Washington

1. “Are You Now . . .”

The departure of Richard Nixon from Washington has changed the national political landscape, and it has had some curious effects on the mood of the capital city itself. One such effect is an intensified reconsideration of the events and forces that helped bring Nixon to center stage twenty-five years ago. the anticommunist hysteria of what became known as “the McCarthy Era.” It is, in a sense, a matter of purging the city’s soul of the spirit of witch-hunting in its recent past just in time for the Bicentennial. That can be clumsy and awkward at times, and the impulse toward revisionist history is strong enough to permit many people, in the government and the press and elsewhere, to ignore their own roles in that old, unhappy, now embarrassing interlude.

To be sure, most of the abuses and excesses of the McCarthy-early Nixon period have long since been renounced and repudiated. It has been years since anyone seriously fretted about communists in the State Department or patrolled the scientific and entertainment worlds in search of subversion. But as long as Nixon was alive politically and doing so well, and especially while he was President, there were echoes of those episodes. The Subversive Activities Control Board and the Internal Security Division of the Justice Department were gone, but only this year did Congress actually get around to abolishing the House Un-American Activities Committee (which had been existing for the past few years under the more respectable alias of the House Internal Security Committee). Only now does a President, and a Republican at that, Gerald Ford, invite Linus Pauling to the White House, ignoring the old controversy over Pauling’s let’s-not-bebeastly-to-the-Russians politics and honoring him with the Medal of Science “for the extraordinary scope and power of his imagination, which has led to basic contributions in such diverse fields as structural chemistry and the nature of chemical bonding, molecular biology, immunology and the nature of geneticdiseases. ”

This fall, after years of prison and disgrace, Alger Hiss popped up in the city for an appearance before the Washington Press Club. He had finally managed to pry loose FBI files on the perjury case involving his confrontation with Whittaker Chambers (and Richard Nixon), and had been readmitted to the Massachusetts Bar as well; he looked and sounded like a man who was confident of eventual vindication. Hiss said little about the substance of his case-he seemed to assume that everybody accepted the justice of his cause, and the reporters in the audience were not disposed to challenge him yet he crowed about the beneficial effect of the Watergate scandals: the downfall of his old adversary.

But perhaps the most poignant evidence of this new mood in Washington was the recent five-week run at Ford’s Theatre—scene of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination and now a governmentsupported institution—of Are You Now or Hove You Ever Been, a documentary drama. The play is based on the transcripts of the HUAC investigations into communist influence in the film industry between 1947 and 1958, investigations in which Nixon played a featured role.

Are You Now . . . was written by Eric Bentley and was acted and directed by some of the same people who starred last October in Fear on Trial, the CBS drama about that network’s own bow to witch-hunting in the late fifties in its dealings with radio celebrity John Henry Faulk. Are You Now . . . was a chilling retrospective of how an official government body had encouraged and stimulated the practice of blacklisting in the entertainment world. The Ford’s Theatre audience chortled at scenes in which Abe Burrows and actor Lionel Stander made fools of the committee members and their dogged investigator, but watched in horror as actor Larry Parks, his career in ruins, pleaded with the ideological watchdogs not to “make me choose whether to be in contempt of this committee or crawl through the mud for no purpose.” (Questioned relentlessly, and promised only that his testimony in closed session would not be published until the committee deemed it “expedient” to do so, Parks crawled.) As depicted in the play, the congressmen were happy—and unctuously so—only when witnesses came before them sheepishly to “name names” or to give stock speeches on the evils of communism. “Could I ask whether this is legal?” a defiant Paul Robeson says from the witness stand. The answer, from the chairman, is classic: “This is not only legal but usual.”

Are You Now . . . had enjoyed a particular kind of success during a sixmonth run in Hollywood, primarily because the show-business figures being portrayed and persecuted in the play were familiar household names, while the process in which they were caught up seemed bizarre and foreign. In Washington, however, the reverse was true. The audience laughed, but in different ways, because the witnesses were strangers though the system being portrayed was very familiar indeed.

