May 9, 1894.

The other day the yacht Sagamore dropped anchor in the bay, her owner and his guests, all Harvard men, having got thus far on their tour around the world. I was sitting on the Luneta, Sunday evening, when I saw those familiar Harvard hat-ribbons coming, and in behalf of our little American colony welcomed the wearers of them to Manila. In return for a dinner or two at the club and a visit to the huge cigar-factories, where three or four thousand operators pound away all day at the fragrant weed, I spent a noon and afternoon aboard the yacht, glad to enjoy a change of fare. The Sagamore is a worthy boat and seems to be loaded up with gimcracks and curios of all classes and descriptions. A collector would positively be squint-eyed with pleasure to see the old vases, carved wood-work, plaques, knives, sabres, pots and kettles that her passengers have picked up all along the way; and it is indeed the only method by which to scour curios from the Orient. The boys thought the Luneta was the best place in its way they had yet seen, and it was as much as I could do to get them away from listening to the artillery-band and looking at the crowds of people in carriages. Three men in a boat of the Sagamore’s size make a pretty small passenger-list for a pretty long voyage.

We’ve kept up our record as tripsters by having gone again up into the mountains, seen pounds of scenery, breathed fine air, and received great hospitality from the natives. Monday was a bank-holiday, so late on Saturday afternoon four of us started in two-horse carromatas for a mountain village called Montalvan, about twenty miles from Manila. Two boys had been sent along a day ahead, with provisions and bedding, to find a native hut and provide for our arrival. We had a delightful drive out of Manila, passed through numerous native villages, forded three rivers, saw a fine sunset, and at about eight o’clock, after a three hours’ journey, pulled up at a little native house situated in a village at the foot of a lofty mountain-range. The occupants seemed willing and glad to turn out of their little shanty and put it at our disposal, and we were very comfortable. The house was not large, but it had a very neat little parlor—curious name for a room out here—and in the corner, covered with a light bed-quilt, stood a wax figure of the Virgin Mary, with the usual glass tears running down her cheeks. The family of about fourteen slept somewhere out in the rear regions of the building, leaving us to spread out around the floor of the little sala, like unmounted club sandwiches.

One of the party, more sensitive than the rest, woke about one in the morning and disturbed us by finding some four-inch spiders stringing cobwebs from the end of his nose to his ear and down to one finger. He was for the moment embarrassed enough to shout for joy and throw his slippers somewhere. But except for this, and a few rats that now and then tickled our toes, we slept well, and next morning before breakfast we went down to the shallow river for a swim. After a jolly good bath, a hearty breakfast, and a few preparations, our party of four, with the two boys and two guides, started up a steep valley that wound in among lofty mountains to the so-called Caves of Montalvan.

One of our guides was the principal of a village school, who held sway over a group of little Indian girls under a big mango-tree, and he shut up shop to join our expedition.

In about two hours and a half our caravan reached the narrower defile that pierced two mountains which came down hobnobbing together like a great gate, grand and picturesque. From a large, quiet pool just beneath the gates, we climbed almost straight up the mouth of the stalactite caves that run no one knows how far into the mountains, starting at a point about two hundred feet above the river. The guides made flare-torches of bamboos, and we entered the damp darkness, bounded by white limestone walls from which hung beautiful stalactites that glistened as the light struck them. In we went for a long way, now crawling on hands and knees and now stumbling into large vaulted chambers. Blind bats flew about and water trickled. It was ghostly, uncanny, but interesting. It seemed as if we were going into the very heart of the mountain, or were reading “King Solomon’s Mines,” and this impression was further carried out when we came to a small subterranean river that coursed down through a dark outlet and disappeared with weird gurglings. Unpleasant but perhaps imaginary rumblings suggested that a sudden earthquake might easily block our exit, and, retracing our steps, we breathed more freely on coming to the first glimmer of light. Once more in the air, we descended, took a good swim in the pool, lunched, and lay around for an hour. After another bath later on, we donned our sun-hats and trudged homeward over the long, rough path. A good walk, a good supper, a little dancing and music by the natives who occupied our house, and we went to sleep upon the floor.

