Evening Star Newspaper, July 15, 1923, Page 73

Part 5—8 Pages WASHINGTON, D. C, - MAGAZINE SECTION*: The Sunday S SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 15, 1923. Pandora’s Box of Adventures Is Opened on the Yellow Coast DRIFTED westward not long ago —drifted until the west became the east—until my tramp steam- er dropped me one day at the waterfront of Hongkong. 1 was a tramp, 80'far as occupa- tion and destinatlon were concerned, but in my own estimation a decidedly aristocratic, respectable . sort of tramp, for I had money in my pocket, & suit cage full of decent clothing and a typewriter wherewith to jus- ity my vagrancy by writing about it. T struck farther into-the east, far- ther away from home, buying pas- sage on another steamer to Singa- pore, choosing the destination for no particular reason save that it was situated near the equator and its neme sounded romantic. And while this second steamer carried me south- ward across the blue waters of the China sea, with the hazy outline of Indo-China just visible in a greenish blur upon the horizon, 1 sat upon the déck beneath an awning that flapped lazily in the soft breezes of the tropics, talking to myself about the future. “You've always been a lucky sort of tramp,” I told myself. “You'll never be up against it like beach- combers you have seen.” * % % % VA/HEREUPOX the Goddess of For- tune, chancing to overhear me, summoned her servant, the Fool Killer, who selected his largest and hardest club, girded up his loins, lim bered up his muscles and prepared to tap me gently but firmly upol my overconfident young head. Upon the steamer I met & poet. At least, If he were not a poet, he should have been, for he was an Italian, he had a pair of soulful dark eves, he was slender of body and temperamental of soul, he needed a hair-cut, and he had just been dis- appointed in love. ~ He sat at the stern, gazing sadly at the foaming wake that trailed be- hind us toward the rim of the sea, drinking French cognac and telling me his troubles. Ah, but she had been & wondrous creature, that girl! Not only beautiful -but talented! She danced in American cabaret in Shanghal, and no other dancer in all the cabarets of the east could kick so high or so gracefully “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, mixing French with his English. “How I have make the love at that girl! I have tell to her that I love her like the wind love the mountain, like the sea lov. he seashore, like the every- thing love the everything! Senti- mental fool that I am, I have make the love at her like the true artiste But the girl lacked appreciation of real art. and having spent the poet’s money, had run away with another man. He was young, that poet—as young myself—and even more foolish. an as He, too, was a vagabond author, without employment or destination. He, too, had just broken into the magazines with his first writings, and his check should be awaiting; him in Singapore. He called for} more cognac., and his imagination | soared skyward toward the silvery stars thet were beginning to dot the heavens. If I would join him we would wander up through the Malay States, perhaps to Siam, and live like & pair of kings in the jungle, with turbaned attendants to kowtow to us, and dancing girls to jingle thelr brass anklets at our command. We would forget that cabaret dancer in Shanghal. We would—— * K % % 7THERE we sat upon the deck, two vagabonds in white linen, two shack half hidden among the profuse ture that we were to dismount. * koK % (CRIEN!" said the poet, a trifle doubtfully. “We see what is this place.” From the shack came the sound of ‘music—the faint tinkle of some weird stringed instrument. Entering through a dark hallway, we found ourselves in a bare room with & small platform in one corner, upon which several natives were seated cross-legged before all sorts of odd musical contrivances. There was.a ! species of banjo with an extremely 1ong neck, with three bulky pess to hold the cords, and with a sounding board as big around as the head of a keg. There were three or four squeaky Chinese flddles, several gongs and tomtoms, a sort of zither built Mke a barrel chopped length- wise, and a crude, homemade xylo- phone. A woman advanced ‘to welcome us. She was old, withered and wrinkled, with the features of a Chinese, but with the darker complexion that pro- claimed her an Annamite: her skin was tightly stretched across skull- like cheekbones; her lips were stain- ed red