“We would not have done this play, say. three years ago” (while Nixon was still in the White House), says Frankie Hewitt, executive producer at Ford’s Theatre. “It would have seemed like a polemic then, and might have been misunderstood. . . . It might have seemed directed against a single person, rather than a whole system . . . and besides, it was still with us; one of the main characters was still in power.” Although Are You Now . . . was booked into Ford’s almost by accident (Ms. Hewitt happened to be in Los Angeles and saw it there), it eventually came to be billed as the first entry in the theatre’s Bicentennial season. Ms. Hewitt decided that “it is almost essential to re-examine this part of our history now, with him"—Nixon-“gone.” Initially, her lawyers and friends were hesitant to encourage her, warning that Ford’s might be inviting political trouble by scheduling such a hot item; but she argued that the political climate favored just such a production. “We’re not going to get into trouble with the FBI and the CIA. They’re in trouble now; they’re the ones being investigated.”

Are You Now . . . drew good audiences, including a few curious congressmen. almost every night. But there was a troubling mystery on opening night when, after the guest list of dignitaries expected from Capitol Hill had been published, quite a few phoned at the last moment to say that something had come up and they had to cancel out. Surely it was just the rain that kept them away.

2. Re-enter Humphrey, Bayh

“Right now. it looks like the beginning of a steeplechase. There are a lot of horses at the line, but after a few jumps, there won’t be as many,” says Senator Hubert Humphrey. Democrat of Minnesota, with the self-assurance of one who should know about Democratic presidential races. Humphrey is in the peculiar position of being both the elder statesman to whom people come for advice and observations and, all of a sudden, the man whom a growing body of other advisers and observers believe to be the one who could unite the party and run a creditable race against Gerald Ford in 1976. When he is in town, Humphrey’s office is a mecca for those seeking authoritative political chat. But often he is on the road these days, presiding at held hearings of the Joint Economic Committee of Congress, speaking on behalf of upand-coming members of the party, or moderating at forums on the issues of the day. Humphrey discerns “more interest in me now than at any time in my career-and just when I least want it.” But does he like it? “You bet I do. I’m having a good time.”

Diplomat and hedger-of-bets that he

is. Humphrey will not express even the mildest of preferences or estimate the odds among the Democrats already in the race for the nomination. He can find something good to say about everyone. Senator Henry M. (“Scoop”) Jackson of Washington has “an exemplary record” on domestic issues. Governor Milton Shapp of Pennsylvania “knows how to use the media.” The way Humphrey sees it. even more people may come in before long—“my good friend” Senator Frank Church of Idaho; Governor Jerry Brown of California (“He’d be different, he would get a tremendous amount of attention”); Mayor Kevin White of Boston (“although that busing thing has hurt”): perhaps Senator Adlai E. Stevenson III of Illinois, as “a regional favorite son.” A horde of candidates “is not injurious now,” he insists. On the contrary, it may be “the only way to compete with an incumbenthave a number of people out. and you benefit from their combined cannonading. Otherwise, it’s just Ford on TV . . .”Even the risk that the profusion of candidates “will make us look flaky and fuzzy till the convention” is worth

it, in his view.

Humphrey’s simple strategy for a Democratic victory in 1976 goes like this: Forget foreign policy, because the Administration has the upper hand in that area, and more of the public supports the policy of détente with the Soviet Union than is commonly supposed by some of the other candidates. Keep the party out of “left field” and away from the “extraneous issues.”The voters are interested in their jobs, their homes, a decent income, good schools, health care, and the crime problem; “not gay rights, legalized marihuana, and all of this bunk" from the 1972 campaign. If slogans are needed. Humphrey has a few ready. The Ford Administration’s economic policies, he suggests, are upside down: “I always knew they stood on their heads, these Republicans, but I thought it was only for exercise.” Ford’s aides “are some inflation-fighters-I think when they reached for the firehose, they picked up the gas hose instead!”

Ultimately, any conversation with Humphrey these days comes around to what his press secretary calls “the presidential thing.”It is an intriguing thing, a great irony, a phenomenon based on Humphrey’s current image as a new man with the same old bounce, a politician who is realistic now, at age sixtyfour, about his own strengths and weaknesses. The press secretary produces a thick envelope of recent press clippings: praise for his remarkable performance since returning to the Senate in 1971 as the junior man from Minnesota, chronicles of his astuteness and indefatigability, predictions and endorsements, of a sort, of his candidacy by everyone from the Phoenix Gazette to the Village Voice.

“It is much better to be sought after than to seek,”says the Senator, who asserts smugly that he is doing no seeking of his own and will not. But as he tells it, colleagues in the Senate (he will not say which) have been approaching him to say “you’re the one.” and members of the public whom he has never met before stop him on the street and collar him with the message that “you’re going to have to run for President.” The Democrats in North Dakota have already gone to the trouble of nominating him as their own candidate.

