A Baby's Birth (and a Mother's Death)
A Moving Journey Through the Journals of William Milne
The following journal entries from Chapter 15 of The Memoirs of William Milne were penned in February and March of 1822 at the mission station in Malacca. Although these Memoirs are not a traditional biography, the journal entries and letters are in chronological order, allowing the reader to follow the “story” as it progresses.
February 1st, 2nd, and 3rd: Rode out in the evenings, and here and there talked with the people about their souls, etc.
February 4th: Explained part of the Tract on Gambling in the temple. I imagine there were upwards of fifty persons—a large congregation compared with what is usual.
A Baby is Born
February 6th: Today Mrs. Milne was confined, and delivered of a fine boy at two o’clock P.M. Lord, make me thankful for thy goodness, and may every fresh instance thereof leave a deeper impression on my heart of my obligation to be thine. Bless, I beseech Thee, this child—make him thine—spare, if agreeable to thy holy will, his life—confer upon him thy grace. Enable me to give him up to Thee. Bless and restore, I pray Thee, my partner in life, and may she also derive real spiritual good by a suitable improvement of this instance of thy goodness to us. May frequent recollections of thy mercy, in this and similar instances, give fresh energy to our zeal in thy good cause.
February 7th: Sabbath. Mr. Milton preached for me today. I engaged in the usual Chinese exercises of the day. I had given Afo John 3:16, to write a little on, as a trial; he wrote very good sense, but left out the article of redemption; and, excepting the divinity of Christ, made it exactly a Socinian discourse on the design of Christ’s coming into the world. By this, after hearing the gospel so long, I see two things: 1st. How difficult it is to explain the doctrine of redemption to the heathen mind, so as to convey, I will not say an adequate, but a just view of the subject. 2nd. The importance of catechizing; and, by questions, endeavoring to bring their minds to a distinct and edifying consideration of particular subjects and particular passages of scripture—Things delivered in the general are apt to lose their effect.
February 10th: In the Temple—about thirty persons.
Mother’s Health Failing
February 14th: Sabbath. My dear wife is again reduced to extreme weakness, nearly as weak as after her last confinement. Trouble comes thick upon me—O for patience, self-command, prayerfulness of spirit, and grace, both to her and myself, to make a right use of this affliction.
February 15th: Our little babe was this evening baptized at his mother’s bedside, by the Rev. J. Slater, by the name of Farquhar, as a mark of regard and gratitude to Major W. Farquhar. His mother wished to have carried him to the House of God, and made an offering of him to the Lord, as Hannah did of her son—so she expressed herself. She had several times expressed her anxiety about this—and I thought it right not to defer it longer. The ordinance was therefore dispensed at her bedside, about nine o’clock at night.
February 17th: We went out to Clay-bang, about four miles from Malacca, in hope of Mrs. Milne benefiting by the change. She was carried out in a chair in the evening, but was exceedingly weak—she never again came downstairs.
February 18th: Dozed almost all day and night—The diarrhoea and vomiting seemed to stop, and hopes were entertained.
February 19th: Delirium—several times called me to read hymns to her—after noon took leave of, and blessed several members of the family who came out to see her—during the following night stupor and fever, and partial wanderings—she recognised me several times.
The Departure of Rachel Milne
March 20th: Clay-bang, about four miles from Malacca, this morning, about nine o’clock, my dear wife was taken from me by the hand of Death. I closed her eyes, in death, with my own hands, and assisted in doing the last offices for her. For the four last days of her life she said but little about divine things; stupor and partial delirium being induced by her complaint—she had previously given charge concerning her affairs, and often said, that though she could not feel as she wished under so serious circumstances, yet she hoped that the Lord, whom she had chosen in the days of her youth, would be her God; and that her only hope was in Christ Jesus.
For several days I had given up every other concern to attend solely to her, with which she was greatly pleased—and it is now to me a source of satisfaction, that I attended her to the last with as much tenderness and attention as I then thought I possibly could; but alas! now, what regrets crowd upon me! but they are fruitless. O Lord, if in any thing I have been sinfully negligent; if I ever grieved the heart of her whom thou gavest me; if her passage from time to eternity was attended with pain on my account, in any thing which I neglected to do; or if I did, or said, what I ought not to have done or said—O pardon it. While I weep over my own loss, and that of the children, I feel glad on her account; and thankful to the God of all grace for taking her to himself. The words, “To be with Christ is far better,” have been frequently running in my thoughts since her former illness; especially since her last illness commenced.
