before. Its interior is extremely
obscure, unvisited, and uncontrolled. It offers in an otherwise
unqualified way a divine adventure for a young doctor willing to
devote his life to human beings.
Personally I do not believe the stories of moral depravity, the
cannibalism, which is said to have broken out among the people.
They are not so starved as that. They have not been exploited in the
way the people of the other islands have. Cubans will eat one
another before Haitians. But they get married without going to
church, it is true, and have children who remain unbaptized.
Otherwise they are "good Catholics," some of the best I have seen.
There is no doubt about it—the inside of a church, where there is a
church, is one of the best social scenes in Haiti. The women may
often go in uncovered, and the holy water bowl be dry, or the
worshipers may not know when or how to cross themselves—but the
loveliness and simplicity of service are in utter contrast to the world
outside, to the jungle, and to the ordinary ways of men and women.
You sit in a vast sky-blue church in the evening and watch the
children, with chaplets in their hair and garlands of flowers in their
hands, and listen to the Spanish singing. And girls all in white go up
to the Madonna with armfuls of flowers and, throwing their heads
and their breasts to her, yearn to her and gesticulate and perorate
and fling down their flower sacrifices and go. And the priest lights
the incense over the flower-heaped altar so that every blossom
smokes upwards to the Virgin's feet.
Oh, to live in that atmosphere always and be at peace! You realize
the sweet emotion, though you know that character and the world's
reactions forbid that you shall take it far.
I stayed at a pleasant city called Santiago of the Gentlemen. The
Americans call it Santiago of the Bandits, but it seemed to be a
brighter city than the capital, having more pretensions to civilization.
The steel mosquito gratings on the verandas of the hotel were
commendable. How can one enjoy one's days when the mosquitoes
chase you all night!
It would, however, be vain to seek in the island of Haiti the comforts
and conventions of Porto Rico. The United States is in control, but it
is proving more difficult to introduce new ways of living. The
mahogany-colored chambermaids of the hotel smoke heavy black
cigars as they work, and every time Yokine, who waits on me, wants
to light up afresh she makes an errand to my room for the matches
beside my candlestick. My bedroom is just a section of a dormitory
divided off by wooden partitions. The bed is surmounted by a high-
domed-mosquito-netting cage which is a room in itself once you are
inside.
There is no such thing as a "room with a bath" on the island. Round
the corner from the veranda is a mildewed douche which drops
water on your back in beneficent but not abundant trickles. It is not
entirely private and you should keep your eyes on two doors whilst
you wash. And there are sometimes other occupants beside yourself,
to wit, the giant Roach and his family. Father Roach is very fond of
water, and when you turn on the shower he also comes forth to
share in the splash.
In other parts of the hotel the roaches are portentous. One tries to
find a likeness for them. They are like old-fashioned brown metal
trunks, a little reduced in size. The sideboard in the dining room
might be the grand terminal station of some city of the gnomes, and
drawn up outside it are a score of brown cabs, some waiting, some
moving.
Or if they are not cabs they are little brown pups. The waiters treat
them brutally, but I feed them from my plate and they make off with
a bit of bread or a quiver of Spanish omelette as readily as cat or
dog.
I see little lizards also running up the dining-room wall. The most
interesting extra gentleman lodger, however, is the tropical spider.
He is not gigantic but gigantesque, as big as the palm of your hand;
speedy, audacious, voracious. He lives not in a web but on a wall, on
a series of walls, and no other spider dare stay on it with him for a
couple of minutes. Ah, here he comes, sprawling over the dusty map
of the island of Haiti hanging in the hall. A Dominican politician
smiles and points at him and would whisper something about the
military government of which he sees a symbol.
There is a steady malice against Americans, and as I am English the
other guests of the hotel open their hearts. They take pleasure in
scratching crosses on the figure of Liberty on the American money.
Their own money has largely disappeared, but a fine coin the size
and appearance of a silver dollar is now reckoned as only twenty
cents. They say it is intrinsically worth forty cents, and that an
American bank collected some millions of them, took them to New
York, and sold them at a large profit. There are two great banking
institutions on the island: one is American, the other is the Royal
Bank of Canada. The Dominicans assure me they place all their
business with the Royal Bank. They say that the dollar has
impoverished them because it has raised the cost of living so terribly.
They retaliate by using the British bank.
I imagine that may be so, as I pay forty cents for a half bottle of
very bad Hamburg beer. It could not have cost more than four cents
in Hamburg. The dinner is very simple, no French flourishes of
cuisine, no Spanish traditions either, but there is enough; three beef
courses and then guava jelly and coffee. And for this you pay at the
same rate as you would at Shepheards hotel in Cairo. Or you may
pay more.
I am told by Dominicans that the republic in bondage is doing so
well that the 1908 bonds due in 1958 will probably be paid off in
1925, and the 1918 bonds due in 1938 would be paid this year
(1923). There is a certain new artificial prosperity. It is due to the
fact that the inhabitants have been forced to think in dollars and
cents, and cease thinking in pesos and gramos. But the Dominican,
it seems, will not take the blessings of peace and prosperity into
account when it is balanced against political liberty.
I go out to the promenade of the town. I see the lonely American
soldiers sitting bored on the park seats, and not one of them with a
girl or a chum.
"No one will go with them," says a Dominican. "We don't feel
anything against them personally, we know they are only sent by
their government and have to obey. But we are against their
government and always shall be till they go."
This was spoken by one of the white Spanish aristocracy who are
now endeavoring to organize a passive boycott in the island.
Santiago of the Gentlemen is Santiago of the Ladies also. Behold a
remarkable festival takes place, which brings the ladies forth in all
their finery. The fiesta is in honor of the new road which has joined
city with city. After four hundred years Santiago has been connected
with the Capital by a road. Up till May of this year there was only an
adventurous horseman's trail. But due to the bustling United States
of America the hundred and seventy kilometers between Santiago
and the city of Santo Domingo has been bridged. Henceforth it is
undignified to be seen on a horse—only the poor people, the blacks,
the beggars, go on horses. All people who are people go in Ford
cars. The super-hooters tear along the highway, and the sultry
mango trees drooping with their fruit look as if civilization were
dawning on them at last. And the snakes that would bask on the
way have learned of a new fast-going enemy that roars like a lion
and bumps over them like an elephant and yet flies past like an
eagle.
The worthies of the city have issued the most grandiosely worded
invitations to the Capitalaños to a three days' general "at home,"
banquet, and ball. It is a good idea. Santiago is up in the fresher air,
a wind is always blowing. The mosquitoes are fewer, and the nights
are cool. Indeed, the ladies of the capital carry fur wraps in the
evening when the temperature drops to about 70°. Not that any one
walks anywhere by day. It is much too hot for that, and if I set off
for the river on foot they look at me from their cars and stare. Many
people wear green or yellow sun spectacles, which look quaint
against a dark complexion. The light is not, however, so glaring as in
Egypt or Central Asia, and the heat seems much easier to bear.
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