We were attacked the first day out of Uato by the combined forces of three powerful dattos, who had previously borrowed rifles from us on the pretext of desiring to kill game. The engagement lasted until sunset. Of the Moros, ten were killed and many wounded. Night coming on, the enemy withdrew for re-enforcements. They returned the next day several thousand strong, and would have utterly annihilated us (for we were worn by fever and starvation) had it not been for Datto Bandia's advice, which finally discouraged the attack.

We reached Liangan July 31st with two hundred and thirty-nine men. Here we purchased rifles from the Moros, crossed the bay at night, and reached Tudela August 5th. Procrastination on the part of the conferring dattos made a failure of the expedition. We had spent about $10,000 gold for rations, good will, and protection.

Morgan and Miller, when the army was disbanded, lived around Langaran for a while. One day while they were bathing in the sea, they were cut-down by natives—I do not know why. Morgan was killed while arguing with his assailants. "We have done a lot for you," he said; but those were his last words. Miller, attempting to escape by running through the shallow water, was pursued by bancas and dispatched. The bodies were found later in a marsh.



Capitan Isidro Rillas's Narrative.

I was to have been educated for the Church; but after studying for some time in Cebu preparatory to a course at Rome, I set aside the wishes of my parents, who desired that I become a Jesuit, and took unto myself a wife.

You wonder, probably, why we Visayans, who are very peaceable, should have assumed a hostile attitude toward the Americans. Of course, we do not really like the game of war. But what positions would we hold among our own communities if we were to be easily imposed upon? You would have thought it a queer army that assembled at Mount Liberdad in 1901,—barefooted hombres, ignorantes from the rice-pads and the hemp-fields, armed with cutlasses and bolos—for we had no more than fifty guns—undisciplined and without military knowledge. But the appearance of your army in the war of Independence caused amusement to the British soldiers—for awhile? The Government generously recognized a number of the leaders of the insurrection, and in doing so has not done wrong. Our leaders are to-day, among our people, what your patriots are in your own land. And even you have no respect for those who hid themselves among the women during the affair at Oroquieta. Left alone, we could soon organize our government, our schools, and army. But, of course, conditions render this impossible, and so we think American protection is the best.

You ask for some account of my experiences with the Moros during our excursion to their territory. Our army was at first about five hundred strong, but nearly half the men deserted on the way. We had not counted on so much hostility among the Moros, although they are ancient enemies of ours, and until very recently have raided our coast villages and carried off our people into slavery. But when we wanted slaves, we purchased them—young Moros—from their parents at Misamis.

Though our mission was an altogether friendly one, our hosts did not let any opportunity go by of taking an unfair advantage of us. General Rufino was obliged to leave me as a hostage at Uato at the home of Datto Bancurong.

If we could have effected an alliance with the Moros, it would no doubt have been a formidable one. The Moros are well armed and expert fighting men. Most of our weapons have been purchased from them, as they had formerly acquired a stock of stolen Spanish guns. Those living in the Lake Lanao vicinity must have about two thousand Remington and Mauser guns, besides a number of old-fashioned cannon, which are mounted in their forts. They manufacture their own ammunition, which is necessarily of an indifferent quality.

We told the Moros that they would all have to work if the Americans should come. We knew that they were all slaveholders and ladrones; we knew that while they kept their slaves they would not need to work; and so we thought our argument ought to appeal to them.

When I was left with Datto Bancurong, security for the five hundred pesos that Rufino had been forced to borrow, I was treated with considerable hospitality. At one time when I had the fever, he secured some chickens for me,—they were very scarce. The datto had three wives, but one of them was rather old. I did not notice any ornaments of gold upon them. They wore silver rings and bracelets, which the native jewelers had made. The women are industrious, and consequently do most of the work. They are quite skillful with the loom, and manufacture from the native fabric, ampic (sashes) which their husbands wear. But for themselves they buy a cheaper fabric from the Chinos, which they dye in brilliant colors and make into blankets. You would probably mistake the men for women at first sight because of their peculiar cast of features. They are dressed much better and more picturesquely than the women, wearing bright silk turbans, sashes with gay fringe, and blouses often fancifully colored and secured by brass or mother-of-pearl buttons.

The Moro tribes, because they recognize no ruler but the local datto, are unable to accomplish anything of national significance. Concerted action is with them impossible. Thirty or forty villages are built around the lake. They are so thickly grouped, however, that one might as well regard them all as one metropolis. The mountains form a background for the lake, which is located on a high plateau. The climate here is more suggestive of a temperate zone than of a place within four hundred miles of the equator, and the nights are often disagreeably cold. To become a datto it is only necessary to possess a few slaves, wives, and carabao. A minor datto averages about four slaves, a dozen head of cattle, and two wives. He wears silk clothes, and occupies the largest nipa house.