from the juice of the betel- nut, which she chewed; she wore black pajamas. She led us Into a second room—a chamber elaborately hung with silken draperies in red and black, with lettered designs of gold. Along the wall were large divans with silken cushions. ‘Over the entire place there was a peculiar aroma, some- what like that of joss In a Chinese temple, .yet .different—an aroma that was_ sweet, almost nauseating, vyet subtly pleasing. ~And the woman stood before us, smiling and bowing, rubbing her aged hands together in an oriental @beisance. “What yc:illke. she inquired in pigeon Fren Smokee?” “Blen!” dedided the poet. what is this‘opium.” She -brought us two bloated-look- 1 “We see ing pipes, extracted a gooey sub- stance from a tube of tinfoil and smeared it with a stick upon the bowls. She brought a funny little lamp and showed us how to heat the substance and draw its fumes into our lungs with slow, deep puffs. T feit like a regular devil as I seat- ed myself upon the divan. The poet, too, was affecting nonchalance. “Mon dieu!"” he exclaimed. “All we lack is a chorus." As though she understood, woman clapped her hands. The silken draperfes parted and into the room came a troupe of Anna- mite girls, tiny little creatures, scarcely sixteen or seventeen. Each perfect little figure was clad in silken pajamas. They circled about us with mincing yet graceful step. But their the teeth, like those of the old woman, were black, and their lips discolored with betel juice. Even the poet shuddered. What an uglines: 1 fon dteu! “Come on, get out of here * kX X VWE dropped our pipes and strode out into the dark hallway. But as we stepped from the light, somes thing happened. The roof seemed to fall upon my bead. but it may have been that oriental banjo. As & musi- cal instrument, I could not indorse it favorably; as a weapon, I shall always respect and remember it. For the world faded out from befre my eyes and darkness relgned—darkness exclaimed. Let's prospective adventurers with a com- bined height of eleven feet and a combined welght of 240 pounds, with the capital of young authors and the ambitions of millionaires, planning our kingdom. We worked out every detzil. When we reached Singa- pore And we didn't even reach Singa- pore. Our steamer, a French mail packet, called on the way at the French Indo-Chinese port of Saigdm. At mid- night it crept up & winding river be- tween swampy, jungle-grown banks. The heat was iIntense, and neither the poet nor I could sleep. A drowsy steward slouched from the bridge to the gangway to post a notice that we would sail at daybreak for Singa. pore. We read the notice with di appointment. Somewhere beyond the wharf and the motionless palms lay the city of Saigén, the little French| capital of Cochin-China, which pre- vious writers had described as I‘ “Paris” hidden in the jungle. The| very name of Paris aftracted us nal would & magnet. We glanced cautiously about.| There was not an immigration oficial In sight. “Come on!" T exclaimed. As we reached the dock, a thunder | of bare feet sounded upon the boards, nd a swarm of rikisha runners; dashed toward us, shouldering . one another aside, bowing to us in the orlental fashion and rubbing their hands together, b in mixedAnnamite | 1 eching us and pldgin-French for our patronage. “Where do. we go?" demanded the poet. “Wherever they take us.” We climbed into two of the car- riages and away we went. There was. a delightful fascination “about gAlloping through a strange city in the early hours of the morning. led by guldes who could not tell us whithér they were gulding us. Wher- ever they were going, it became evi- dent that they were not going Into the town; the road became a path and finally 'a mere trafl, the stucco houses bLecame thatched huts, the shade trees became a tangle of palms and banana trees. The golden moon, seeping! through the jungle-growth, shed _an eerle light In mysterious patches upon the glistening bodies of the Angamites, and still they trotted, untiring, turning corners until we had lost all sense of direc- tion, to pause finally, before an atap- | ing, betel-stained libs. And at daybreak, the little French mail packet felt its way cautiously down the river between the swampy, jungle-covered shores of Cochin- China, toward the open sea and Singapore, carrying my baggage and the poet's to our destination, but ving us hehind. The Fool-Killer had made a double killing. 