Having now concluded my last trip into the interior of the Philippines, I was desirous of not separating myself again from my son, the only being that remained to me of all those whom I had loved so tenderly. I took him with me to Manilla; but I did not altogether bid farewell to Jala-Jala, yet I had almost the intention of never going back to it.

The journey was as agreeable as my melancholy recollections would permit. I experienced such pleasure in holding my boy in my arms, and in receiving his gentle caresses, that I occasionally forgot every sorrow.

I arrived at Manilla, and took up my quarters in the environs, at the abode of Baptiste Vidie, brother of the friend whom I had left at Jala-Jala.

After my escape from the Ajetas, I had noticed a small wound on the forefinger of my right hand, which I attributed to having been accidentally scratched by a branch or a thorn, while we were endeavouring to make our escape with such precipitation from the arrows which the savages let fly at us. The first night I spent at Manilla, I felt in the place where the wound was such extreme pain that I fell down twice totally senseless. The agony increased every instant, and became so violent that I could no longer doubt that it was caused by the poison of an arrow, shot at me by the Ajetas. I sent for one of my confrÉres, and after a most careful examination, he made a large incision, which did not, however, afford me any relief: the hand, on the contrary, festered up. By little and little the inflammation extended itself up my arm, and I was soon in an alarming state.

In short, after suffering during a whole month, and after the most cruel incertitude, it seemed that the poison had passed into my breast. I could not sleep for an instant; and, in spite of me, dead and painful cries came forth from my breast, which was on fire. My eyes were veiled—I could not see; a burning sweat covered my face; my blood was on fire, and did not circulate in my veins; my life seemed about to become extinct. The medical men declared that I could not pass through the night. According to the usages of the country, I was told that I ought to regulate my affairs for death. I asked that the consul-general of France, my excellent friend Adolphe Barrot, should be sent for.

Adolphe I knew to be a man of true heart and affection, and to him I recommended my poor boy. He promised to take care of him as if he were his own son, to take him to France, and to give him over to my family.

Lastly a good Dominican friar came, and with him I had several long conferences, and after he had dispensed to me the consolations of his ministry, he gave me extreme unction. Everything was done according to the customary form, and nothing was wanting but my death.

However, amidst all these preparations, I alone was not so eager; and, although in excessive anguish, I preserved my presence of mind, and declared I should not die. Was it courage? Was it great confidence in my strength and robust health, which made me believe in my recovery? Was it a presentiment, or was it an inward voice which told me: “The doctors are wrong, and how great will be their surprise tomorrow on finding me better?” In short, I did not wish to die; for, according to my system, my will ought to stop the order of nature, and to make me survive all imaginable pain.

The following day I was better: the doctors found my pulse regular, and without any intermitting symptom. Some days afterwards the poison passed out to my skin: my whole body was covered with a miliary eruption, and thenceforth I was safe. My recovery was very gradual, and for more than a year I felt acute pains in my breast.

During the course of my illness I received the kindest attention from my fellow-countrymen, and in general from all the Spanish inhabitants of Manilla; and here I ought to state, to the praise of the latter class, that during twenty years spent in the Philippines, I always found amongst those with whom I had dealings, a great nobleness of soul and a devotedness free from egotism. I shall never forget the kindnesses I received from this noble race, for which I entertain feelings of the warmest gratitude. To me, every Spaniard is a brother; and to him I shall always be happy to prove that his countrymen have not conferred obligations on an ungrateful character. I hope the reader will pardon me for having quitted my subject for a short time to fulfil the duty of gratitude; but are they not my recollections which I am detailing?1

The wish to undertake, together with my boy, the voyage which would restore me to my country; the hope of seeing my kind good mother, my sisters, and all the friends whom I had left behind, reconciled me somewhat to existence, and made me experience a little happiness. I was awaiting with impatience the time for embarking; but, alas! my mission was not yet terminated in the Philippines, and a new catastrophe, quickly opened afresh all my sorrows.

I was scarcely recovered, when my dear boy—my sole delight the last beloved being that remained to me on this earth, so fruitful in joys, and still so destructive of them—my poor Henry fell suddenly ill, and his disease made the most rapid progress. My friends immediately foreboded that a great misfortune would befall me. I alone did not know the state in which my child really was. I loved him with such an ardent passion, that I believed it impossible that Providence would deprive me of him. My medical attendant, or rather my friend, Genu, advised me to take him to Jala-Jala, where his native air and the country, as he said, would without doubt promote his recovery. I liked the advice, for so many persons had recovered their health at Jala-Jala that I hoped for my child a similar good result. I set out with him and his governess; the voyage was one of sadness, for I saw my poor boy continually suffering, without being able to afford him any relief.

On our arrival Vidie came to receive us, and in a few moments I occupied, with my Henry, the room which brought to my remembrance two very sorrowful losses—the death of my little daughter and that of my beloved Anna. It was, moreover, in that very room my Henry was born,—a cruel association of the happiest moments of my existence with that when I was bewailing the state of my beloved boy. Nevertheless, I did not altogether despair, for I had hopes in my art and experience. I seated myself by his bedside, and did not leave him for a moment. I slept close to him, and I passed every day in administering the medicine and all the comforts in my power, but without any good result, or any relief for his sufferings. I lost all hope, and on the ninth day after our arrival the dear boy expired in my arms.

It is not possible for me to give an account of my feelings on this last trial. My heart was broken, my head on fire! I became mad, and never did despair take such a hold on me. I listened to nothing but my sorrow; and force became necessary to tear from my arms the mortal remains of my child.

On the following day he was laid close to his mother, and another tomb was erected in the church of Jala-Jala.

In vain did my friend Vidie endeavour to afford me consolation, or to change the current of my affliction. Several times he tried to remove me from the fatal room, which I now looked upon as a scene of misfortunes, but he could not succeed. I hoped at the time—and I also thought that I too had a right—to die there, where my wife and my son had breathed their last sighs. My tears refused to flow, and even words failed me to express the full extent of my grief. An ardent fever, which devoured me, was far too slow for the eagerness of my wishes. In a moment of bewilderment, I was near committing the greatest act of cowardice which man can perpetrate against his Creator. I double-locked the door; I seized the poignard which I had so often used to protect my life, and pointed it against myself. I was already choosing the spot in which I should strike, in order by one blow to terminate my miserable existence. My arm, strengthened by delirium, was about to smite my breast, when one sudden thought came to prevent me from consummating the crime which has no pardon—although the crime of despair. My mother, my poor mother, whom I had so much loved, my good mother presented herself to my mind, and said to me: “Thou wouldst abandon me—I shall see thee no more!” I recollected then the words of Anna: “Go, and see thy mother again!” This thought changed my resolution completely. I threw the poniard aside with horror, and fell on my bed quite exhausted. My eyes, which during many days had been dry and burning, were once again overflowing with tears, which removed the heavy weight from my lacerated heart.

The force of mind of which I stood so much in need was awakened again within me: I no longer thought of death, but of fulfilling my rigorous destiny. Calmed and relieved already by the abundant flow of tears, I gave myself up wholly to the idea of embracing my mother and my sisters. Then I wished to add the following pages to my journal. My head was not thoroughly right. I shall translate what I then wrote in Spanish, which was my adopted and familiar language, in preference even to French, which I had scarcely spoken during twenty years:—

“How have I strength to take this pen? My poor boy!—my son!—my beloved Henry!—is no more: his soul has flown to his Creator! Oh, God! pardon this complaint in my distress. What have I done to be thus cruelly afflicted? My boy!—my dear son!—my only hope!—my last happiness!—I shall never again see thee! Formerly I was happy; I had my good Anna and my dear child; but cruel fate soon tore my companion from me. My trouble was indeed great, and my affliction was profound; but thou wast still with me, Oh, my child! and all my affections were concentrated in thee. “With thy caresses thou didst dry my tears; thy smile was like that of thy mother, and thy beautiful features reminded me of her, and in thee I found her again. But to-day, alas! I have lost you both. What a void! Oh, God! what a solitude! Oh! I ought to die in this room which is the depository of all my misfortunes. Here I bewailed my poor brother; here I closed the eyes of my daughter; here, also, Anna, when dying, bade me, bathed in tears, her last adieus; and here, at last, thou, my son, they tore thee from my arms, to lay thee near the ashes of thy mother.