The Moro weapons are of several kinds,—the punal (a wedge-bladed knife), the campalon (a long broadsword), and the sundang (a Malay kriss). They also use head-axes, spears, and dirks. Being Mohammedans, they show a fatalistic bravery in battle. It is a disgrace to lose the weapon when in action; consequently it is tied to the hand. Many of their knives were made by splitting up the steel rails laid at Iligan. The brass work of the Spanish locomotives, also, was a great convenience in the manufacture of their cutlery.

Although they have schools for the boys, the Moro people do not make a speciality of education. The young men are taught from the Koran by priests, who also teach the art of making characters in Arabic. Their music is for the most part religious, inharmonious, and unmelodious. The coluctang, their most important instrument, resembles our guitar. They seem to recognize three grades of priests—the emam, the pandita, and the sarip, named in order of superiority. Their churches are great, circular inclosures, made of nipa and bamboo, with no attempt at decoration. Sacred instrumental music is supplied by bells and drums. The drum at Uato, where I was, being of extraordinary size, required two men to operate it. Each town contains a large percentage of ladrones, whose influence is offset by the pandita (or elders), three or five for every barrio. These are the secondary priests, and it is necessary that they go into the church three times a day to pray. At sunrise, at midday, and at sunset they will cry repeatedly, "Alah! Alah! Bocamad soro-la!" (Allah is god; Mohammed, prophet.) All the priests wear bright robes like the dattos, but the clergy is distinguished by a special bangcala, or turban, which is ornamented by a string of silver rings.

There are about five hundred Filipinos living with the Moros, mostly slaves. Deer, jungle-cock, wild hogs, and cattle are to be found in the plains and forests near the lake. The soil is fertile, and sufficient crops of corn, rice, coffee, and tobacco may be raised, Camotes (wild potatoes), fruits, and cocoanuts are very scarce.

Though many of the dattos are disposed to treat the Americans as friends, three in particular will entertain a different attitude. These are Bayang, Mario, and Taraia, who, among them, have control of many men. They realize, however, that the new invaders will be harder to oppose than were the Spaniards of the former laissez faire regime. The Filipinos will, of course, be glad to see the Moros beaten in the conflict that is now inevitable.

To conclude my narrative, we finally got the better of our hosts, the enemy. The Moros wanted $1,500 in return for the $500 they had loaned Rufino. "Then you must let the hostage come to his own people," said Rufino, "so that he can use his influence among them and solicit funds; for otherwise we will not ransom him." The situation did not look so very bright for me; but at a conference of the interested dattos they reluctantly decided that I might depart. Eight Moros were appointed to accompany me as a body-guard. On reaching Iligan it was requested that the post commander furnish me an escort back to Oroquieta, which was done. The Moros profited so much by our excursion, selling us good will and rice, that I am sure they will forgive us for not paying them the ransom money, which is no more than the brokerage on a small loan.



Chapter XVI.

Along the Iligan-Marahui Road.

The recent victories achieved by Captain Pershing over the fanatic More tribes in the vicinity of Lake Lanao, have opened up for military occupation a new territory equal in fertility and richness to the famous Cagayan valley of Luzon. The Moros under the American administration will be recognized as independent tribes, and be restricted probably to reservations similar to those the Indians now occupy. This means that a great tract of land will some day be thrown open for American development. The soil will yield abundant crops of corn, tobacco, coffee, rice, and other products, while the forest wealth appeals to the imagination. Rubber, sugar, hemp, and copra are the natural products of the country near the coast. The lake itself is situated on a high plateau, with a prevailing temperate climate. Where the mountains do not intervene, the land slopes gradually down to the sea.

One of the most important military operations that was ever undertaken in the Philippines was the construction of the Iligan-Marahui road, which, having been for some time open to the pack-trains and the heavy traffic, is at present nearing its completion. Though the work was planned by members of the engineers' corps, all the clearing, grading, and the filling-in were done by soldiers who had never until then known what it meant to handle pick and shovel. The younger officers, who, for the first time in their lives, were superintending a construction job, went out and bossed the gangs as well as many an experienced and seasoned foreman could have done. The soldiers, who deserve no little credit for their work, are members of the Twenty-eighth and the Tenth infantries.

It was about the last of January that I made a trip to Iligan, arriving in a Moro sailboat from another port on the north coast of Mindanao. Two or three army transports, with the quarantine flag flying (for the cholera was still in evidence), lay quietly at anchor in the bay. Along the shore a warm breeze ruffled the green branches of the copra palms. Near the new dock a gang of Moros were at work, perspiring in the hot rays of the tropic sun. A tawny group of soldiers, dressed in khaki, rested in the shade of a construction-house, and listened dreamily to far-off bugle calls.