1 awoke in & rice fleld, whither some one had very considerately. dragged me, It - was & damp, ‘soggy . figld, 3 vines, where they Indicated by ges-| 1 This Is an Account of the Adventures of a Young American Writer in the Orient—Foster's World Wanderings Already Known to the Readers of Thrilling Books—He Is the Author of “The Adventures of a ‘Tropical Tramp“ and “A Beach- comber in the Orient —"I Have AlwaysBeen a Lucky Sort of Tramp,” He Says. bordering upon a mangrove swamp. |came to a path. “THE WORLD FADED OUT BEFORE MY EYES. AND- DARKN ED. It was bordered by Daylight was breaking, and from the | Dalms and banana trees, like the one wet ground there was rising the morning mist of the tropics, envelop- ing the land with a thick, poisonous- tooking vapor. B awr: eside me sat the poet, his clothing y and stained with mud, his long hair disheveled, a peculiar hazy ex- pression In his eyes, as though he had not was to place. ing com fully recovéred his senses and figuring out bow he had chanced awake in such an unattractive With one hand he was strok- a large bump on his forehead, a panion bump to the one which | punctuated, so it seemed, by visions |I found upon my own. “HE TURNED TO DASH DOWN THE GANGWAY.” ‘was gone. but we were not altogether dow ing n and out—not yvet. For, search- through our pockets, the poet found the stub of his steamer ticket, a damp box of matche: kerchief, and two cigarettes, while I a lace hand- found my American passport, a key to my suitcase, and—this final dis- covery Inspired us to rise and essay a j 1€ . upon. our exposure-stiffened legs—nothing less than a travelers' check- for $100. Not so bad! - Rejoicing at our luck. we, made our, way out of the, ricerfleld umil we “we had fraveled the night before, -but the thatched houses hidden among tropleal vines,” each resembling the opium-joint, gave us no clue to our whereabouts. WE trudged slowly and paintully 1 along the path until we reached a road—a broad, dusty thoroughfare upon which the newly risen sun was already beating down with a promise of stifling heat to come. At length, we came to a canal filled with the rounded palm-thatched roofs and houseboats, and * ok ok K lof sampans of red and gold draperies, and lmil~' We were stranded, and our cash |found ourselves in the region of the docks. Where our steamer had been, several coolles were bringing up mail bags fromea pile at the edge of the wharf, but there was no steamer in sight—only a few native sailing ves- sels, drifting slowly along the brown river, while their crews chattered to- gether In raucous Amnamite that came to us clearly but unintelligibly across the water. The poet sighed. “So this,” he sald, “is Paria” We cashed my' check at the bank. receiving “pinsters at a rate which seemed to double the hundred del- lars. 5 The méney gave ‘us a new feeling of respectability, and, forgetting our bedraggled attire, we climbed Into a i pair of rikishas—which in the French provinces have been rechristened with the name of “pousse-pousse”—and In- structing the runners to take us to a hotel, we sat up and dared the world to snub us. The rikisha has that effect. On your first ride, you feel rather like a fool, galloping along behind a fel- Tow human being: on your second ride, ¥ou feel like an inhuman slave- driver, making a draft animal out of the poor coolie; on your third and succeeding rides, you feel like a po- tentate drawn In style through the streets by one of his vassals. But when we challenged the world 1t accepted the challenge. As we drew up before the leading hotel, a truly French hotel with wide verandas, and tables upon the sidewalk before it— the” manager came out expectantly, but after one contemptuous glance at our mud-stained persons, informed us that his rooms were all occupled. * K Xk x GAIGON was truly “arislan in the number of its sidewalk cafes. From place to place we went, seeking lodg- ings, along wide boulevards, past houses and government bulldings of French architecture. We finally found a hotel—a small hotel—whose manager was not so par- ticular about his guests, and were escorted to a room where countless little green lizards, crawling about the walls and ceilings in search of bugs, cocked their heads at an angle and chirped a welcome to us. “When does the next boat leave for Singapore?” the poet Inquired in French. The manager shrugged his shoul- ders. “Je me sais pas, monsieur. Perhaps next week, perhaps the week after next, perhaps the week after that” ‘We sat upon the bed, like the Hall Room Boys, and while