LOSS OF CHILDREN

55

that his greatest solace was to hear her sing to him; and she adds: But the last two days of his life, when he frequently begged me to sing, I sang over and over his own little hymn to the tune of "Old Robin Gray," and once, when I said to him, "My Harry, you are going to heaven; shall you like to go up in the blue sky to your little brothers?" he looked at me very earnestly, and his eyes smiled, but he said nothing. The last night he said several times, "Good-bye; papa," while he was sitting on his bed, so perhaps he knew that he was leaving us several times also he said, "Poor mamma!" as if he knew what a grief it would be to me to lose him.'

We must not, however, dwell upon these distressing incidents, whose records it is even now hard to read without emotion. The story, touching as it is, is only a minor note in the deep groan of creation, which, as well before as since, has been rising to heaven, and in which we must ourselves hereafter help to swell the chorus, and, although it long saddened the lives, it did not break the hearts of the chief mourners.

On February 6 she wrote to her brother, enclosing her journal. The sad news that it contains will, I know, grieve you and Eliza, for you loved your little godson, and can think how painful it has been to us to part with so sweet a child. We have lost three children in the course of fifteen months; but I can scarcely now believe that I could vex for my babies, so much harder has it been to part with our bright and beautiful boy. . . . . But do not think of us as grieving without hope; such is not the case; every day, I think, raises our heads from our child's grave to his bright and happy home.'

Those who have read the records of her life, in her letters and journals, will know that these three children were not the only victims taken from her by the climate, which to her proved so deadly. Two other infant boys were born, baptized, and died before her first return to England. We speak of the infants as victims to the climate. They seem all to have died from the same cause, an imperfect action of the

heart, arising, probably, from the weakness of their mother, and which did not affect the children which were given to her afterwards.

She has often in later years spoken to her brother, the compiler of these recollections, of the death of her children, five in the East and one a schoolboy in more advanced life; but in so doing she always came to the same conclusion, namely, that it was better to have had them and lost them than never to have had them. She looked on them as a sacred deposit in the hands of God, to be restored to her hereafter. And may we not believe that, in accordance with that hope, at the close of her noble life these children were not wanting among the heavenly watchers to receive her into the Eternal Kingdom?

VOYAGE TO MALACCA

57

CHAPTER III.

SARAWAK AND THE STRAITS, TO THEIR FIRST RETURN TO
ENGLAND.

AFTER great sorrow nothing is more soothing than change of scene and the companionship of Nature in her beauty, with solitude not absolute, but broken by the society of a few and sympathising friends. The Rajah, who had found them at Singapore, himself en route from Labuan to the Government bungalow on the summit of Penang Hill, insisted on their accompanying him, although Mrs. McDougall would rather have returned to Sarawak. He would not take a refusal, but carried them off whether they would or no, and he behaved to them, as she said, 'like a brother.' They left Singapore on March 20, in a little steamer, the Hoogly,' with the Rajah and his companions, Mr. St. John and Mr. C. Grant, and arrived at Malacca on Sunday morning, proceeding the next day to Penang, which they reached on the Wednesday following. 'We felt,' she says, 'that Sunday as if we had begun a new life, for on Saturday evening we were very nearly sent to the bottom, run down by a large brig. The night was dark, and owing to our little steamer carrying no coloured lights, as steamers usually do, she did not see us until close upon us. I was sitting at the stern, when suddenly I found myself seized by the arm and dragged to the other end of the deck. I heard a confused noise of voices on board the brig; our captain cried, "Stand by," and crash the brig came against

us, smashing a boat and carrying away the flagstaff at the stern, the iron stanchions which held up the awning, and some spars. One moment sooner and she would have struck us amidships, and we should have gone down without a chance of safety. I had just time to think "I shall see Harry again," when the danger was over, and the brig was standing off from us, her dark sails towering over our little vessel. So near are we constantly to death!' In another letter to her sister-in-law of the same date (April 4, 1850) she describes their residence at Penang: 'The Hill is eight miles from the town, and Mr. Grant and I set off for it directly, the Rajah soon followed us, and Frank and Mr. St. John in the evening, having spent the morning shopping and selecting books at the Library; so here we are and have been the last fortnight. The bungalow consists of two houses joined by a covered walk ninety-three of my paces long. We, Mr. St. John, and the dining-room are at one end, the Rajah, Mr. Grant, and the drawing-rooms at the other. I do not know how much of the day is spent in pacing backwards and forwards along that covered walk, which, with its bed of scarlet geraniums on one side, and little odd orchideous flowers on the other, is quite peculiar to the place. But the view! never in your life did you see anything more lovely—yes, you may have in Switzerland, but I never did. We are 2,500 feet above the plain, and hills and valleys, sea and islands, rock and jungle, rivers of silver, nutmeg plantations and fields of sugar-cane, all lie stretched out at our feet, sometimes with constant change of light and shadow revealed to our view, sometimes wholly or in part veiled in cloud or lit up with the gold and purple of sunset. Too panoramic to sketch, but still I grudge doing anything except sketching. Although my poor sketches cannot convey the beauty of the scenery, still it is pleasant to be occupied with the view. It is difficult to bind your attention to a book when Nature's book is so much more attractive. We have three ponics and I sometimes ride, but

LETTER FROM REV. F. D. MAURICE

59

you know I do not care much for riding, and it tires me much more than walking. Mr. St. John has had a bilious fever since we came here, and for one week I was all day occupied with him, reading to him and amusing him as well as I could. Sir James has also been ill and is still ailing; so Frank has some doctoring to do, and a poor captain, dying near us of heart complaint, claims some of his time and attention. Every morning I have to fill two large jars with flowers, but this is the sum total of my duties. We have a famous garden, which winds round and round the hill, terrace above terrace, beds of roses, heliotrope, honeysuckle, and other English flowers, mixed with the tea plant and all sorts of foreign shrubs and foliage.

'But notwithstanding the beauty of the scenery and the pains our little party take to make me happy, I carry about such a heavy heart as nothing, I think, but a good kiss of my Charley (her boy in England) could relieve; but time and patience will, I am sure, have the same effect with patient hope. Last Sunday (Easter Day) gave me some comfort, for the words ring in my ears, "They that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake." It consoles me, too, a little to think that by this time you all know of our trouble, and are sorry for us and with us.' That her friends at home entered into her sorrow was but natural; but one letter remains of the Rev. F. D. Maurice to her brother, who had written to him as having a special interest in Harry as his godfather, which is worth reading, showing how his thought re-echoed in her own :—

'Tunbridge Wells: April 4, 1850.

'My dear Sir, I hope you will have been aware that I was absent from town when I received your sad note. Our poor friends, how very overwhelming their loss is! Our dear little godson is safe and at home, in no danger from the pollutions of a heathen or a Christian atmosphere. But their loneliness without him one cannot bear to think of. It is evident that