17th.—....
18th.—Halted at H....
19th.—Attacked by fever.[9]
29th.—Have pity on me, oh my God....!
DEATH OF THE AUTHOR.
These words, written with a trembling and uncertain hand, were the last found in M. Mouhot’s journal. His faithful Phrai asked him several times if he did not wish to write anything to his family, but his invariable answer was, “Wait, wait; are you afraid?” The intrepid traveller never for one moment thought that death was near; he had been spared so far, and he doubtless thought he should recover, or he might have made an effort to write again. He died November 10th, 1861, at 7 o’clock in the evening, having been previously insensible for three days, before which time, however, he had complained of great pains in his head. All the words which he uttered during the delirium of the last three days were in English, and were incomprehensible to his servants.
He was buried in the European fashion, in the presence of his two servants, who never left him. It is the custom of the country to hang up the dead bodies to the trees, and there leave them.
This account of the last illness of my dear brother I received from his friends at Bangkok, particularly Dr. Campbell, to whom his two faithful servants hastened at once to give all details. His collections and other property they took to M. d’Istria, the French consul. Dr. Campbell kindly took charge of the manuscripts, and transmitted them to his widow in London.
CONCLUSION.