“So many afflictions and so many troubles for one man! Oh, God of goodness and mercy, will you not restore to me my poor child? Alas! I scarcely feel that I am mistaken: but He will pity my bewilderment—he who has been beloved and who has seen carried off, one by one, all the elements of his happiness. As for me, an isolated being, and henceforward useless on this earth, it matters little where I shall sink under the weight of my afflictions. If it was not from the hope of seeing my mother and sisters, I should terminate my wretched existence, my grave should be with you—you all!—whom I loved so much. I should remain near you, and during the rest of my miserable existence I should every day visit your tombs! But no; a sacred duty obliges me to leave you, and to separate for ever from you. Cruel! Oh, cruel indeed will be the hour when I shall depart from you. And thou, my beloved, my good, excellent wife, my Anna, thy last words shall be accomplished. I will set out, but regret and grief accompany me during the voyage; my heart and my memory will remain at Jala-Jala. Oh! land bedewed with my sweat, with my blood, and with my tears! when fate brought me to thy shores thou wast covered with dismal forests which this day have given place to rich harvests: among thy inhabitants order, abundance, and prosperity have taken the place of debauchery and misery. My efforts were crowned with full success; all was prosperity around me. Alas! I was too happy! But while misfortune strikes me down and overwhelms me, it will have stricken me alone, my work will outlive me. You will be happy, Oh, my friends! and if I myself have been so in contributing to your welfare, let a thought sometimes awaken your feelings towards him to whom you often gave the name of ’Father;’ and if you preserve gratitude towards him, Oh, take a religious care of the tombs, trebly dear to him, which he now intrusts to you.”

My readers will pardon this melancholy and long lamentation; they will understand it if they examine with care my position. Separated from my country by five thousand five hundred leagues, the stroke of fate which laid all my cherished hopes in the dust was the more acutely felt as it was unexpected. I had no relatives in the Philippines; in France alone I might yet find some affections; and, at the moment of quitting Jala-Jala for ever, the idea of parting with my Indians—attached, devoted, as they were to me—was an additional grief to the many which overpowered me. Thus I could not resolve to acquaint them beforehand of this separation. I remained in my room, without quitting it even at meal times. My friend Vidie did everything possible to prepare me for these adieus, and to console me. He pressed me to start speedily for Manilla, and to make arrangements for my departure; but an irresistible force retained me at Jala-Jala. I was weak; my heart was so crushed by sorrows that I had no courage to adopt any resolutions. I put it off from day to day, and from day to day I was more undecided. An unexpected occasion was necessary in order to conquer my apathy; it was requisite also to triumph over me by sentiments of gratitude—sentiments which I could never resist.

On this occasion, the motive which decided my departure was furnished by Providence. I had a friend in Manilla, a lady of angelic goodness, gentleness, and devotedness. United from the period of my arrival in the most intimate manner with all her family, I had known her as a child, and afterwards married to a highly honourable man, of whom when she was subsequently bereaved, I afforded her all the consolations which the sincerest friendship could offer. She was a witness of the happiness which I enjoyed with my dear Anna, and, hearing that I was unhappy, she did not hesitate to undertake a long journey, and in her turn to come and take a part in my troubles. The excellent DolorÈs Seneris arrived one morning at Jala-Jala; she threw herself into my arms, and for some moments tears alone were the interpreters of our thoughts. When we recovered from our first emotions, she told me that she had come to take me away, and she herself made the preparations for my departure. I was too grateful for this proof of the friendship of the good DolorÈs not to acquiesce in her wishes, and it was decided that on the following day I should quit Jala-Jala for ever.

The report was soon spread among my Indians. They all came to bid me farewell: they wept, and they said to me:

“Oh, master, do not deprive us of all hope of seeing you again. Go, and receive consolation from your mother, and then return to your children.” That day was filled with most distressing feelings.

The day following was Sunday. I went to say adieu to the remains of those whom I had loved even in their tombs. I heard for the last time the divine service in the modest little church which I had erected, and in which for a long time, surrounded by my dearest friends, I was happy to assemble, on the same day of the week, the small congregation of Jala-Jala.

After the service I proceeded to the beach, where the boat was waiting, which was to take me to Manilla. There—surrounded by my Indians, the good parish priest, Padre Miguel, and my friend Vidie—I bade adieu to them all for the last time. DolorÈs and I got into the boat, which was scarcely pushed off from the shore when every arm was stretched out towards me, and every one exclaimed:—“May your voyage be happy, master! And oh! return soon!”

One of the oldest Indians made a sign for silence, and then in a loud voice uttered these solemn words:—“Brothers, let us weep and pray, for the sun is obscured to us; the star which is going has shed light on our best days, and now for the future, being deprived of that light, we cannot tell how long will last the night in which we are plunged by the misfortune of his departure.”

This exhortation of the old Indian were the last words that reached us: the boat moved away, as I, for the last time, fixed my eyes on the beloved land which I was never again to behold.

We reached Manilla late: it was one of those enchanting nights, which I have described in the happy period of my voyages. DolorÈs insisted that I should not lodge in any house but hers. Before she set out her careful friendship had provided for everything. I was surrounded by all those little attentions of which woman alone has the secret, and which she knows how to confer with such grace on him who is the object for whom they are designed.