“I don’t think a man in my position should start making contingency plans.”

Humphrey insists, though he acknowledges quickly that he would accept a draft from a deadlocked convention. Just challenge him on a point or two, and he will respond like a man whose proverbial hat is in the ring. Does he still have the fight in him for a national campaign? Could he be as tough as he might have to be? “You ought to try me for size sometime and see. . . . I didn’t beat the Republicans in Minnesota for the first time in a hundred years by being a cookie; I didn’t build up a party in the state by being a softie . . . . I believe in the power of prayer, but I believe in hard work, too.”He warns that Gerald Ford, who reportedly would welcome a Humphrey candidacy, will be no “pushover,” but he seems confident that he could beat Ford to capture the presidency. It would be his fourth try. But then Humphrey, famous for getting caught up in his own rhetoric, stops himself short. He doubts that the scenario-writers who already have him slated for the nomination are right. He thinks that “a very cool breeze will come my way and put a little frost on the flower.” Or does he?

But if not Humphrey, then who? ask the pundits, the kingmakers, and the mentioners. Surely not Sargent Shriver, who has more pizzazz than substance. Or Fred Harris, whose grass-roots organization may now be the best but who. for that and other reasons, reminds the politicians and forecasters of George McGovern. Frank Church, after spending the better part of his adulthood in the Senate, could not have a more strategic vantage point on the major issues of the day than the one the seniority system has provided him: he is chairman of a Foreign Relations subcommittee studying multinational corporations, an Interior subcommittee on energy research, the special Senate committee on the problems of the aging, and, now, the select committee investigating the CIA and the FBI. But who outside Washington knows him? Can he turn on a crowd east of Boise?

Increasingly, the second name on many of the lists of Democratic nominees, no matter who is first, is Senator Birch Bayh of Indiana. And that is exactly what Bayh is hoping for; in addition to building a core of people who prefer him above others, he aims to be second to Humphrey in the hearts of organized labor, second only to Representative Morris (“Mo”) Udall of Arizona for the affection of the practical liberals (as distinguished from Fred Harris’ romantics), and the consolation choice of minorities and women who would like a genuine Kennedy to vote for. Just enough of everything to be an ideal compromise candidate who can attract support from a broad spectrum of the Democratic party.

“Can you be an acceptable alternative to everyone?” Bayh wonders aloud before setting off on a hectic ten-day cross-country trip in search of money and endorsements from respected political figures. “Or would people prefer that you be 80 percent pure, so they always know where you stand?” The only Democratic candidate invited this season to address both the regional forums organized by the liberal wing of the party and the AFL-CIO convention in San Francisco, he planned to sound the same themes to each: They are being “ripped off” by the oil companies; the rich are paying virtually no taxes; and there is the “whole business of reordering priorities.”

Once held to be a lightweight by some of his colleagues, and by no means considered a deep thinker, Bayh has nonetheless built a reputation for seriousness of purpose and accomplishments within the system. He is one of the few liberals who managed to be close to both the Kennedy and the Johnson factions of the Democratic party when they were at war, without alienating either. He led the successful fights against two controversial Nixon appointees to the Supreme Court, and is an author of the Equal Rights Amendment. Title Nine of the Education Act of 1972 (which prohibits sex discrimination by any institution or program receiving federal funds), and the Twenty-fifth Amendment, which resulted in the orderly selection of Gerald Ford as Vice President and his elevation to the presidency. (The last achievement. Bayh jokes, gives him a “special responsibility” to unseat Ford.) When a flurry of proposals for constitutional amendments to prohibit abortion piled up like so many time bombs before a Judiciary subcommittee he heads, he defused emotions by letting everyone have a say but sending none of the bills to the Senate floor.

Many also-rans for the 1972 nomination are thought to be figures who have tired the public. Bayh. by contrast, won sympathy when he dropped his candidacy early that year because of his wife Marvella’s encounter with cancer.

One area in which Bayh’s partisans think he can match or better the President is his common touch. He looks perfectly natural working with his sleeves rolled up, speaking from the back of a flathed truck, toting a shotgun (although he is also a longtime proponent of basic gun-control laws), and instead of playing golf—pitching horseshoes. Bayh comes across as what Ford would like to be, one of the boys. “One thing I’m going to try to do” in this campaign, he promises, is to “be myself.” Being second on those lists of prospects, he may have to try harder.