the manager sent our clothes to the laundry, ‘we smoked the poet's two damp clgarettes and made faces at the lizards. But in the evening, once more immaculate, we swung out Into the “boulevards with jaunty step. - French .officialdom was issuing from the shade.of home and office to recapture the city from the Asiatics. b Then, remembering that our hun~ dred dollars was to take us a long way, we adjourned to the cheapest restau- rant we could find. " Indo-China exists malnly as a happy hunting ground for the French office seeker. The truth is that there are more governors than government. From office to office they kept refer- us of giving an official account of outselves, each new offite appearing a trifie ‘more ornate than the ' previous one, and each new official & trifle more important, and at each place the. poet rehearsed our convincing story. And finally the director of security bowed us from his office with permission to rematn in Indo-China. “Ah," exclaimed the poet hopefully. “Then there is evidently some way, monsieur, by which we can leave?” “No,” replied the director. “‘As there 1s no boat for three weeks, monsieur, it would have :been. fmposs! leave, anyway."” Ting -us, in the abligation-imposed upon ible to. The steamship agent confirmed the report. He would honor the poet’s stub of a | ticket; he was very sorry that he could not give me free passage until he communicated with higher author- ity at Singapore or Hongkong: he was very sorry, extremely gorry, but he was surre everything would be all right; it was merely a matter of send- ing the cable and awaiting the answer. * x ok % VWE settled down at & sidewalk cate to wait, trying for the sake of economy to make one bottle of beer 1ast all the afternoon, and to give Car- pentler, the head walter, the impression that we did so not for economy but because of our natural habits of ab- stinence. Day after day passed, and we still sat there. The poet’s dark eyes, sutrounded by premature yrinkles like those of the fellow in the advertisement who is pounding away his life at every step because he doesn’t wear rubber heels. would stare away into space, filled with & dreamy expression. Presently he would recover long enough to pour the dregs of our beer into my glass with the exclamation of “Take.” or to reach for another of my clgarettes with an exclamation of “Give.” Then Carpentier woud come and stare at us in an accusing manner, as though to Inquire whether we intend- ed to monopolize the table ali day for sixty centimes, and we would rise with dignity, feeling somewhat as Charley Chaplin looks when he walks deliber- ately away from a suspicious policeman. Only once did the poet rouse him- self from- his ennui, to grow enthus- fastic about anything. That was when he first discovered that an Egyptian princess, touring the world, happened to he stopping at' Saigon's principal hotel. She was rather stout, and of middle age, but she seemed to, be vastly wealthy, for she was accom- panied by a retinue of servants ane wore much - Jewelry. “And what you think, my friends! She no is marry! She no has the hus- ban'! Perhaps, we can make the marry with her and—" “WE?! “Perhaps! Can the roval not have so many husban’ want? She have plenty money, we shall travel like the prince! “Well, 1 have no objection to'your marrying her.” But he shook his head. It seemed tqo. great.a task for a one-hundred pound poet who couldn’t write poetry. princess like she and “No,” he decided. “I think I like bettair the girl in Shanghal. I send her one cable, I think. I tell her, ‘Come to Singapore, all is forgive. And he lapsed again Into silence. Days passed. .I hit upon an idea. Since we had no reason to g0 to Singa- pore,. why. not write to the stcamship company , to forward our bLaggage, while we hiked overland through the jungle te meet it in 8iam? The poet was not enthused. “No is rallroad, “But we'll walk.” “No is road to walk.'