My windows looked on the pretty river Pasig. I there passed whole days in looking at the graceful Indian canoes gliding over the water, and receiving the visits of my friends, who came with eagerness to endeavour to divert my thoughts, and to afford sources of pleasing conversation.

When I was alone I sought to dispel my melancholy by thinking of my voyage; on the happiness I should experience on seeing again my poor mother and sisters, a brother-in-law whom I did not know, and nieces born during my absence.

The obligation of returning the visits I received, and the re-establishment of my health, allowed me at length to enter into affairs connected with my departure.

My friend, Adolphe Barrot, consul-general of France, was every day in expectation of intelligence from his government, with orders for his return home. He proposed to me to wait for him, so that we might make the voyage together. I accepted the proposal with pleasure, and we decided amongst ourselves that, for our return, we should take the route of India, of the Red Sea, and of Egypt.

While I stayed at Manilla I did not wish to be idle. The Spaniards reminded me that at a former epoch I had carried on the art of medicine, and with great success. I soon had patients from all quarters of the island, and I resumed my old profession, and gave advice. But what difference between this time and that of my dÉbÛt. Then I was young, full of strength and of hope; then I indulged in the illusions usual to youth; a long future of happiness presented itself to my imagination. Now, overwhelmed by the weight of troubles and of the laborious works I had executed, there was only one wish to excite me, and that was, to see France again; and yet my recollections took me continually back to Jala-Jala. Poor little corner of the globe, which I civilised! where my best years were spent in a life of labour, of emotions, of happiness, and of bitterness! Poor Indians! who loved me so much! I was never to see you again! We were soon to be separated by the immensity of the ocean.

Reflections and recollections beyond number thus occupied my mind. But, alas! it is vain to struggle against one’s destiny; and Providence, in its impenetrable views, was reserving me for rude trials and fresh misfortunes.

Having again become a doctor at Manilla, where I had such difficulty at my commencement, I visited patients from morning until night. To DolorÈs and to her sister Trinidad I was indebted for the most touching and most delicate attentions, calculated to heal the wounds which were still bleeding in the bottom of my heart. I frequently saw the two sisters of my poor wife, Joaquina and Mariquita, as well as my young niece, the daughter of excellent Josephine, for whom I had entertained so warm a friendship, and who so soon followed my darling Anna to the grave. By little and little I was forming new ties of affection, which I was soon to break, and never afterwards to renew. I could not forget Jala-Jala, and my recollections never quitted that place where were deposited the remains of those whom of all the world I had most loved. My eager wishes induced me to hope that my work of colonisation should continue, and that my friend Vidie should find some compensation for the rough task he had undertaken. At this period, even while I remained in Manilla, a great misfortune was nearly the cause of throwing Jala-Jala back into its former state of barbarism. The bandits, who always respected the place while I was in possession of it, came one night to attack it, and made themselves masters of the house in which Vidie had shut himself up, and defended until he was forced to escape out of a window, and to run and hide in the woods, leaving his daughter, then very young, to the care of an Indian nurse. The bandits pillaged and shattered everything in the house; wounded his daughter by a sabre-cut, of which to this day she bears the marks; and then went off with the plunder they had made. But Jala-Jala had become too important a point to be neglected; and the Spanish government sent troops to it, to protect Vidie, and to maintain order.

At last, Adolphe Barrot received from the French government the long-awaited instructions to return home; all my preparations were made for setting out. It was in 1839; twenty years had passed over since I left my country, which I was now about to return to with satisfaction. For a long time I had received no news from my mother, and the pleasure which I anticipated from seeing her was troubled by the dread of having new sorrows to experience on my arrival. My mother was then very old; her life had been passed in long tribulations, and in complete sacrifice of self. The numerous moral troubles which she had gone through must have affected her state of health. Besides, I had been so unfortunate: fate seemed to have so roughly treated all my affections, that I could not refrain from thinking that I should never again see her for whom I abandoned my much-loved country. The day for sailing came; yet it was not without a heartfelt grief that I tore myself away from my friends, and bade adieu to the Philippines.

Here ought to terminate the account which I proposed: yet I cannot refrain from dedicating a few lines to my return to my native land.

On board various vessels I passed the coasts of India, the Persian Gulf, and the Red Sea.

After having often admired the grand works of Nature, I felt a strong desire to see the gigantic works executed by the hand of man.

I went to Thebes, and there visited in detail its palaces, its tombs, and its monolithes. I descended the Nile, stopping at every place which contained any monuments worthy of my curiosity. I ascended one of the Pyramids. I passed several days in Cairo, and set out for Alexandria, where I embarked anew, to pass over the small space of sea which separated me from Europe.

I have sometimes wished to compare the grandest of human productions with the works of the Creator; the comparison is by no means favourable to the former, for all those useless ornaments are nothing but lasting proofs of pride, and of the fanaticism of a few men, who were obeyed by a people in slavery. I also saw all that remained of the traces of destruction committed by two of the greatest conquerors of the world: the first was but a haughty despot, causing cohorts of slaves to act as he pleased, and carrying the sword and destruction amongst peaceful people, to profane their tombs, to follow up useless conquests,—history afterwards shows him dying of an orgie; and the other, alas! was enchained to a rock.

From the summit of one of the Pyramids, in religious abstraction, I had contemplated the majestic Nile, which glides serpent-like through a vast plain, bordered by the Desert and arid mountains. Looking, then, below me, I could with difficulty descry some of my travelling companions, who were gazing at the Sphinx, and who appeared like little spots on the sand. And I then exclaimed: “It is not these useless monuments that we ought to admire, but rather this magnificent river, which, in obedience to the laws of all-powerful wisdom, overflows every year, at a fixed period, its limits, and spreads itself, like a vast sea, to water and to vivify these immense plains, which are afterwards covered with rich harvests. If this immutable and beneficent order of Nature did not endure, all these fertile districts would be but a desert waste, where no living creature could exist.”

These reflections took their origin, without doubt, from my having spent almost all my life amidst those grand creations of Nature, from which man continually derives sentiments that elevate him to the Supreme Being. I had studied that Nature—in all her details, her beneficence, and her magnificence—too attentively to allow the productions of man’s genius to make upon me the impression which I thought might be expected, when I first formed the wish to see the monuments of Egypt; and, while sailing for Europe, I already anticipated the feeling that a short sojourn in the midst of civilisation would cause me to regret my ancient freedom, my mountains, and my solitudes in the Philippine Islands.

On arriving at Malta I was for eighteen days locked up in Fort Manuel, and then passed the quarantine. I there received news of my family. My mother and sisters wrote to me that they were in the enjoyment of excellent health, and were awaiting with impatience my coming to them. After the quarantine was over, I stopped nearly a week in the city, while waiting for a steamer that was going to France. I embraced the opportunity of seeing every curiosity in the island. I then resumed my voyage to my native land, and the following week I recognised the arid rocks of Provence and France, from which I had been absent for twenty years.

In a few days I reached Nantes, where for some time I enjoyed, in every respect, all the happiness which one feels when those beloved beings from whom one had been long severed, and who formed the last living ties of affection for an unhappy being who had been severely tried by a capricious destiny. But the want of excitement in which I lived soon became irksome; my life had been too active, so that the sudden transition could not fail to prove injurious to my health, and the idea of submitting during the remainder of my existence to a life sterile and monotonous became intolerable. Not knowing how to employ myself, I resolved to travel through Europe, and to study the civilised world, which was then so strange to me. I travelled through France, England, Belgium, Spain, and Italy, and returned to my family, without being able to discover anything that could induce me to forget my Indians, Jala-Jala, and my solitary excursions in the virgin forests. The society of men reared in extreme civilisation could not efface from my memory my past modest life. Notwithstanding all my efforts, I retained in my heart a fund of sadness, which it was not possible to conceal. My kind-hearted mother, who with deep regret observed my repugnance to establish myself in any part of the country, and who entertained fears, perhaps well-founded ones, that I should yet endeavour to go back to the Philippines, used every means to prevent me. She spoke to me of marriage, and in all her letters repeated that she should not be happy until I agreed to enter into the ties of a new union: she said my name would otherwise become extinct, and, as her last consolation, she asked me to allow her to choose a companion for me.

The wish to satisfy her, and also the remembrance of Anna’s last words: “Return to thy country, and marry one of thy countrywomen,” decided my resolution.

I soon made choice of one, who would have fully rendered a man happy who had not too frequently before him the remembrance of a previous union. Nevertheless, I was as happy as I could be. My new wife possessed every quality necessary for my happiness. By her I became father of two children, and I began to bless the determination which my mother had contributed so much to make me adopt; but, alas! happiness was never for me lasting; the cup of bitterness was not yet exhausted, and I had still to shed many tears.

In the cemetery of Vertoux, a modest tomb for thee, poor mother! is erected, between that of a husband and a son; and soon after another grave was opened at Neuilly. In profound affliction I had the following lines engraved on the latter: