come; and then the pioneers can rest, and we will
talk no more of empty rooms.” * * * * *
IT.
You have probably read these opening words before
as a preface to “ The New Ceylon.” 3 You will forgive
me for reprinting them here. They are the
prologue to a tragedy. The young scientist was
my son. I did not mention his name on that occasion,
out of regard for his modesty, and as a check
upon my own pride. Moreover, I thought his fame
should herald him. He should write his own name
upon his own book when he came home again. There
is a belief among orthodox Christians that punishglorious
in perpetual sunshine; hut the pioneer cutting his way through
the primeval forests, and sojourning with savages of the most degraded
types, has many dangers and miseries to tell of that do not enter into
the dreams of men who live on pleasant slopes by the sea, or in the
more settled regions, where Rajah Brooke has brought a wilderness
and its barbarians within the pale of civilization. The hopes of the
founders of British North Borneo lie in a similar direction, and one’s
sympathies are with the pioneers j hut I looked far ahead for that
picture of rest in The New Ceylon, guarding myself with the reflection
that the simile of paradise may hold good when the tropical colonist
and the planter have taken and made the country their own. There are
plenty of indications of treasure hidden away in Bornean forests and
rivers; hut the heart of Sabah is still tangled, wild, unexplored, without
roads or even footpaths, populated by unknown tribes, “ who neither eat
rice nor salt, and who do not associate with each other, hut who rove
about the woods like wild beasts,” with, on the other hand, here and
there settled villages of quiet, peaceful natives, who are being
gradually attracted towards the new government’s stations and towns.
3 The New Ceylon. Being a sketch of British North Borneo or
Sabah, from official and other exclusive sources of information. By
Joseph Hatton (1881).
ment follows anything like an idolatrous love which
a father or mother may feel towards a child. The
dear old Vicar of Wakefield in the play emphasizes
this article of faith, or fear, in his solicitude for his
daughter Olivia. I t is considered neither British
nor Christian to mourn, “ over much,” for anything or
anybody, but “ every one can master a grief but he
that has it.” I f I am tempted, in these opening pages,
to lay aside a mask of apparent contentment, to wear
my heart upon my sleeve, and confess th a t for me the
light of the world is evermore shadowed by his death,
my readers will bear with me in remembrance of
their own private sorrows; and if not for his sake, in
honour of other pioneers who have yielded up their
lives on the altars of science and civilization. Away in
the jungle of an island slope in the Malay Archipelago,
they have laid him beneath the palms. Pioneer in life,
pioneer in death. The first English tenant of the
little cemetery at Elopura, he rests from his labours.
hi.
“ One of the most remarkable young men of these
days,” 4 Frank Hatton, though in no sense precocious
as a child, developed a singular versatility of
talent at an early age. Fond of music, he was a
skilful pianist, and played several other instruments
moderately well. He could ride, swim, skate, shoot,
and had done long spins on the tricycle; he was
clever at chess, was a good linguist, and wrote his
native language with the polish of a gentleman and
the finish of a scholar. A master of Malay, “ the
4 Daily News, May 8th, 1883.