The Moros were dressed picturesquely in a great variety of costume, ranging from bright-colored silk to dirty corduroy. Red buya-juice, was leaking from the corners of their mouths. Their turbans, though disgracefully unclean, were silk. Their coats were fastened by brass military buttons, and their sashes, green and red, with a long fringe, were tied around their waists; their trousers, like a pair of riding breeches, buttoned up the side.

While spending the first evening at the club, I had seen mingling with the young lieutenants, immaculate in their new olive uniforms, bronzed, mud-bespattered officers in the blue army shirt and khaki, with the Colt's six-shooter hanging from an ammunition belt. These were the strangers from the town of white tents on the border of the woods. At midnight possibly, or even later, they would mount their horses and go riding through the night to the encampment on the hill. The very next day one of the immaculate lieutenants, laying off the olive uniform, might have to don the old campaign hat and the flannel shirt, and follow his unshaven comrades up the road.

We stretched our army cots that night in the roulette room (this is not a country of hotels), and to the rattle of the balls and the monotonous drone of the croupier, "'teen and the red wins," dropped off to sleep. On the day following the Dr. Hans dropped in with Generals Wade and Sumner, and the jingle of the cavalry was heard as they rode out with mounted escort to inspect the operations of the road. After a dance and a reception at the residence of the commanding officer in honor of the visitors, "guard mount," the social feature of the day, was viewed from the pavilion in the little plaza where the exercise takes place. Its dignity was sadly marred that evening when a Moro datto, self-important in an absurd, overwhelming hat, accompanied by an obedient old wife on a moth-eaten Filipino pony, and a dog, ignoring everybody, jogged along the street and through the lines.

I walked out to the camp next morning with Lieutenant Harris. Even for this short stretch the road was not considered altogether safe. We forded the small river just beyond the cavalry corral, where an old Spanish blockhouse stands, and where a few old-fashioned Spanish cannon still lie rusting in the grass. A Moro fishing village—now a few deserted shacks around the more pretentious dwelling of the former datto—may be met near where the roadway joins the beach. Pack-trains of army mules, with their armed escorts, passed us; then an ambulance, an escort wagon, and a mounted officer.

Two companies of the Tenth infantry were camped in a small clearing near the sea. Leaving the camp, we went along the almost indistinguishable Moro trail to where the mighty Agus River plunges in a greenish torrent over an abrupt wall into the deep, misty cavern far below. The rushing of the waters guided us in places where we found the trail inadequate. Arriving at the falls, we scrambled down by means of vines until we reached a narrow shelf near where the cataract began its plunge. Upon the opposite side an unyielding precipice was covered with a damp green coat of moss and fern. It took five seconds for a falling stone to reach the seething cloud of mist below.

The trail back to the camp was very wild. It led through jungles of dense underbrush, where monkeys scolded at us, and where wild pigs, with startled grunts, bolted precipitously for the thicket. A deep ravine would be bridged by a fallen tree. The Iligan-Marahui road now penetrates the wildest country in the world, and the most wonderful. Turning abruptly from the coast about five miles from Iligan, it winds among the rocky hills through forests of mahogany and ebony, through jungles of rattan and young bamboo, and spanning the swift Agus River with a modern steel bridge, finally connects the lake and sea. It has been built to meet the military road from the south coast, thus making possible, for the first time, communication via the interior. The new roads practically follow the old Moro trails.

The scene at early morning on the road was one of great activity. Soon after reveille the men are mustered, armed with picks and shovels in the place of the more customary "Krag," and long before the tropic sun has risen over the primeval woods, the chatter of monkeys and the crow of jungle-cock is mingled with the crash of trees, the click of shovels and the rumble of the dump-cart. The continued blasting on the upper road, near the "Point of Rocks," disturbs the colonies of squawking birds that dart into the forest depths like flashes of bright color. As the land is cleared for fifty yards on either side in order to admit the sunlight and to keep the Moras at a proper range, the great macao-trees, with their snaky, parasitic vines, on crashing to the ground, dislodge the pallid fungi and extraordinary orchids from their heavy foliage. Deep cuts into the clayey soil sometimes bisect whole galleries of wonderful white ants, causing untold consternation to the occupants.

Each squad of soldiers was protected by a guard besides the officer, who, armed with a revolver, acted as the overseer. The work was very telling on the men, and often out of a whole company not more than twenty-eight reported. Some grew as strong as oxen under this unusual routine; others had to take advantage of the sick report. The soldiers were required to work five hours a day, and double time after a day of rain. Considerable Moro labor was employed on the last sections of the road.