Next morning, after another early bath in the river, our party started to climb the mountain back of the town for a little experience in the bush. The work was hard and warm, but at the top came the reward of a superb view for a hundred miles around. Manila and the great plain, the bay and mountains beyond, were glorious before us, and behind the great mountain wilds that reached to the Pacific stretched off and up in great overlapping slabs of heavy greenness.

The plain was cut up into the regulation checker-board farms of the richest looking description, and the scene was very much like an English one. Far away at the edge of the Bay could be seen the glistening white houses and steeples of Manila. Away to the northwest and southwest were the great fertile stretches of country that produce tons and tons of rice and sugar, reaching to the sky or distant mountains. We had luncheon in a leafy grotto; the guides found water, and brought it in lengths of bamboo which they cut down; deer ran past now and then down below us, and a short siesta on a bed of leaves finished off our morning’s work. The return was so steep that it seemed as if we should go heels over head. However, we hung on to the long grass, and painted our once white suits with dust in the effort to reach level ground again. After a long descent, we came to the big mango-tree where the rural school was in session, and the little Filipinos were immediately given a recess. They rushed about, got benches and water for us, and the old schoolmaster, who had left his wife to do the teaching while he went with us, set two or three of the shavers at work mopping off his ebony skin. Our visit at the school was in the order of an ovation. The children opened their almond eyes almost to the extent of turning them into circles, and when the camera was pointed at them for the first time in their young lives, their mouths so far followed suit that recitations had to be suspended.

After thoroughly disorganizing discipline in the establishment, we accompanied the half naked president of the seminary—who had been our guide—to the river, and there washed off such of the day’s impressions as went easily into solution.

And finally, after returning to our hut for tea, we packed up our baskets, whistled for the carromatas and jolted back to Manila through a flood of dust and sunset.

Although the hot season is trying to do its best to scorch us, it has but dismally succeeded, and we have had scarcely any severe weather at all. The thunder-showers, harbingers of the southwest monsoon and the wet season, began two weeks ago, and it rains now nearly every afternoon. The nights are all delightfully cool, and a coverlet is always comfortable. The sun is going well to the north to make hot June and July days for people in the States, and our season of light is growing shorter. When he gets back overhead again, heavy clouds will protect us from his attentions.

Owing to the outbreak of black plague or something else among the Chinese in Hong Kong, the quarantine regulations here in Manila will cause the steamer by which I was going to send the mail to miss connections. It was at first reported there were three thousand deaths in Hong Kong in six days, but I believe they have now taken off one or two ciphers from that amount. At all events Manila seems to be below the zone of this peculiar epidemic and is much better off at this time of the year than Hong Kong, which swelters away in that great unventilated scoop in the mountains.

The men of the big artillery-band that plays at the Luneta twice a week have all been vaccinated lately, and are too broken up to blow their trumpets. The people are objecting, because the infantry band doesn’t make nearly as good music, and only plays twice a week at most. The third regimental band is still fighting the savage Moros with trombones down at the south, although it is rumored they will soon return, and so at present about all the music and fireworks we have are derived from the thunder-storms that play around the sheet-iron roofs as if they meant business. But in spite of the terrific cannonade of sound and the blinding flashes of lightning nothing seems to get hit, and the iron roofs may act as dispersers of the electric fluid even though attracting it.

June 6th.

Several days ago, a number of us went up the railroad line to see a “fiesta” at a little village called Obando. It was a religious observance lasting three days, and pilgrims from many villages thought it their duty to go there on foot. A great dingy old church with buttressed walls yards thick, a large plaza shaded by big trees, and beyond, on all sides, the native houses. Such a crowd I have rarely seen. Everybody seemed to think it his duty to dance; and men, women, old men and children, mothers with babies and papas with kids, shouted, jumped around, danced, joggled each other, and rumpussed about until they were blue in the face, dripping with heat, and covered with dust. Then they would stop and another crowd take up the play. As the circus proceeded the crowds increased; the old church was packed with worshippers who brought candles, and, receiving a blessing, spent an hour or so on the stone pavements in positions of contrite humility. Around the walls of the church were placed realistic paintings of the chromo order, representing hell and the river Styx, and as the natives looked at portraits of devils driving nails into the heads of the tormented, of sulphurous flames that licked the cheeks of the wicked in this world, or serpents that twined themselves into square knots around the chests of a dozen unfortunates, and of countless horned demons who plucked out the heartstrings of the condemned, they counted their beads with renewed vigor and mumbled long prayers.

Countless little booths stood like mushrooms round about outside, and cheap jewellery, made in Germany, found ready sale. The dancing and shouting increased as the sun sank in the west, until the ground fairly shook and the dust arose in vast clouds. Around the edge of the church, under the porticoes, slept sections of the multitude who were preparing themselves to take part in the proceedings when others were tired out. It was a motley crowd, a motley scene, and an unforgettable collection of perfumes.

We left after a few hours’ stay, and got back to Manila to find water a foot deep in some of the streets, as a result of one of the tropical thunder-storms which have now begun in real earnest. And speaking of rain, everything is looking fresh and green, now that the dusty days of the hot season are a thing of the past. All the bamboo-trees have leafed out anew, flowering shrubs have taken life, and all nature seems to have had a bath.

One of the most showy trees in Manila is the arbol de fuego (fire-tree) and this product of nature resembles a large oak in general and a full-blown Japanese cherry blossom in particular. Many of the streets in the city are bordered with groups of these fire-trees, of large and stately dimensions, and at present they are simply one mass of huge flaming red blossoms growing thickly together and showing a wonderful fire-like carnation color. Scarcely any leaves make their appearance on these trees during the season of blossom, and although now and then bits of green look out from the mass of red, yet the general effect is a vast blaze of burning color.

We have left our country house on the hills of Santa Mesa, and have moved down to a little villa on the seacoast. The third man of our party, like many of his brother Englishmen who are burdened with small salaries but large debit balances, has at last decided to save money and room at his office. The house had too many regular boarders in the form of rats and snakes, was too large and too far off for the two of us left, and we decided to make a move to the seashore district. Our army of servants successfully solved the transportation problems involved, and we are now settled in new quarters. Although we miss the view of the mountains, and even the paddy-fields, we now get the salt air first hand, look out over the waters of the Bay, and are lulled to sleep by the rhythmic beating of the waves on the beach. Our view seaward leads the eye across a beautiful garden belonging to one of the rich house-owners living directly on the shore front, and the green of the trees, with the scent of somebody else’s flowers, temper both the excess of glare and the brackish qualities of the sea-breeze.

In Malate, where we now are, things are much civilized. We find we miss the snakes in the roof, but we have running water in the house and a shower-bath in the bath-room; two rooms on the first floor; a parlor, two bed-rooms, dining-room, large hallway, kitchen, bath and “boys’ ” rooms on the second floor; a small garden at the front and a stable at the back, and all included in a rent of $15 a month. The stable accommodates two ponies, and it is a jolly drive downtown in the morning or home in the evening. The road leads all the way along by the sea, Luneta, and Malecon Promenade, that runs under the yawning mouths of the old muzzle-loaders in front of the grim walls of the old city, between them and the beach. The salt-water bath in the early morning is often very pleasant, though the temperature of the liquid is somewhat too high to be exhilarating. Now and then some of the Britons living in the neighborhood will issue a summons for a sunrise swimming-party, and one of them will perhaps punctuate the ceremonies by supplying a typical breakfast of fresh fish and boiled rice, on the veranda of a house that perhaps overlooks the Bay. These seaside houses are particularly cool and fresh now that the winds of the southwest monsoon come blowing into the front windows directly off the water, but later on, when typhoons become epidemic, it looks as if we should have the wind in more than wholesale doses.

June 12th.

Although the San Francisco steamer does not sail for Hong Kong until the 21st, it is necessary, on account of this quarantine business, to post our letters in the Manila office to-day.

Two of our latest vessels have come in together and begun to take in their cargoes of hemp for Boston. The captains are ruddy-faced veterans who seem to have taken part in the Civil War. One of them, who wears false teeth when he is ashore, and hails from New Hampshire, is particularly fond of cooling off under our big punka. The other may be of French descent, though he comes from Ireland, and looks something like one of our distinguished Boston statesmen. They both climb up the stairs to our counting-room daily, call our big clock a “time destroyer” and so vie with each other in their efforts to handle the truth carelessly that it is often a question who comes off victor in these verbal contests. However, the skipper with the false ivories generally fails to get the last word, for he often loses his suction power by fast talking, and has to leave off to prevent his teeth from slipping down his oesophagus. Once again the air in the office assumes a nautical aroma, and we shall be well employed and well talked to death. A whole parcel of American ships are now about due, and the Bay will liven up again with the Stars and Stripes as it did some two months ago.