That so lovely and excellent a woman should be, on her own account, longer detained in this world, under the influence of bodily weakness, which, had she even recovered, must have rendered her life often uncomfortable; she would probably have had to go to Europe, or some where else, for health; and it is probable, that in her case, all labor would have been “travail and sorrow.” Now to be forever freed from the pains and dread of seas; storms; separation from me; anxieties about the children; and from the toils and labors of this mortal life; to be set down, as I hope she is, with Christ, saints, and angels, is what I rejoice in.
A Husband’s Godly Regrets
The only thing that damps my joy in this is a conviction, that I have not contributed so fully to her edification and preparation for that happy state as I might and ought to have done. True, I have been almost always engaged in something that seemed either directly or indirectly useful to the Mission; but, alas! while I was busy here and there, she was going! Why did I not read more, converse more, and pray more, with her? Ah! Surely I have not, in every instance, done what I might. God of all grace, forgive my defects!
Towards the evening of the day the corpse was brought into town in a boat. How little did I think, when going out to this country retreat, that in three days I should be returning with my dearest earthly friend a cold lump of lifeless clay by my side, in the same couch on which I had taken her out! O to live more under realizing views of eternity.
March 21st: Mr. Thomsen slept in the room with me, and every one seemed to strive to exceed in kindness. The body was put into the coffin at eight in the morning, at which time all the family attended, and Mrs. Milne’s favorite hymn,—“God moves in a mysterious way”—was sung with tears by all.
How expressive is scripture language on almost every subject. "The desire of thine eyes,” is a term applied to the wife of the prophet. I now feel the force of this phrase in a touching manner. I contemplate her claycold countenance with melancholy pleasure. All the placid sweetness, the motherly sense, and the dignity of mind, which used to mark her countenance formerly, seem still to leave their traits there. The face preserves all the appearance it used to have when she was highly pleased (except the eyes being shut) the face unruffled—the lips about a third open. But alas! there is no more life—and the body now begins to be offensive. I must now “bury my dead out of my sight.” I hope she is gone before to glory, and that, through mercy, I shall finally follow—she often told me I should not remain long behind. A few days since she said: “you will not be long behind me—about five years only.” O my God, prepare me for joining the happy number of redeemed souls in glory!
The Children Play
The dear children seem quite insensible of their loss, playing about the dead body, and talking of Mamma’s death as if it concerned them not—as if it were a subject of childish play. Amelia, for whom her mother expressed the deepest concern, almost to anguish, poor creature, insensible of her loss, while her mother’s earrings and fingerrings were taken off yesterday, came to me, with her usual playfulness, and said, “Papa, when I large, I put on that ring—and all Mamma’s clothes too—yes Papa?" I almost feel angry with them—but why should I? They are but infants.
O Rachel! Rachel! Endeared to me by every possible tie—Oh I what would I not give for but five minutes converse with thee! Yea, but for one minute! But the wish is vain—I will try not to grieve for thee, as thou didst often request before thy departure from mortality! I will try to cherish the remembrance of thy virtues and sayings, and teach them to those dear babes thou hast left behind. Were it lawful (but I fear it is not) to wish thy guardianship over me and thy babes, especially thy Amelia and thy little “Benjamin,” I would do it. May thy God keep them—may he answer the many fervent prayers thou didst offer for them.
A few minutes before Mrs. Milne died she called for me—and, to my now inexpressible sorrow, I was at that moment in another room—before I could come in she could articulate no more. O, why was I absent! But can I justly blame myself? I had, if I remember right, gone to pray for her: I then attended at her couch, from which I had been seldom absent for six days before, till the last—which took place almost immediately by a sound within, resembling that of the chain of a watch, when broke, unfurling itself from the wheel (Ecc. 12:6): two long breathings ended the strife; and, in about a few minutes, the countenance, which had for some days been at times partially distorted through pain, fever, and wanderings, resumed the meekness, satisfaction, and composure which used to sit thereon.
I sorrow not for Rachel as those who have no hope: no, I am not grieved that she has got to the pure land of health and joy a nearer road than Penang, whither we purposed immediately to go for her health: no, I feel happy in reflecting on the solid evidences of Christian piety which she possessed. But I mourn for myself and for my children: O God, forsake them not. O God, make this painful bereavement really profitable to my soul. I would now try to what account this dispensation can be turned for my own edification; for the benefit of my children; for the good of my brethren in Christ; and for the advancement of my work: so help me to do, gracious God. But alas, how far does my judgment of what is right and proper, in every case, outstrip my feelings and attainments! How soon may I even also forget what I now write.