A unique feature of the work was the erection of small bridges made of solid logs from the material at hand, and bolted down by long steel bars. The "elbow" bridge which makes a bend along the hillside near the first camp is a triumph in the engineering line. The camps were moved on as the work progressed, and the advance guard ran considerable risk. The Moros had an unexpected way of visiting the scene of operation, and admiring it from certain hiding-places in the woods. As they could hike their thirty or forty miles a day along the trails, they often came much nearer to the troops than was suspected. Sentry duty was especially a risky one, as frequently at night the Moros used to fire into the camp. Only about one hundred yards along the trail a soldier, who had gone into the woods for a "short cut," received one from a Moro who was waiting for him in the shadow of a tree.

The camp at night, illuminated by the blue light of the stars, the forest casting inky shadows on the ground, seemed like some strange, mysterious domain. The officers around the tent of the commanding officer were singing songs, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin. The soldiers also from a distant tent—it was their own song, and the tune "The Girl I Left Behind Me"—practicing close harmony, began:

"O, we're camped in the sand in a foreign land Near the mighty Agus River, With the brush at our toes, the skeeters at our nose, The jimjams and the fever.

We're going up to Lake Lanao, To the town they call Marahui; When the road is built and the Moros killed, We'll none of us be sorry.

We're blasting stumps and grading bumps; Our arms and backs are sore, O! We work all day just a dreamin' of our pay, And d——n the husky Moro!

When taps sounded, we turned in beneath two blankets in a wall-tent lighted by a feeble lantern. All night long the restless jungle sounds, the whispering of the mysterious forest, and the distant booming of the sea, together with the measured tread of the night sentry, made a lullaby which ought to have worked wonders with the "jim-jam" and the fever patients of the Twenty-eighth.



Chapter XVII.

The Filipino at Play.

As in the pre-Elizabethan days the public amusements consisted of performances by priests and monks on scaffolding set up before the church, mystery plays, "moralities," and "miracles," religious pageants through the village streets,—so in the Philippines, where they have not outlived the fourteenth century, the Church plays an important part in popular fiestas. The Christmas holidays are celebrated still by carol singing from house to house, and by the presentation of the old-time "mystery" by strolling bands of actors, with a wax-doll to represent the Sacred Child.

Each town, besides the regular church holidays—as indicated by innumerable red marks in the calendar—has a fiesta for its patron saint, which is of more importance even than the "Feast of Aguinaldo" ("Aguinaldo" is their word for "Christmas present"), which is held annually in December. One of these fiestas is announced by the ringing of the church-bells—big bells and little bells all turning somersaults, and being banged as they go round. During the intermissions the municipal band discourses Spanish and Visayan music, coming to the end with a triumphant bang. Only on Holy Friday are the bells abandoned and tin pans and bamboo clappers, sticks and stones, resorted to for purposes of lamentation—functions for which these instruments are perfectly adapted.

People come in from far and near, riding in bancas or on ponies, often spending several nights upon the way. The great church at the morning mass is crowded; women faint; and, as the heat increases, it becomes a steaming oven. It is more spectacular at vespers, with the women kneeling among the goats and dogs; the men, uncovered, standing in the shadows of the gallery; the altar sparkling with a hundred candles; and the dying sunlight filtering through mediaeval windows. As the resinous incense odor fills the house, through the wide-open doors the sun can be seen setting in its tropical magnificence behind a grove of palms.

Then the procession, in a haze of dust—led by the band, the padre, and the acolytes; the sacred relics borne aloft on floats encircled by a blaze of candles; young men holding each other's hands; children and old women following, holding their tapers and reciting prayers—files through the streets to the eternal clamor of the bells.

The afternoon is given up to tournaments—carabao races, pony races, banca races, cock-fights. Bamboo arches, decorated with red banners, are erected in the larger thoroughfares, and under these the horsemen ride together at full tilt, attempting to secure upon their lances the suspended rings which are the favors of the local senoritas. On dropping in at that volcanic little town, Mambajo, one hot afternoon, I found a goose hung up upon the bamboo framework which became the property of the competitor who, riding under it ventre a terre, could seize the prize, regardless of the feelings of the goose. The village had turned out in holiday attire, as the dense atmosphere of cocoanut-oil and perfumery proclaimed. The band, in white pith helmets and new linen uniforms, was playing under the mimosa-tree. Down the main road a struggling crowd of wheelmen came, and from a cloud of dust the winner of the mile bicycle-race shot past the tape. The difficulty in the carabao event was to stick on to the broad, clumsy animal, during the gallop around the course. One of the beasts, excited by the shouts, began to run amuck, and cut a swathe in the distracted crowd as clean as an ungovernable automobile might have made.

The ringing of a bell announced the cock-fight in the main beneath the cocoanut-trees. It was near the market-place, where venders of betel-nut, tobacco, cigarettes, and tuba squatted on the ground, their wares exposed for sale on mats. As the spectators crowded in, the gatekeeper would mark their bare feet with a red stamp, indicating that admission had been paid. On booths arranged within the last inclosure, senoritas sold hot chocolate and raisin-cakes and beer. Tethered to little stakes, and straining at their leashes, the excited game-cocks, the descendants of the jungle-fowl, screamed in exultant unison. The small boys, having climbed the cocoanut-palms, clung to the notches, and looked down upon the scene of conflict.