It rains every afternoon now, at about a quarter past three, and just after tiffin is over we begin to look for the thunder-clouds that predict the coming shower. The other day a huge waterspout formed out in the Bay, swirled along, gyrated about, scooted squarely through the shipping, and broke on the beach between our house and the Luneta. The cloud effects were extremely curious, and the whole display was a number not generally down on the day’s programme.

The company who are putting in the new electric lights seem to be doing good work, and it is expected that everything will be running by the end of the year. So far, Manila has been favored only with the dull light given by petroleum, previously brought out from New York, or over from China, and, curiously enough, the empty tins in which the oil has come seem to be almost as valuable as their contents. They are used here for about everything under the sun, the natives cover their roofs with tin from these sources, and some of those more musically inclined even make a petroleum can up into a trombone or cornet.

Our house by the sea continues to prove very pleasant, and, peculiarly enough, the surf seems to beat on the beach with the same sound that it has on the New England coast. The southwest breeze blows strong from the Bay each afternoon, and the cumulus clouds are becoming heavier and more numerous day by day. The artillery-band still favors us with music at the Luneta, but before long it looks as if the rains would interrupt the afternoon promenade.

The black plague at Hong Kong does not seem to diminish, as was expected, and it is said that many people are leaving the city. All steamers coming from that port to this suffer a fortnight’s quarantine down the Bay, and, if the difficulty continues much longer, Manila markets will be destitute of two of their chief staples—mutton and potatoes—both of which have to come across from China, or down from Japan. And speaking of sheep, Captain Tayler, of the Esmeralda, has had another of his usual interesting experiences with the custom-house. Just as his vessel, fresh from quarantine and Hong Kong, had been visited by the doctor, on her way to her berth some distance up the river, one of the sheep died. Rule number something-or-other in the Code of the Sanidad says that anything or anybody dying during the day must be buried before sundown, under penalty, for neglect, of $50. Rule number something-else in the Customs Code, however, says that the captain of any vessel turning out cargo short or in excess of the amount called for by the manifest shall be fined $100 for each piece too many or too little. If my good friend, the Captain, buried the sheep, he would be fined $100 at the custom-house for short out-turn. If he didn’t bury it, the Board of Health would come down on him for $50, for neglecting regulations. The Captain, being a wise man, decided that it was more politic to be in the right with the doctor than with the officials at the custom-house, and at some considerable expense sent the sheep on shore and had it buried with due honors. He could not have thrown it into the river, for this would have been to incur an additional fine. Next morning, he presented the ship’s manifest and a sheep’s tail at the custom-house and the discharge of the live stock was begun. But, tail or no tail, the officials found the ship one sheep short and the Esmeralda was fined $100. Not quite so barefaced as the swindling of the poor skipper who came over from China with a load of paving-stones for Manila’s Street Department. His vessel turned out seven paving-stones too many, and the fine was $700.

In the language of Daniel Webster, I “refrain from saying” that a few dollars or a good dinner, bestowed upon the right person, in Manila, often go a long way toward throwing some official off the scent in his hungry search for irregularity, but am willing to admit that, in dealing with customs men who frequently “examine” cases of champagne by drinking up the contents of a bottle from each one in order to see that the liquid is not chloroform or cologne, one must keep his purse full, his talk cool, and his temper on ice.

June 25, 1894.

Last Monday was the monthly bank-holiday again, and three of us had previously decided to take a journey southward for the purpose of seeing one of Luzon’s active volcanoes and getting a little change of air and “chow.”

So, late on Saturday afternoon, we went aboard a dirty little steamer, which was to take us ninety miles down the coast. She wasn’t as big as a good-sized tug and was laden with multicolored natives, who were on their way back to the provinces after a brief shopping expedition to the capital. We were soon sailing out past the fleet of larger vessels in the Bay, with our dull prow pointed to the mouth of the great inclosed body of water. At nightfall we reached the Corregidor light-house, at the Bay’s entrance, and thence our course lay to the south. At half-past two that night our craft reached a place called Taal. During our trip down we had become acquainted with a very pleasant Indian sugar-planter, who is as well off in dollars as rich in hospitality. At Taal he took us to one of the three big houses he owns, and, although only three o’clock in the morning, gave us a delicious breakfast. We talked and chatted away comfortably, and as the first streaks of dawn appeared I played several appropriate selections on one of the two very good-toned pianos belonging to his establishment. This brought out his family, and before we set out for the river from which our start to the volcano was to be made, quite a social gathering was in progress.

