“The precipitous, rocky cliffs, however, that form the outline of that spot on the ocean, the narrow ravine winding between them and leading to the walled mansion of the dead, the low, overshadowing tree, and the swelling turf, marked, perhaps, by the white gravestones, are all distinctly before me. And, did the misty mythology of antiquity still obtain, I could fancy the spirit of the departed sitting on one of the cloud-wrapped peaks that overhang her grave, and pensively observing the Faneuil Hall on her circuitous route to the south-east. ‘Why are you wheeling away at such a distance from me and my lonely dwelling? The dear little ones that I left in your charge, where are they? And who—what slender form is that I see at your side, occupying the place that once was mine?’ But the mistiness and darkness of pagan mythology have been dispelled by beams of light from those higher heights where she is really sitting. And thence, if departed spirits take cognizance of things on earth, she sees, with satisfaction, that I am hastening back to the field of our common labors. She sees, with delight and gratitude to God, that all her children are situated in precise accordance with her last wishes and prayers. And glad she is to see me returning, not unattended.
“Farewell, rock of the ocean. I thank thee that thou hast given me a ‘place where I might bury my dead.’ Blessings on the dear friends of the Saviour who dwell there. And, if any of the surviving children of the departed should ever enjoy the privilege, which is denied me, of visiting and shedding a tear over her grave, may a double portion of her heavenly spirit descend and rest upon them.”
When off the Isle of France, he wrote:
“About thirty-three years ago I went with my dear wife to the populous city of the dead in Port Louis, on the adjacent island, to visit the new-made grave of Harriet Newell, the first American missionary who left this world for heaven. It has been my privilege, twice since, to make a pilgrimage to the same spot. The last time, my second departed one expected to find her resting-place by the side of Mrs. Newell; but the grave was digging in another island. It is a thought that presses on me at this moment, how little the missionary who leaves his native land can calculate on his final resting-place. Out of twenty-five missionaries, male and female, with whom I have been associated, and who have gone before me, five or six only found their graves in those places to which they were first sent. Strangers and pilgrims, they had no abiding-place on earth; they sought a permanent abode beyond the skies; and they sought to show the way thither to multitudes who were groping in darkness, and saw it not.
“At last the promontory of Amherst loomed into sight. And now, on the green bank just beyond, I discern, with a telescope, the small enclosure which contains the sleeping-place of my dear Ann and her daughter Maria. Like my missionary associates, the members of my own family are scattered far and wide; for the mounds that mark their graves stud the burial-places of Rangoon, Amherst, Maulmain, Serampore, and St. Helena. What other place shall next be added to the list?
“Above eighteen months ago I sailed from these shores with a heavy heart, distressed at leaving my friends and my work, and appalled at the prospect of impending death. With mingled emotions I now return. But these things suit rather the eye and the ear of private friends. I will only add my fervent wish that the Heaven-blessed land where I have been so warmly received during my late brief visit may pour forth her representatives, her wealth, and her prayers, to enlighten and enrich this my adopted land, whose shores are just now greeting my eyes.”
On the 30th of November he arrived at Maulmain, and clasped once more in his arms his little children, Henry and Edward, from whom he had parted more than eighteen months before. But, alas! one little wan face was missing.
He wrote to his sister:
“I have set up housekeeping in my old house; and it seems like home, notwithstanding the devastation that death and removal have made. Emily makes one of the best wives and kindest mothers to the children that ever man was blessed with. I wish you were here to make one of the family; but I suppose that can not be. I shall now go on with the dictionary and other missionary work as usual. Your likeness is an excellent one. I keep that and the children’s by me constantly. Shall I ever forget that last parting in Boston? No, never, till we meet in heaven.”
And in a fond letter to his boys in America, he gives a glimpse of the little home in Maulmain from which unbending necessity had exiled them forever: