A WEEK AT PITCAIRN. 297 
refuse. She accordingly came, accompanied by 
her children ; and touching, indeed, was the 
scene that followed. She seemed calmer and 
more resigned after having seen her poor hus- 
band; and when I wished her good-bye, on 
leaving yesterday morning, she appeared better 
able to bear the affliction with which the 
Almighty had thought fit to visit her. 
All in the Virago gave her their best sym- 
pathy, and made a subscription for herself and 
the poor children, amounting to nearly thirty 
pounds, which will, we hope, in a slight degree, 
tend to lighten her burden. 
Few scenes have made a stronger impression 
upon my mind than the funeral of poor M'Coy, 
deeply impressive from the earnestness of those 
engaged in the ceremony, and from the absence 
of that form and luxury with which civilisation 
too often loves to bury its dead. 
The grave was dug in a little garden con- 
secrated by the ashes of the father and the 
brother of Matthew M'Coy, beside whose re- 
mains his own were about to be laid. 
The Burial Service was impressively read 
by the Rev. W. Holm an, after which a hymn 
was sung — or attempted to be sung — for the 
accents of the poor Islanders were stifled by 
sobs ; and amidst these sobs the body was low- 
ered into the grave. 
It was a beautiful sunset; the tall, plume- 
like 1 cocoa-nut-trees waved gently above our 
heads! Borne upwards from the sea, mournfully, 
but not discordantly, came the sound of the 
breakers as they burst against the shore ; while 