The natives all through the islands seemed indeed most courteous and hospitable to foreigners, and although a Spaniard hesitates to show his face outside of any of the garrison towns, yet any of the other European bipeds is known in a minute and well treated. Our good friend at Taal went so far as to harness up a pair of ponies and drive us down to the river at four o’clock in the morning, and we found a large banca, previously ordered, waiting to take us up to the Lake of Taal and across to the volcano.

Our banca was of good size, was rowed by seven men and steered by one, and had a little thatched hen-coop arrangement over the stern, to keep the sun off our heads. We had brought one “boy” with us from Manila, with enough “chow” to last for two days, and soon all was stowed away in our floating tree-trunk. The river was shallow, and for most of the six miles of its length poles were the motive-power. It was slow work, and both wind and current were hostile. In due course, however, the lake came into view, and in its centre rose the volcano, smoking away like a true Filipino. The wind was now blowing strong and unfavorable, and we saw that it was not going to be an easy row across the six or seven miles of open water to the centre island. But the men worked with a will, and although the choppy waves slopped over into our roost once or twice so jocosely that it almost seemed as if we should have to turn back, we kept on. Benefitting by a lull or two, our progress was gradual, and at half after twelve, seven hours from Taal, we landed on the volcanic island and prepared for an ascent.

The lake of Taal is from fifteen to twenty miles across, is surrounded by high hills and mountains, for the most part, and has for its centre the volcanic island upon whose edges rise the sloping sides of an active cone a thousand feet high. The lake is certainly good to look at, reminding one forcibly of Loch Lomond, and the waters, shores, and mountains around all seem to bend their admiring gaze on the little volcano in its centre.

Filling our water-jug, we set off up the barren lava-slopes of this nature’s safety-valve, sweltering under the stiff climb in the hot sun. Happily, the view bettered each moment, the smell of the sulphur became stronger, and we forgot present discomfort in anticipations of the revelation to come. After banging our shins on the particularly rough lava-beds of the ascent, near the top, we saw a great steaming crater yawning below us and sending up clouds of sulphurous steam. In the centre of this vast, dreary Circus Maximus rose a flat cone of red-hot squashy material, and out of it ascended the steam and smoke. All colors of the rainbow played with each other in the sun, and farther to the right was a boiling lake of fiery material that was variegated enough to suit an Italian organ-grinder.

It was all very weird, and if we had not been so lazy we should probably have descended farther into this laboratory of fire than we did. But it was too hot to make matches of ourselves and the air smelt like the river Styx at low tide. So we were contented with a good view of the wonders of the volcano from a distance, enjoyed the panorama from the narrow encircling apex-ridge, and cooled off in the smart breeze. Once more at the lake, and it was not long before we were in it, tickling our feet on the rough cinders of the bottom. The bath was most rejuvenating after a hot midday climb, and just to sit in the warmish water up to one’s neck gave one a sort of mellow feeling like that presumably possessed by a ripe apple ready to fall on the grass.

The wind was now fresher than ever and more unfavorable to our course. The captain of the tree-trunk, in a tone quite as authoritative as that manipulated by the commander of an ocean liner, said we could not proceed for some time, so the boy arranged the provisions and we had a meal in our little hen-coop. After a provoking wait until four o’clock the old banca was pushed off again and the struggle renewed. The seven men, who had now been poling and rowing since early morning, seemed pretty well beat, but there was no shelter on the volcanic islands and we had to push on. The other shore looked far away and we slopped forward sluggishly. The sun set, the moon rose, and still we were buffeting with the choppy waves. It reminded me a good deal of the sea of Galilee; and it did seem as if the dickens himself was blowing at us and trying to keep us from ever getting to that farther shore.