Little brown men, squatting around the birds, were critically hefting them, or matching couples of them in preliminary bouts, keeping a good hold of their tails. There was the wicked little Moro Bangcorong, the trainer of birds that never lost a fight. There was Manolo, the Visayan dandy, who on recent winnings in the main, supported a small stable of racing ponies at Cebu. The person entering a bird deposits a certain amount of money with the bank. This wager is then covered by the smaller bets of hoi poiloi. When a "dark" bird is victorious, and the crowd wins, an enthusiastic yell goes up. But just as in a public lottery, fortune is seldom with the great majority. As the bell rings, the spectators press close around the bamboo pit, or climb to points of vantage in adjacent scaffolding. A line is drawn in the damp earth, and on one side all the money wagered on the favorite is arranged, which must be balanced by the coin placed by opposing betters on the other side. There is a frantic rushing around at the last moment to place bets. The Chinaman waves a ten-peso bill excitedly, and clamors "buenting! buenting!"—meaning that he puts his money on the speckled bird. Somebody on the other side cries out "guingan!" or "green," and thus they both find takers for their "sapi." Then the presidente, who referees the fight, sends two policemen to clear out the ring; the sheaths are removed from the razor-sharp steel spurs; the two cocks are held opposite each other, and are simultaneously launched into the arena. Ruffling, and facing each other with their necks outstretched, "blood in their eyes," and realizing to the full extent the danger of the situation, they prepare to fight it out to death. A quick stab, and the victim, trembling violently, a stream of red blood trickling down its leg, drops at the first encounter, and the fight is over.

While no record has been kept of how the bets were placed, every one seems to remember, and the money is handed over honestly. If Filipinos were as honorable in all their dealings as they are in this, they would be ideal people to do business with; for although they will beg and borrow, or even steal, to get the money which is wagered at these "combats," they will never evade a debt of honor thus incurred. Regarding gambling as a livelihood, or a profession in good standing, they devote their best hours to the study and the mastery of it. They, with their false philosophy, believe that wealth is thus produced, and that there is a gain for every one.

The list of fights progresses, some of the cocks only giving up the struggle after a last dying kick has been directed at the breast of the antagonist, who, desperately wounded, summons strength for one triumphant, but a rather husky, crow. Sometimes both birds are taken from the cockpit dead. The bird that loses a fight through cowardice is rent limb from limb by the indignant owner, and is ignominiously hung upon the bamboo paling,—bird of ill omen, that has ruined the finances of a family, mortgaged the house and carabao, and plunged its owner into debt for the next year!

Sometimes a "free for all" is substituted for the dual contest. Eighteen or twenty fighting-cocks will be arranged in a large circle, dropped at the same time in the ring, and set to work. Half of the birds, not realizing what is going on, will innocently start to scratch for worms, or set out on a search for seeds. It is amusing then to see the astonished look they give when suddenly confronted by a couple of antagonists. They settle their disputes in bunches of three and four, and soon the ring is full of chickens running to get out of danger, maimed and crippled, or still innocently scratching after worms. There was a little white cock at the recent main at Oroquieta, who avoided every fight without, however, leaving the arena. The game old buzzard that belonged to Capitan A-Bey—a bird with legs like stilts and barren patches in his foliage—had put down every challenger in turn. Confronted by two birds at once, he seemed to say, "One side, old fellow, for a moment; will attend to your case later"—which he did. Dizzy and staggering from loss of blood, still "in the ring," he sidled up to the immaculate white bird that had so ingeniously evaded every fight. It was a case of out-and-out bluff. If the little bird had struck, he must have won. A single look, however, at his reprehensible antagonist sufficed. The little bird made a direct line for the gate, while Capitan A-Bey's old rooster, with defiance in his look and voice, was carried away in triumph. In the parade next day, where the competing game-cocks were exhibited, the "buzzard," though he was exempt from taking part in the proceedings, led the procession and was loudly cheered.



My introduction to polite society in Filipinia was certainly auspicious. "Betel-Nut Sal," the wife of the constabulary sergeant, had a birthday, and invited everybody to the dance and the reception which would take place in the jail. The Senorita Tonio, most prominent of the receiving ladies, was engaged when I arrived, in meting out gin to the visitors. Her teeth were red from betel-chewing, and a cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth. The orchestra, armed with guitars and mandolins, had seated themselves upon a bench, barefooted with their legs crossed, ready to begin. The insufficiency of partners for the ladies had necessitated letting out most of the prisoners on parole. A certain young dandy who had been locked up on charge of murder, was the hero of the hour. While he was dancing, soldiers with their Remingtons guarded the door. I was induced to try a dance with Tonio. The hum of music could be heard above the "clack-clack" of the carpet-slippers tapping on the floor. Then suddenly the senorita swore a white man's oath, and stopped. Her carpet-slipper had come off, and as she wore no hosiery, the situation was indeed embarrassing. Our hostess asked us twenty times if everything was satisfactory, and finally confessed that she had spent almost a year's income for the refreshments. "Dancee now; manana, washie, washie."

I must tell you of Bernarda's party. "We expect you for the eating," read the invitation, and when dinner was all ready I was sent for. Then we sat down to a feast of roast pork, rice, and goat-flesh, with a rather soggy cake for the dessert. At most balls it is customary for the ladies to be seated first at the refreshment-table, where the most substantial articles of diet are boiled ham with sugar frosting, cakes flavored with the native lime, and lemon soda. Like the coy nun in Chaucer's "Prologue," she who is most elegant will take care not to spill the food upon her lap, eat with the fingers, or spit out the bones. At wedding feasts the gentlemen are given preference at the table.

When the orchestra arrived—a trifle late after a six-mile hike through muddy roads and over swollen streams—the company was more delighted than a nursery. The orchestra began the program with the piece entitled "Just One Girl," to which the people sang Visayan words. Vivan, the old clown, in clumsy commissary shoes, skated around the floor to the amusement of the whole assembly. The chair-dance was announced, and the most favored senorita occupied a chair set in the middle of the room. A dozen suitors came in order, bowing low, entreating her not to reject their plea. One after another they were thrown down, and retired crestfallen. But at last the right one came, and waltzed off with the girl triumphantly. There was a salvo of applause, the more intense because in this case an engagement had been practically announced. No native ball would be complete without the symbolistic dance which so epitomizes Filipino character. This is performed by a young lady and her partner wielding fans and scented handkerchiefs, advancing and retreating with all kinds of coquetries.

Long after midnight, when the party broke up with the customary horse-play, the accommodating orchestra, who had enjoyed the evening with the rest, still playing "Just One Girl," escorted the assembly home.



Chapter XVIII.

Visayan Ethics and Philosophy.

He is the drollest little person in the world—the Filipino of the southern isles. He imitates the sound of chickens in his language and the nasal "nga" of the carabao. He talks about his chickens and makes jokes about them. As he goes along the street, he sings, "Ma-ayon buntag," or "Ma-ayon hapon," to the friends he meets. This is his greeting in the morning and the afternoon; at night, "Ma-ayon gabiti." And instead of saying, "Thank you," he will sing, "Deus mag bayud" (God will reward you), and the answer, also sung, will be "gehapon" (always)—just as though it were no use to look for a reward upon this world.

You wonder how it is that he can spend his life rooted to one spot, like a tree, passing the days in idleness. He is absorbed in his own thoughts. If you should ask him anything he would not hear you; he is far away in his own dreamland. You must wake him up first, and then repeat your question several times. If you should have instructions for him, do not give them to him all at once. A single idea at a time is all that he can carry in his head. If he has not been broken in to a routine, he will chase butterflies upon the way, influenced ever by the passion of the moment. There is no yesterday or no to-morrow in his thoughts. What he shall find to eat to-morrow never concerns him. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Many mistakes have been made in the hasty judgment of the Filipino character. Such axioms as "Never trust a native under any circumstances;" "Never expect to find a sense of gratitude;" "Never believe a word a native says," are only too well known in Filipinia. The Spanish influence has been responsible for most of the defects as well as for the merits of the native character. Then, the peculiar fashion of the Oriental mind forbids his reasoning according to the Occidental standards. Cause and effect are hazy terms to him, and the justification of the means is not regarded seriously. His thefts are in a way consistent with his system of philosophy. You are so rich, and he so poor. The Filipino is at heart a socialist. But he does not steal indiscriminately. If it is your money that he takes, it is because he needs it to put up on the next cock-fight. If he selects your watch, it is because he needs a watch, and nothing more. The Filipino, when he transacts business, has two scales of prices,—one for the natives, and another for Americans. He reasons that because Americans are rich, they ought to pay a higher price for what they get than Filipinos do. He would expect if he bought anything from you that you would make a special rate for him regardless of the value of the article in question. You would have to come down to accommodate his pocketbook.

The Filipino code of ethics justifies a falsehood, especially if the end in view should be immediate. He lies to save himself from punishment, and he will make a cumulative lie, building it up from his imagination until even the artistic element is wanting, and his lie becomes a thing of contradictions and absurdities. When questioned closely, or when cross-examined, his imagination gets beyond control, and it is possible that he believes, himself, the "fairy tales" he tells. Fear easily upsets his calculations, and he runs amuck. But he will not betray himself, although he will deny a friend three times. He may be in an agony of fear, but only by the subtlest changes could it be detected.

The Spaniards, when they left out gratitude from his curriculum, made up for the deficiency by inculcating strict ideals of discipline. The Filipino never has had much to be grateful for, and he regards a friendly move suspiciously. But he admires a master, and will humbly yield to almost any kind of tyranny, especially from one of his own race. The poorer classes rather like to be imposed upon in the same way as the Americans appreciate a humbug.

In their communities the presidente is supreme in power; and, like the king, this officer can do no wrong. He uses his position for his private ends. Why not? What is the use of being presidente if it does not profit you? I have known some who secured monopolies on the hemp-trade by fining all who did not sell their hemp to them. Others appropriate the public funds for entertainment purposes, and when an inquiry is made regarding the condition of the treasury, the magistrate expresses the greatest surprise on finding that there is no money left. This officer, however, whatever his prerogatives may be, is not ambitious that his term of office be of any benefit. If he presides well at the cock-fights, it is all that is expected of him. If he goes to building bridges over rivers that the horses easily can wade across, the people will object to the unnecessary labor and expense. The presidente dominates the town. If he can bring about prosperity in an agreeable way, without recourse to sudden means, the people will appreciate him and support him, though they do not take much interest in the elections. If the civil government can only get good presidentes in the larger villages, the problem of administration will be solved.

Malay traditions make the Filipino proud, disdainful, and reserved—and also cruel. Not only are the ardent sun and his inherent laziness accountable for his antipathy to work. It is beneath his dignity to work, and that is why he takes delight in being a public servant or a clerk. The problem of living is reduced to simplest terms. One can not starve to death as long as the bananas and the cocoanuts hold out. The question as to whether last year's overcoat or straw hat can be made to do, does not concern the Filipino in the least. If he needs money irresistibly, he can spend one day at work up in the mountains, making enough to last him for some time. If he can spend his money so as to create a display, he takes delight in doing so. But paying debts is as uninteresting as it is unpopular. The outward signs of elegance are much respected by the Filipino. The American, to live up to his part, must always be attended by a servant. Sometimes, when we would forget this adjunct, we would stop at some tienda and propose to carry home a dozen eggs wrapped in a handkerchief. "What! have you no house-boy?" the natives asked. Apparently extravagant, they practice many petty economies at home. A morsel of food or a bit of clothing never goes to waste in Filipinia. They imitate the Chinaman in letting one of their finger-nails grow long.

The Filipino is fastidious and dainty—in his own way. He will shudder at the uncouth Tagalog who toasts locusts over a hot fire and eats them, and that evening will go home and eat a handful of damp guinimos, the littlest of fish. He takes an infinite amount of care of his white clothes, and swaggers about the streets immaculate; but just as soon as he gets home, the suit comes off and is reserved for future exhibition purposes. The women pay comparatively small attention to their personal adornment. Their hair is combed straight back upon their heads. The style of dresses never undergoes a change. The ordinary dress consists of three important pieces—the chemise, a long, white, sleeveless garment; the camisa, or the pina bodice, with wide sleeves; and the skirt, caught up on one side, and preferably of red material. A yoke or scarf of pina folds around the neck, and is considered indispensable by senoritas. The native ideas of modesty are more or less false, varying with the individual.

It might be thought that, on account of his indifferent attitude toward life and death, the Filipino has no feelings or emotions. He is a stoic and a fatalist by nature, but an emotionalist as well. While easily affected, the impressions are not deep, and are forgotten as they slip into the past. Although controlled by passion, he will hold himself in, maintaining a proud reserve, especially in the presence of Americans. A subtle change of color, a sullen brooding, or persistent silence, are his only outward signs of wrath. He will endure in patience what another race had long ago protested at; but when at last aroused and dominated by his passions, he will throw reserve and caution to the winds, and give way to his feelings like a child; and like a child, he feels offended if partiality is exercised against him. His sense of justice then asserts itself, and he resents not getting his share of anything. He even will insist on being punished if he thinks punishment is due him. While revengeful if imposed upon, and bitter under the autocracy of cruelty, he has a great respect for firmness. And the Americans would do well to remember that in governing the Filipino, kindness should be mingled with strict discipline.

The Filipino can not be depended upon for accurate, reliable information. His information is indefinite, as perhaps it should be in the land of By and By. In spite of his imaginative temperament, his cruelty to animals is flagrant. He starves his dog and rides his pony till the creature's back is sore. He shows no mercy for the bird that loses at the cock-fight; he will mercilessly tear it limb from limb. In order to explain—not to excuse—this cruelty, we must again regard the Filipino as a child—a child of the toad-stabbing age.