3. Reform on trial

The scene is anything but grand or awe-inspiring. Deep in a suite of offices notable primarily for its chaos and sloppiness, the commissioners gather around a small conference table in a stuffy, smoke-choked little room for their twice-weekly meetings. At what seems like regular intervals, a toilet flushes on the other side of the wall, momentarily drowning out all voices. When the proceedings can be heard, they are none too lively, and before long many of the people who are crammed into the chairs along the sides of the room, with the exception of several very alert representatives of candidates’ campaign committees and publicinterest groups, begin to suffer the telltale nodding and bobbing head of someone whose need for an afternoon siesta is overcoming him.

It is in these inelegant surroundings that the Federal Election Commission, the six-member regulatory body established by the Federal Election Campaign Act Amendments of 1974, has begun a task that could amount to a virtual rewriting of the basic rules of American politics, a revision so profound that if it is successful, money will be a less decisive factor in elections than it has become, and campaign cleverness will require more than finding loopholes in the law. The idea, as commission chairman Thomas B. Curtis likes to put it, is to create a body of rules simple and rational enough to encourage widespread “voluntary compliance” without resort to the courts—in short, a political system in which there are no more Watergates and no need for a Special Prosecutor.

This is, to be sure, a bold and ambitious experiment, and not an easy one to carry off. Already there have been charges and countercharges, all relatively easy to document in the record, that the new law and the commission’s work favor business over labor, labor over business, incumbents over challengers, challengers over incumbents, and so on. Former Senator Eugene J. McCarthy of Minnesota, now running for the presidency from outside the two-party system, and Senator James L. Buckley, Conservative of New York, among others, argue that the law is a misguided reform which really has the effect of abridging freedom of speech and political action; their lawsuit to overturn it and shut down the commission has failed in federal court so far, but before the rules governing the 1976 election are final, the Supreme Court will have a say in the matter.

Simplifying the rules is probably the most elusive of the commission’s goals. Take the gross-net controversy, for example. Should a candidate count the total amount of money collected in a fund-raising efifort even if, as in directmail solicitation, a substantial percentage of it goes toward paying for additional fund-raising expenses? What about a benefit concert for a candidate, where the performers charge nothing for their appearance and the tickets are sold at a very low price to attract a large crowd: should the market value of the performance be considered a campaign contribution? Should the “donations” for the tickets count fully as money raised by the candidate?

In general, the gross approach favors candidates when they are at the stage of trying to raise the $100,000 necessary to demonstrate a national base of support ($5000 in each of any twenty states, to be composed of individual contributions of $250 or less) and qualify for federal matching funds. But later, in the general election, when they are up against the spending ceiling in the new law ($20 million for a presidential candidate, twelve cents per eligible voter for a senatorial candidate, and $70,000 for most candidates for the House), the net calculations could give them more latitude.

Other questions arise. What about Gerald Ford’s trips? Wouldn’t it be unfair to him to charge the cost of all of his forays in 1975 to the next year’s campaign spending limit? On the other hand, is it equitable to allow the Republican National Committee to foot the bill for his early efforts on behalf of his party, and thus give Ford a whole separate fund that he can draw upon, outside the rules governing presidential campaign expenses? And so it goes, with the law itself answering few of the detailed questions and the commission struggling to fill in the gaps with its advisory opinions and regulations. (One loophole, recently discovered and currently under debate, would have permitted a person running for convention delegate to spend an unlimited amount of money; candidates could thus have channeled campaign funds above and beyond the reach of the new law through delegate races.)

The 1974 law called for a commission whose members possess “maturity, experience, integrity, impartiality, and good judgment,” an equal number of Democrats and Republicans, four of them named by the congressional leadership and two by the President. As it evolved, it includes four ex-congressmen, Republicans Vernon W. Thomson of Wisconsin and Chairman Curtis of Missouri, and Democrats Robert O. Tiernan of Rhode Island and Neil Staebler of Michigan—all but Staebler recently defeated in a bid for re-election or for the Senate—plus a longtime counsel to the AFL-CIO, Thomas E. Harris, a Democrat, and a public relations executive, Joan D. Aikens, who has long been active in Pennsylvania Republican politics. Proud of their partisan backgrounds, they nonetheless avoided dividing along party lines on any of the issues they confronted in their first several months of operation. Although they have been involved in plenty of secret political deals over the years, they resolved, after an initial flap, to hold virtually all of their meetings in public.