\ I dragged him around to the Amerl- can consulate. The counsul, & pleasant and obliging young man, not much older than ourselves, had a map) the ‘best map published, but there was only & -yague, dotted line to indicate a trail. He was, however, enthusiastic about our, project. he said. Harry L. Foster, Vagabond, Goes Ashore in Cochin-China. [¢¢JUST the thing for writers to do,” I he sald. ‘“They never go Into the interlor In these countries. Of course, it will be expensive—guides, servants, | carriers, ponles, ox-carts, provisions, | weapons—you'll want a big-caliber gun for tiger or rhipoceros.” “Good-bye,” sald the poet. Wild animals, he always maintained, should be kept only in menageries. We continued to wait. In outward appearance we might have been a pair of wealthy young tourists, and Salgon accepted us as such. Sitting at our table, with all Salgon fawning upon us, the poet and I felt Uke millionaires. And then, after two weeks of it, we made a discovery. It seems strange that In these lands of cheap labor a visitor's money can dwindle so rapidly, but it's a fact; you never know where it goes, but it goes and It goes just about as rapidly in an Orlental city as In any other big city, and ours was no exception. In spite of our economy, we began to wonder whether we had enough left to keep us in our accustomed style for an- other week. Hoping and praying, we hurried around orice more to the steamship agency, only to learn that the date had been postponed. not the worst. The agent had re- ceived an answer to his cable. He was sorry, very sorry, but I would have to pay my passage. Perhaps, when I regained my baggage in Sin- gapore and found the stub of my ticket, I could have the money re- funded. He ended with a shrug of his-shoulders. ‘Surely monsieur does not mind such a small matter.” The poet waved his hand in a grace- ful gesture. “Surely not. What are a few score dollars to man like monsleur?” But the time for pretense was past. “When does the next river boat start up stream?” I demanded. It was in miserable French, but the agent understood. He pointed to a small vessel at the wharf. was already pouring from its funnel. Several Annamite deck hands were already fussing with the gangplank. A French captain, a nervous, excita- ble chap with a whisky-colored mus- tache and a complexion reddened by the tropical sun, was blustering at the, coolies who carried abqard the last of the cargo. “In fen minutés,” said the agent. There was no time to lose. I hand- ed the poet some money. “Get me a steérage passage on that boat,” T directed. ‘But where you go?" And that was | Smoke | “To Battambang—to the beginning of that dotted line. You've got your | ticket; you can go to Singapore, get |your own baggage and mine, and meet me in Siam—meet me in Bang- kok. I'm going to walk | I raced for the hotel, found the clerk, frettted while he wasted the | precious moments in figuring my ac- count, wasted a few more preclous |1-oments myself in trying to prove to {him that he was a swindler and a thief, and raced back to the steamer. It was still there—a slender little |craft with a tiny cabin perched away |up forward in the bow and several | tiny staterooms perched away back {aft In the stern, so that its general | form suggested the discarded rind of |a melon, an fllusion made reallstic by the stale odor from two hundred Aslatic steerage passengers of every size, sort, sect, gex and species. who huddled in a mass of humanity upon the deck. ok ok ox - 7THE poet thrust a ticket into my hand and rushed on board with me to bid me farewell. I divided the remaining cash equally between us, and he embraced me In true Italian | fashion. “Kiss me upon the cheek, Fostair!" |he cried. “You are nice fellow, but | you will meet one tiger or. one rhin- oceros and good-by! Kiss me upon | the cheek!” The excitable captain was frothing |at the delay. “Sacre bleu! ofr!” “Kiss me, Fostair! Kiss me upon !the cheek! You will meet tiger,.and | what will you do?” "Il choke him with my hands. And Visitors ashore! Ca |Tli choke you in a minute. I donm't | kiss men.” | I seized his hand and shook it. 500d-by, Fostair!” | “Good-by, old man. Good luck. Meet me in Bangkok.) 4 He turned to dash down the gang- way. Then he paused. The gangway {had been withdrawn. We were al- |ready clear of the dock and surging | through the murky water of the trop- lical river. We shoulted to the cap- tain to put back. “Sacre bleu! I do not put back for | steerage passenger. - Wherefore, still comrades, we | erawled into the center of that odor- |ous horde _of Asiatic bedfellows, | found a small. unoccupied portion of |hard deck between a couple of pa- |jama-clad Annamite ladies, and ade- quately chaperoned by the rest of the steerage passengers, who crowded | about to discuss our advent in all the | gutteral languages of the far easw { we proceeded somehow to fall asleep. | The Fool-Killer's work was begin- |ning to bear fruit. (Copyright, 1 Maryland May Have First American O THE state of Maryland is expected te go the honor of