After dinner a large reception was held in the salon which, as in all Spanish houses in the tropics, was on what might be called the second floor, the first floor being only a sort of plastered and stone-paved street-level basement. The highly-polished floor of the big room didn’t look to me to be particularly safe and I suppose Mr. Barrett observed my worried looks as it “gave” under the weight of my husband. He hastened to reassure me by telling me that he had taken the precaution to have it shored up with heavy timbers under the spot where Mr. Taft was to stand to receive the long line of guests. He seemed to consider this a fine joke, but I thought it a most commendable measure.
When we arrived in Panama we were not at all certain that we should find the country in a state of tranquillity; nor did we exactly; though by prompt action the President had nipped a budding revolution only a short time before. Hostilities had been averted, but the people were in a bad temper and it was thought best to keep them “merely guessing” while the negotiations between the Secretary of War and the Panamanian government were in progress, and much of Mr. Taft’s time, therefore, was spent behind the closed doors of President Amador’s council chamber.
In the meantime I made myself familiar with the wonderful American project which brought the Panama Republic into existence. The Canal then was a sorry sight. The public clamour in the United States was for “making the dirt fly,” but it did not look to a mere layman as if we could ever make it fly fast enough or in sufficient quantities to really bring the two oceans together. All along the line of operations the old French machinery lay buried in pathetic ruin in a tropic jungle which had all but effaced the evidences of the French enterprise, and such conditions of general unhealthiness prevailed as made it seem almost too much to expect that any kind of clean-up programme could be made effectual.
But all that story has been told; told in actual accomplishment with which all the world is familiar. I am only glad that I saw Colonel Gorgas and his men in that initial and contagious enthusiasm which, being sustained, resulted in a record of which we are all so proud.
The Panamanians are nothing if not expansively hospitable. On the 4th of December, after we had been on the Isthmus a couple of weeks and while the results of the official negotiations were still, as far as any one knew, “in the lap of the gods,” an ocean steamship was chartered by a company of hosts, and about three hundred guests, the élite of the whole republic, were invited for a picnic party to the Pearl Islands in the Bay of Panama, and a sail out into the Pacific Ocean. It was an all-day expedition and included the exploration of the beautiful little group, some pearl-diving for our especial benefit, a most amazing luncheon, and a dance on deck, to the music of a stringed band in gay and most decorative uniforms, at which Mr. Taft made a tremendous “hit.” The tiny Panamanian woman who first danced with him was thought to be very courageous, but as one after another followed suit his reputation grew and it finally was conceded, in the midst of great merriment, that he was as light of foot as the slimmest Panamanian of them all.
Having always been used to my husband’s dancing, and knowing how much he likes it, I never thought of it as anything unusual, but during the days when he was being “boomed” for the Presidency and was therefore much in the public prints, it was made the subject of frequent jest. I have one bit of doggerel in my scrap-book which appeared in the Baltimore American after the reception we gave on the occasion of General Kuroki’s visit to this country, and the last verse of which runs:
That Taft is just a wonder
Is a thing which we all know;
That as Presidential thunder
His big boom is like to go.