Despite its members’ experience on Capitol Hill, the commission has had peculiarly bad luck in its attempts to establish a good working relationship with, and at the same time independence from, Congress. First there was a furor over its appropriations, with the commission behaving as if it had the freedom of an executive agency, and the House Administration and Senate Rules committees treating it like just another congressional panel looking for its annual rations. The fact is that Congress, in passing the 1974 law, reserved itself a veto power over all commission regulations, and already members of both the House and the Senate are complaining that their creation is “overregulating.” The House flatly refused to go along with the assertion that the commission is the “point of entry" for anyone who wants to run for Congress: the commission is welcome to a copy of any filing statement, said the congressmen, but the original should continue to be tiled with, and remain in the custody of, the clerk of the House.

The commission touched the most sensitive nerve of all when it moved to assert authority over congressional office accounts-otherwise known as “slush funds"—which are used to pay for anything from Christmas cards to airplane tickets, and have never been accounted for to anyone else. After cries of outrage from Congress, the commission retreated from its original position that the accounts would always be considered part of the spending limits, and said it would look at House members’ funds only in each election year, and at senators’ in the last two years of each term. The Senate still protested, however, and voted down the compromise regulation, complaining that the procedure would reclassify some of their routine expenses as campaign-related and would give all incumbents a serious disadvantage. But unless the office accounts are supervised, says the commission, incumbents have a considerable advantage, a whole separate resource outside the law. “If Congress is not willing to discipline itself.” asks Curtis, “how can they expect the general public to do it?”

“Our job is to be philosophers,” says Curtis in a reflective moment after a rough afternoon before the Senate Rules Committee. “We’re sort of umpires, and the best umpires are former players.” Soon, he hopes, the commission will confront questions about the range of its supervisory powers over governors and other state officials who begin to collect money toward an eventual run for the House or the Senate. But he looks forward to the day when the situation will be sufficiently calm so that being a federal election commissioner will be merely a part-time job. And in the long run, he predicts, the political parties themselves will be strengthened as entities under the new rules, because they will get some of the money that would previously have gone to individual candidates. “I think it can be done,” he says of campaign reform. “We will make it an honorable thing again to participate in politics.”

4. Welfare snoopers?

Few Americans realized it. but last August their federal government-the one that is assailed for poking too arbitrarily into the affairs of private citizens—got into the business of collecting child-support payments from delinquent fathers. Under the program that quietly took effect at that time, welfare mothers will delegate their collection rights to the states, and state officials will attempt to track down the men who have been avoiding court orders to provide for their progeny. But a state can take any difficult case to a federal Parent Locater Service (PLS) in the Department of Health, Education and Welfare. The PLS, a computerized operation, will have access to substantial federal and state records; it will be able to refer child-support cases to the Internal Revenue Service f’or collection and to the federal courts for enforcement. Mothers not on welfare wall have access to the PLS’s services for a fee. Its appropriation, now working its way through the legislative maze, provides some $4 million, for the first year, to a bureaucracy that will start out with about 130 employees.

Although precise national statistics are hard to come by, delinquency in child-support payments is a problem that has become more serious as the institution of the family has deteriorated in recent years. More fathers are deserting their wives (or girlfriends) and children than ever before, and as a direct result, the deserted mothers are being forced to work, sometimes at several jobs, in order to feed and clothe their children, or else, many believe, to swell the welfare rolls unnecessarily. The existing collection and enforcement mechanisms of local court systems are often weak; but when state governments became involved in the last few years, they found that they were able to turn up hundreds of millions of dollars in overdue payments with relatively little trouble and expenses of only twenty-five cents for each dollar collected.

That state experience attracted the fancy of many people in Washington. Ever since the days of the Nixon Administration’s unsuccessful stabs at overhauling the entire welfare system, there has been pressure to launch some national child-support collection mechanism. The idea appealed to a peculiar coalition of proponents: backers of former California Governor Ronald Reagan, the National Organization for Women, local prosecutors and social workers, experts in family law; but most importantly, Senator Russell Long. Democrat of Louisiana. For Long, chairman of the Senate Finance Committee and a power to be reckoned with, it became something of a crusade, a way to achieve his dream of cutting back the federal expenditure on welfare while making fathers pay up. More than once he tried and failed, but he kept carrying his proposal in his back pocket. Finally, in December, 1974, as the Ninety-third Congress was moving toward adjournment. Long attached it as an amendment to a social services bill that passed by a vote of 74-17. (Most of the negative votes were those of Republicans objecting to other measures in the bill; few senators even realized that the child-support program was there.)