producing the_first saint in this country. If the Catholic Church at Rome decides that Mother Elizabeth‘ Ann Seton. be canonized, she will be the first saint in this country, and, being a Marylander, to that state will go the honor. Followers of this woman's work predict that when the task of ex- amining her writings is completed it will be found that she is justly MOTHER SETON, WHO FOUND- ED THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. due the honor which It is proposed to bestow upon her. Rt. Rev. Mich- ael Curley, Archbishop of Baltimore, has just issued an order that “all Roman Catholics in the archdlocese of Baltimore, having in their posses- sion any writings of Mother Eliza- beth Ann Seton, shall forward them to the archepiscopal residence under ecclesiastical penalties.” The order also requires all Roman Catholics who know of the existence of such documents to notify the Rev. Willlam J. Hafey, chancellor of the archdiacese, where such documents can be found. Such persons are to tell the chancellor the name of any person who may attempt to conceal such documents. The order pertains not only to documents in Mother Seton’s handwriting, but also to any documents containing words dictated by her. THIS order is one of the most im- portant ever issued by a Roman Catholic prelate in the United States. It means that the steps leading to the beatification of Mother Seton are under way and that Rome is eager to examine every paper written or dictated by Mother Seton which * k% ok . Catholic Saint may militate in the least against her beatification. Mother Seton was the foundress of the Sisters of Charity in the United States. She is buried at Emmits- burg, Md. The process of canonization often takes several hundred vears.. The methods pursued by Rome in such processeg are strict. There is ap- pointed for such /mroceedings a pre- late, who is known the devil's advocate. It is that advocate’s duty to ascertain the least possible thing that may hinder the canonization of any one proposed for sainthood. The beatification process precedes canon- 1zation. Elizabeth Ann Seton was born New York, N. Y., August 28, 1 Her parents were Dr. Richard Bayle and Catherine Chariton. When she was three vears old her mother died, and upon her father consequently fell the responsibilty of her educa- tion. Dr. Bayle discharged his duty toward his daughter with the ten- derest solicitude. Aw a result, all the child's_affections were soon centered in him, and she was neyer known to oppose his will. * %k ¥ | in N her early life she began the read- ing of matter which was essential- 1y Catholle. The Holy Scriptures had for her a special attraction, and she read them over and over again Miss Bayle was married to William Magee Seton in New York cffy. Jan- uary 25, 1794. They had five child/®u. The time she could spare from her household cares was devoted to the reading of the Holy Scriptures. With her husband and children she sailed for Ttaly in 1303, because of her hus- band's health. December 7, 1803, Mr. Seton died at Pisa, Italy. The widow salled for New York April §, 1804, after visiting various parts of Italy. She reached there June 3, 1804. Just before sailing from Italy she resolved to become a, Catholic. This she did ‘shortly after reaching this country, belng received on the feast of the Epiphany in 1805. That she might support herself and children, she decided to open a small school, but changed and conducted a boarding house for a number of boys attending an academy in the northern suburb of the city. She went to Bal- timore in 1808 and opened a school near St” Mary's Seminary. A short time later @ Mr. Cooper, a wealthy man, then a student at St. Mary's, de- cided to give his money for educa- tion. A plece of ground was pur- chased at Bmmittsburg, Md., on which a small house, stilt stapdug. was erected—the first home of the Sisters of Charity in the United States. Mother Seton called the society she had founded Sisters of St. Joseph, and June 2, 1908, on the feast of Corpus Christi, the fisters appeared for the first time clothed in the religious hab- it. Mother Seton was elected head of the institution in January, 1812. In June, 1817, Mother Seton founded an orphan asylum in New York city and sent three sisters there ‘to carry on the work. She was elected for the third time in July, 1818,.superioress general of her community by the unanimous votes of her sisters. Mother “Beton became ill in 1820, and on January 4, 1821, she died.