On the first Sabbath of this year, while dispensing the Lord’s Supper in our family church, I possessed uncommon freedom of speech—unusually impressive views of divine truth: the same feeling pervaded every heart; unknown anticipations seemed to fill each heart; tears flowed abundantly from every eye. Mrs. Milne enjoyed the season remarkably. It seemed to me, at the time of the service, that something great, or afflictive, might be before some of us. Ah! Had I then supposed that I should never more "eat of the fruit of the vine” with my Rachel in this world, what would my feelings have been! That evening, conversing with Mrs. B. my wife said that she thought she should sit no more down at the Lord’s table on earth: she talked much of death.
The fifth morning previously to her death, when I called in, she said; “O what a sweet moment I have had in thinking of divine things.” She seemed often before her confinement to think that her death was near; and when I would try to wear that impression off her mind, she used to say; “My dear, you only sought me for a short time, and you have had me for more than a year” — meaning, since the time of her former illness. She also, during her illness, often said, with respect to her child, “I think I have been spared just to bring this child into the world and then go.” She spoke of him as her Benjamin; and seemed to think that he was born for some great and useful purpose.
At the Dutch Cemetery
March 21st: This afternoon, about six o’clock, the remains of my dear wife were interred in the Dutch burying ground, “Why do we mourn departed friends” was sung, and prayer offered, at the grave, by Mr. Ince. But the heavy fall of rain prevented any address, as was intended. A large concourse of people, of all casts, came, and intended to follow to the grave, but the rain prevented a great many: many carriages went. The governor, chief military officer, etc. There her remains lie till the resurrection of the just.
March 22nd: Went to see the grave this morning with the children; they asked “where the head and feet were,” and played about gathering flowers. Every thing seems empty to me; what is life without one of kindred mind to share it with! What melancholy pleasure does the mind take in reviewing the abode, the clothes, the portrait, the seat, etc. of such a friend! The family met this evening to pray for the sanctified use of this affliction. O may their prayers be heard.
For some time previously to her death, and indeed to her confinement, I have been in the habit of reading a little of some theological books at the time of our private prayer; e. g. Edwards’ History of Redemption; Flavel; Brooks; Watts’ World to Come, etc. The last of these we began to read only a few days previously to her death. I read the Sermon on the Blessedness of the Watchful Christian at Death, while she was lying on her couch.
But I now regret exceedingly that I did not use more means for her edification; pray more frequently with her; read more to her; converse more tenderly and affectionately with her; I indeed thought myself, upon the whole, a good husband, tender, and affectionate; and she often said so to me; but ah! now that I can see her no more, what would I give for lost opportunities! How much more might I have done to please and edify; how much to remove uneasiness—how many things might I have done to promote her comfort and cheerfulness—and how many things might I have omitted to do and say which perhaps gave uneasiness! Ah! My God, my hope, wherein I have sinned, or omitted duties, in regard to that excellent woman, whom thou didst lend me for a time—O pardon them.
For a considerable part of last year and beginning of this, our family enjoyed good health. Mrs. Milne also so much better than at former seasons of pregnancy, that I sometimes began to fancy ourselves happy—yet a secret thought often whispered—“take heed of saying in thine heart, my mountain stands strong”—nor do I think that I did say or suppose so; for a silent sigh often stole from me in looking over these dear treasures—these gifts of Providence—that they must necessarily be short-lived.
The following inscription was written on Mrs. Milne's tombstone.1
Erected to the Memory of RACHEL,
WIFE OF THE REV. W. MILNE,
Who died at Clabang, near Malacca,
March 20th, 1819, Aged 35 years and 6 months
Having buried an infant Son and a Daughter,
And leaving behind her Four Small Children and
An Affectionate Husband In whose breast Her Memory Is Embalmed
HER LIFE WAS DISTINGUISHED,
AS A CHILD, BY FILIAL REVERENCE;
AS A CHRISTIAN, BY HUMBLE CONFIDENCE;
AS A WIFE, BY MODEST SUBMISSION;
AS A MOTHER, BY AFFECTIONATE TENDERNESS;
AS A MEMBER OF SOCIETY, BY EXEMPLARY VIRTUES.
She died in hope of eternal life through Jesus Christ.
The mortal remains of DAVID MILNE,
Who died 4th May, 1816, Aged Two Days
And of SARAH MILNE,
Who died 10th April, 1817, Aged Four Days
Are interred a little to the left of this stone.
Rachel Milne's grave in September, 2024.