most valued which were received from the cottages of the poor. As old George Herbert sings,
Scorn no man's love, though of a mean degree;
Love is a present for a mighty King.
It was natural that your mother, with her eager nature, should be spurred on to renewed efforts by success. She set out on her last journey full of hope and enterprise. In India, in Borneo, in Australia, she was resolved to leave no place unvisited which could by any possibility be reached, and where she was led to believe that objects of interest could be found, to be described to readers who could not share her opportunities of travel. The enlargement of our programme of journeys within the tropics threw a heavy strain on her constitution. In Northern India her health was better than it had been for years, but she fell away after leaving Bombay. Rangoon and Borneo told upon her. She did not become really ill until the day after leaving Borneo, when she was attacked by the malarial fever which infests the river up which she had travelled to the famous bird's-nest caves. She suffered much until we reached the temperate climate of South Australia.
On leaving Brisbane we found ourselves once more in the tropics. Enfeebled by an attack of bronchitis caught at Brisbane, your mother was again seized with malarial fever. On the northern coast of Australia such fevers are prevalent, and our visits to Rockhampton, the Herbert River, Mourilyan, and Thursday Island, where we were detained ten days, were probably far from beneficial. No evil consequence was, however, anticipated; and without undue self-reproach we must bow with submission to the heavy blow which, in the ordering of Providence, has befallen us.
Your dear mother died on the morning of September 14, 1887, and her remains were committed to the deep at sunset on the same day (Lat. 15° 50´ S., Long. 110° 35´ E.) Every member of the ship's company was present to pay the last tribute of love and respect on that sad occasion. Your dear mother died in an effort to carry forward the work which, as she believed, it had pleased God to assign to her.
From your mother's books let us turn to her charities; and first her public charities. You know how she has laboured in the cause of the St. John Ambulance Association, how she has taken every opportunity of urging forward the work in every place which we visited, in the West Indies, in the Shetlands, in London, at Middlesbrough, in Sussex. At all the ports at which we touched on our last cruise she spared no pains to interest people in the work. You heard her deliver her last appeal in the cause at Rockhampton. She spoke under extreme physical difficulty, but with melting pathos. As it was her last speech, so, perhaps, it was her best.
Your mother took up ambulance work at a time when it was little in fashion, because she believed it to be a good cause. By years of hard work, in speech, in letter, by interview, by pamphlet, by personal example and devotion, she spread to multitudes the knowledge of the art of ministering first-aid to the injured. We may rest assured that her exertions have been, under Providence, the means of saving many precious lives. In her last cruise you have seen how, when painful injuries have been received, she has been the first to staunch the bleeding wound, facing trying scenes with a courage which never faltered while there was need for it, but which, as the reaction which followed too surely told, put a severe strain upon her feeble frame.
Many could tell, in terms of deepest gratitude, what a true angel from heaven your dear mother had been to them in their hours of sickness. You will readily recall some of the most striking occasions.
That your mother accomplished what she did is the more to be admired when account is taken of the feeble condition of her health and of her many serious illnesses. She inherited weakness of the chest from her mother, who died of decline in early life. When on the point of first going out into society, she was fearfully burned, and lay for six months wrapped in cotton-wool, unable to feed herself. In the early years of our married life we were frequently driven away in the winter to seek a cure for severe attacks of bronchitis. In 1869 your mother caught a malarial fever while passing through the Suez Canal. She rode through Syria in terrible suffering. There was a temporary rally, followed by a relapse, at Alexandria. From Alexandria we went to Malta, where she remained for weeks in imminent danger. She never fully recovered from this, the first of her severe illnesses, and in 1880 she had a recurrence of fever at Algiers. It was followed by other similar attacks – at Cowes in 1882, in the West Indies in 1883, at Gibraltar in 1886, and on her last voyage, first at Borneo, and finally, and with the results we so bitterly lament, on the coast of Northern Queensland. Only indomitable courage could have carried your mother through so much illness and left her mental energies wholly unimpaired, long after her physical frame had become permanently enfeebled. Loss of health compelled her to withdraw in great measure from general society. She was unequal to the demands of London life, and from the same cause was unable to remain in England during the winter. Thus she gradually lost touch of relatives and friends of former years, for whom she had a genuine regard. In such society as she was able to see at the close of her too short life, she never failed to win regard and sympathy. There will be many sad hearts in Australia when the tidings of your mother's death reaches the latest friends whom she was privileged to win.
The truest testimony to your mother's worth is to be found in the painful void created in the home circle by her death. For me the loss must be irreparable. It would, indeed, be more than we could bear, if we had no hope for the future. We cling to that hope; and whatever our hand findeth to do, we must, like her, try to do it with all our might.
Such then was your dear mother: a constant worker, working it may be beyond her strength, yet according to the light which God had given her, and in the noblest causes. Your mother was always doing good to those from whom she had no hope to receive. She did not do her alms before men: not those at least which cost her most in time and in thought. When she prayed, she entered into her closet and shut the door, and, without vain repetition, presented her heart's desire in language most simple before the Father in Heaven. Her life was passed in the spirit of the Apostle's exhortation: 'Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another.'
In the last prayer which she was able to articulate with me, your mother besought the blessing of Heaven upon us both, praying that she might yet be spared to be a comfort to me and all around her. In that prayer was embodied the central aim of her existence. Her praise to God was sung in her work of practical good. Her psalm was the generous sacrifice of self to works which she believed would be for the advantage of others. This thoughtfulness was shown in the most beautiful way, when the last sad call had come. When, in reply to her touching inquiry, 'Is it quite hopeless?' the answer gave no encouragement to hope, you will not forget the tenderness, the unfaltering fortitude, with which she bestowed her blessing, and then proceeded, until articulation was denied, to distribute to each some token of her tender love. She died in perfect charity with all, sweetly submissive to the Divine Will, and consoling her afflicted husband and children to the very last.
Your mother's heart was as large as it was tender. She was devoted, as a wife, to her husband; as a mother, to her children. She was kind to dependents, ever thoughtful for the poor, and there was a large place in her heart for her dumb companions. Her presence will, I am sure, never fade from your recollection; and in all my remembrance of her I can recall no period of her life when her face was so dear to look upon as in the days after leaving Port Darwin. As she lay back on her pillows, a veil of white lace thrown round her head, her eyes so bright, her smiles so loving, not a murmur from her lips nor a shade of unrest on her serene countenance, the peculiar sweetness of her expression seemed a foretaste of the peace of heaven.
I do not recall these things solely as a tribute to the dear one who has passed away from among us, but for your profit and for mine. We have seen how your mother used her opportunities to make the world a little better than she found it. We may each do the same service in our own sphere, and so may best be followers of her good example. In tenderest love may we ever cherish and bless and revere her memory.
My dear children, I might write more. I could never tell you what your mother was to me.
'Sunbeam,' R.Y.S.: September 1887.
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
WHEN the arrangements for a contemplated cruise to the East were being considered, towards the end of 1886, it was thought best