Civilization does not radiate, or
diffuse. It leaps; and as to where it will next strike it is as
independent as forked lightning. During hundreds of years it passed
over the continent of Africa to settle only at its northern coast
line and its most southern cape; and, to-day, it has given Cuba all
of its benefits, and has left the equally beautiful island of Hayti,
only fourteen hours away, sunk in fetish worship and brutal
ignorance.
One of the places it has chosen to ignore is the West Coast of
Africa. We are familiar with the Northern Coast and South Africa. We
know all about Morocco and the picturesque Raisuli, Lord Cromer, and
Shepheard's Hotel. The Kimberley Diamond Mines, the Boer War,
Jameson's Raid, and Cecil Rhodes have made us know South Africa, and
on the East Coast we supply Durban with buggies and farm wagons,
furniture from Grand Rapids, and, although we have nothing against
Durban, breakfast food and canned meats. We know Victoria Falls,
because they have eclipsed our own Niagara Falls, and Zanzibar,
farther up the Coast, is familiar through comic operas and rag-time.
Of itself, the Cape to Cairo Railroad would make the East Coast
known to us. But the West Coast still means that distant shore from
whence the "first families" of Boston, Bristol and New Orleans
exported slaves. Now, for our soap and our salad, the West Coast
supplies palm oil and kernel oil, and for automobile tires, rubber.
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