At last we reached the lee of a lofty perpendicular island part way across the lake, and, although its upright sides offered no chance to land, yet they kept off that southeast wind. The men shut their teeth hard, and in due course moved our bark around the point and out into more moonlight and breeze. The lights and shadows on the great lump of rock standing a thousand feet out of the water behind us were worth looking at, and in many places huge basaltic columns seemed to be holding up the mass above. Not to put as much labor into these lines as our men put into the oars, at half after ten we came to land, seven hours from the shore of the volcano, a distance which in fair wind ought to be covered in a little over one.

On shore there seemed to be about four huts, two pig-sties, and nothing more. Stared at by a crowd of natives whom our arrival suddenly incubated from somewhere, and who swarmed down to see who we were, we talked with our boatman, but only succeeded in finding out that we had come to a place not down on the map or on the highroad to the next village whither we were bound. It was simply a collection of huts, children, and pigs, situated at the lake’s edge and connected with the outer world by a foot-path that led up over the hills eight miles to the nearest pueblo. To walk those eight miles at eleven o’clock was out of the question, and to sleep in one of those little dirty huts ashore was just as bad. The crowd of natives had grown, and so, to avoid being overrun with the eminently curious, we pushed off from shore and anchored out in the lake, to eat a little “chow” and decide what to do. Weariness tempered our decision, which was to sleep where we were, in the banca, under the hen-coop, and, having made it known to our trusty but hard-looking crew, they fell down like shots and, in less than a minute, were asleep in all sorts of jackstraw positions. One slept on the oars, another on the poles, a third on our collection of volcanic rocks, a fourth in the bottom of the boat, a fifth sitting up, and a sixth—I don’t know where.

We three lay down side by side in the little cooped-over roost, and found there was just room to reside like sardines in a box. Our feet were out under the stars at one side, our heads at the other, and there we were, and there we slept, in an unknown wilderness. Though no one could change his position we all rested fairly well, and nothing happened to mar the beauty of the night. As the sun reddened the east, feeling more like awakened chickens than anything else, we packed up, paid out some of the heavy dollars, that made each of us feel like sinkers on a fish-line, and loaded what little luggage we had upon a bony pony ashore. Adieus were said to the lake and to our crew, and our little caravan started up a broad foot-path for the village of Tanauan, about eight miles away. It was a long walk, on no refreshment save a night’s sleep in a hen-coop, but after passing over hills and dales, by nipa huts of all sizes and descriptions, and after being stared at by curious natives, we arrived at our destination, a good-sized village, in two and a half hours. We responded to an invitation of the captain of the pueblo, to take possession of his house, and got up a very decent breakfast out of our fast depleting stock. The old captain treated us most cordially, and after a three-hours’ stay helped us to load ourselves and our chattels aboard two stout-wheeled carromatas each hitched to two ponies.

Off again, once more, our course was shaped overland toward the other great lake up back of Manila, by which the return was to be made. The road was fearful, the ruts two feet deep in places, and the bad sections far more numerous than the good pieces. We got stuck in the mud, had to pry our conveyances and the ponies out, and I fear did not enjoy the beauties of the rather tame scenery on the way. At last the crest of a hill brought the Laguna de Bay in sight, and in less than an hour we reached the village of Calamba, on its shores. A shabby little native house was put at our disposal after we boldly walked up and took possession of it; a swarm of children were shoved out of the one decent room, and in a short time our boy was giving us canned turtle-soup and herrings. In the afternoon we merely lounged about the town and took a swim in the lake, while in the evening, early after the very good little dinner gotten up by our servant there was nothing to do but to turn in, even though the house was surrounded by the curious, who had looked in at the windows to watch people dining with knives, forks, plates, and napkins.

The floor of our room was of bamboo slats, just below whose many openings were four fighting-cocks and when bed-time came we were tired enough to tumble down on the canes just as we stood. The cock who sang out of tune woke us at about sunrise Tuesday morning, and after one more swim in the lake we packed up our traps and prepared ourselves to take the little Manila steamer that left at eight o’clock on its thirty-mile return trip. The sail down the lake and into the Pasig River was cool, delightful, and without incident, and at noon Tuesday we pulled up at the wharf at Manila, having completed an almost perfect circle of travel one hundred and fifty miles in circumference, to be heartily congratulated on having successfully made a trip which few perform but many covet. My own cane sleeping machine seemed good again after hen-coops and bamboo floors, and smooth roads and civilization far better than ruts and rickety carromatas.