We made our driver go down the end of the street to the quay by the Customs landing, where there was a very pretty arch, all lighted up, with portraits painted on it of Mr Roosevelt, and “Miss Alice,” and Mr Taft. This had been erected by the Filipinos, and the decorations, which were the work of a native artist, were really not at all discreditable. Across Calle Real was another arch, put up by the Chinese, at the entrance to where their shops begin, with more electric lights and pictures of angels, and more medallions of Mr Roosevelt, with an entirely different face from the Customs one, and “Miss Alice” looking about thirty, with fat, red cheeks and masses of black hair.
After admiring these marvels, and noticing what could be seen of the decorations on the houses, we drove home and consoled our hearts very successfully with cold mutton—a treat from the Cold Storage in Manila—which would have made up to us for anything. You see, you can’t have cold meat in this climate without ice to cool it on, and we have been without ice for so many wretched months. Faddy people should be sent to Iloilo to learn to say a fervid and completely heart-whole grace before cold mutton, and I often think out here of the delicious cold meat which our servants at home may be, at that very moment, refusing to eat!
Next day we were awakened by a brass band walking up and down the streets, and blowing Sousa and “Hiawatha” for all it was worth. It was not yet dawn when this festivity began, so after we had sworn at them, we went to sleep again, for the music did not mean that anything was happening, beyond that its playing was a sort of general rouse-out and reminder. We had been informed that the reception was to be held at the Gobierno soon after the party landed, so, as we determined to bring this function to bay somehow, we sallied forth after breakfast to see what was to be seen.
A quilez was not to be had for love or money, nor, indeed, a “rig” of any sort, so we walked to the Plaza, and in the Calle Real picked up a carromata—one of the fearful little vehicles into which you climb over a muddy wheel and sit jammed up behind the driver.
After sending back Sotero, who had followed to look for a quilez for us, and making him carry away Tuyay, who insisted on not leaving us, we got into the carromata and drove down the crowded streets to the Gobierno.
All the houses were very gay with stars and stripes and greenery—the decorations very little spoilt by the rain—and the streets full of people in clean clothes; all the principal thoroughfares crowded, but the others very empty.
The day, which had begun with rain, had cleared up, and was very fresh and jolly, as it had not yet had time to get steamy, and a cool breeze was blowing, the flags fluttered in the sun, bands were playing everywhere, and it was all very gay and sparkling. In one of the streets we began to pass a long procession, waiting behind the scenes, as it were, with flags unfurled and bands ready to strike up.
There were crowds and crowds of people making for the palace, and we were told that the Comitiva Taft had already landed and driven there, so we followed as best we could. There was a great deal of shouting of Tabé—and we were as near as anything over some of the revellers who were mooning about as if the streets were deserted.
By-the-bye, I don’t know whether this expression Comitiva Taft is bad Spanish or good Filipino, but it is the one employed by the Philippine newspapers, and I prefer it to the American “Taft Circus.”
When we arrived at the Gobierno, we found large crowds of little, brown-faced Filipinos in white American suits, all looking up at the broad balcony—the one where the band had played on the night of the 4th-of-July ball. The whole expanse of balcony was full of people, with many ladies standing in front in light frocks and big flat hats.