A little learning he takes seriously, and is puffed up by pride when he can follow with his horny finger the religious column in Ang Suga, spelling the long words out laboriously. Even the boys and girls who study English, often do so only to be "smart." It is a clever thing to spice one's conversation with an English word or expression here and there.

Yet the Filipino is not altogether lazy and unsympathetic. Often around his houses you will see a tiny patch of corn or a little garden of green vegetables. He makes a mistake by showing a dislike for the camote, or the native sweet-potato, which abounds there. Preferring the unsubstantial rice to this more wholesome product, he leaves the sweet-potato for his Chinese and his Moro neighbors. On every street the sour-smelling copra (cocoanut meat) can be seen spread out upon a mat to dry. The cattle are fed on the long rice-grass (the palay), or on the unhusked rice (sacate). A primitive trades-unionism exists among the Filipinos; every trade, such as the carpenters' or the musicians', having its respective maestro, with whom arrangements for the labor and the pay are always made. The native jewelers are very clever, fashioning the silver pesos into ornaments for bolos, hats, or walking-sticks. Ironmongeries, though primitive in their equipment, have produced, by dint of skill and patience, work that is very passable. The women weave their own cloth on the native looms, and practice various other industries. The children are well trained in hospitality and public manners, which they learn by rote.

While not original, they are good imitators, and would make excellent clerks, mechanics, carpenters, or draughtsmen. Some of their devices rather remind one of a small boy's remedy for warts or "side-ache." In order to exterminate the rats they introduce young pythons into the garrets of their houses, where the snake remains until his appetite is satisfied for rodents and his finer tastes developed. Usually the Filipino does things "wrong side out." Instead of beckoning when he would summon any one, he motions away from himself. Instead of making nicknames, such as Bob or Bill, from the first syllable, he uses the last, abbreviating Balendoy to 'Doy, Diega to a simple 'Ga. They are the happiest people in the world, free from all care and trouble. It is among the younger generation that the promise lies. The little ones are bright and gentle and respectful—quite unlike the boisterous denizens of Young America. The race is still back in the fourteenth century, but the progress to be made within the next few years will span the chasm at a single bound.

When I return to Filipinia, I shall expect to see, instead of the brown nipa shacks, bright-painted American cottages or bungalows among the groves of palm. I shall expect to see the mountain slopes, waving with green hemp-fields, worked by the rejuvenated native. Railroads will penetrate into the dark interior, connecting towns and villages now isolated. The country roads will be well graded and macadamized, and bridges will be built across the streams. The cock-fight will have given way to institutions more American, and superstition will have vanished with the mediaevalism. The hum of saw-mills will be heard upon the borders of the timber-lands; sugar refineries will be established near the fields of cane; for Filipinia is still an undeveloped paradise. The Great White Tribe has many problems yet to solve; but with the industry that they have shown in other lands, they can improve, not only the material resources, but can stir the Filipino from his dream of the Dark Ages, and point out the way of modern progress and enlightenment.



NOTE

[1] Johnson, the runaway constabulary officer, was killed October last by the crew of the native boat which he had captured after the Steamship "Victoria," which he had seized, had grounded off the coast of Negros. Four of the crew were killed during the fight. In true brigand style he had taken the boat at the revolver's point, and headed for the coast of Borneo. He had ten thousand dollars of government money, and his intention was to land at various ports and make the local merchants "stand and deliver." I gave the following interview to the reporter of the Princeton (Indiana) "Clarion-News," October 16, 1903:

"'Johnson, the pirate,' is dead, and buried in the lonely isle of Negros. Many a worse man occupies a better grave. The worst that you can say of Johnson is, that he was wrong and that he liked to drink too much.

"I shall always remember him in his red shoulder straps, his khaki riding suit and leather leggings. Before I had ever seen him I had heard the old constabulary captain say: 'That feller looks like a born fighter. Bet he ain't afraid of anything.' ... The padre gave us a Christmas dinner, and Johnson at this function took too much of the communion wine. On the way back he reeled continually in his saddle, vomiting a stream of red wine....

"We often used to race our ponies into Oroquieta neck and neck, scattering natives, chickens, and pigs to right and left. The last I saw of him was as he put out on a stormy sea in a frail Moro sailboat bound for Cagayan, which at that time was infested with ladrones.

"Johnson was only a boy, but he had been a sailor and a soldier, and had seen adventures in the Canary Islands, in Cuba, and the Philippines. The boat that he held up and started off to Borneo was one employed in questionable trade. She was a smuggler, and had formerly been in the service of the 'Insurrecto' Government. She used to drop in at a port at night and pull out in the morning with neither a bill of lading nor a manifest.

"Johnson should not be blamed too much for the wild escapade. The climate had undoubtedly affected him; moreover the constabulary has no business putting heavy responsibilities upon young boys."

THE END