In the House, it came up literally in the last hour before adjournment under a closed rule, and congressmen had to vote for it if there was to be any federal money at all for social services that year. Again, last summer, when amendments came up making some revisions in the child-support program—including one that gave states more time to set up their own programs under the federal one—they were attached to a bill adjusting the tariff’s on watches, considered on August 1, the last day before a congressional recess, and passed by voice vote in both houses at a moment when hardly anyone was on the floor. One liberal who was, Democratic Senator Walter F. Mondale of Minnesota, echoed Long: “I do not know of anything that should be tolerated less than a father who runs out on his family and will not support them when he can. . . . The federal government, the taxpayers, has been paying millions of dollars for the support of children where some fathers, who could have supported them, will not. I think the public will feel a lot better about the welfare laws. I believe some of the runaway fathers will think twice about what they are doing if we make it clear that they cannot get away with it.” He appealed for strong enforcement of the child-support program by the Ford Administration.

Enforcement ordinarily would not be a problem, since the new Secretary of HEW, F. David Matthews, in confirmation hearings before Long’s committee, promised his “support and cooperation” (as had his predecessor, Caspar Weinberger). But there is one major wrinkle: Gerald Ford, upon signing bills dealing with the child-support program. has twice protested that he is unhappy about the provisions that “inject the federal government too deeply into domestic relations” and about the possibility that the PLS, while solving one evil, may create another—a serious invasion of the privacy of those who deal with it, fathers, mothers, and children alike.

The President is talking this way at the urging of some of his aides and members of the new, informal “privacy lobby” within the executive and legislative branches, including the White House Domestic Council Committee on the Right of Privacy and the new Privacy Protection Study Commission, who fear that computerized government records pose an ominous threat to citizens. They warn that the child-support program could turn into a nightmare, forcing disclosure of irrelevant information that is buried in government files, leading to violations of the privilege of confidentiality between husband and wife, and encouraging local officials to poke into the records in an attempt to win for their jurisdictions the “incentive payments” promised under the law to those who track down delinquent fathers and get them to pay.

Ford has been persuaded to take his stand in part because he is also convinced that privacy is a good Republican and conservative issue. But does he Jamaican socialism is obviously mild stuff. Yet Manley is being attacked bitterly for it. Businessmen are in panic. American diplomats and investors are fretting. One rightist group has condemned Manley’s “recent speeches about socialism being Christianity” as “blasphemous and cheap politics.” The great problem for Manley, however, is that his socialism may be too mild in the long run to relieve Jamaica’s desperation.

Would you believe it?
Love and togetherness
that’s what it means.

Black men, white ways

Half a million Americans visit Jamaica every year but see little of it and learn even less about it. These tourists usually confine themselves to a thin strip of beach on the northern coast, away from the slums of Kingston in the south and from the tangle of wood and mountain in the center that has figured so large in Jamaica’s troubled history. That history has produced a people who are restive yet cautious.

Unlike the islands of the Spanish Caribbean, but like the rest of the British West Indies, Jamaica was not really a colonial settlement. It was more nearly an agricultural factory where a few white planters enriched themselves on sugar plantations worked by slaves from Africa. Jamaica was once worth more to Britain than the American colonies. But this prosperity dwindled away in the nineteenth century, partly because the British abolition of the slave trade in 1808 cut off the supply of cheap labor, partly because the planters wasted the soil, overspeculated, failed to meet the competition from other islands, and lost political influence in London. In 1859. Anthony Trollope, on a visit, wrote. “If we could, we would fain forget Jamaica altogether.”

Many islands of the Caribbean are so flat and tiny that a rebellious slave had no place to hide. But that is not true of Jamaica, the third largest island in the Caribbean. It was always easy on Jamaica to defy authority and take to the hills. The island has a history of continual slave rebellions before emancipation (1834) and black riots after.

Jamaica also has a long history of Christian mission work among the Negroes (as blacks are still called here) and of a steady destruction of African culture. Negro culture on Jamaica is a black adaptation of European ways and