Chapter Xii. Last Years. 1846-1850.

Chapter Xii. Last Years. 1846-1850.

More than four months elapsed after Mr. and Mrs. Judson parted from their friends in Boston before they arrived at Maulmain. The passage, though long, was pleasant. Under date of November 27, 1846, Mr. Judson writes to his friend, Mr. Gardner Colby:

“One hundred and thirty-nine days from Boston, and the mountains of Burmah appear in the horizon. None ever had a pleasanter passage than we have been favored with, though rather long, from the prevalence of head-winds. The Faneuil Hall was a good sailer, an excellent sea-boat, and furnished with the best accommodations. The table was well supplied, and the captain endeared himself to us, not only by unremitting kindness, but by the interchange of congenial sentiments and feelings on the subject of religion. Two services on Lord’s days, the one a Bible-class in the saloon, and the other, public worship on deck with the crew, together with evening worship every day, have given the character of a Bethel to our floating home.

“In regard to my studies, I have not much to boast of. Not having my native assistants with me, I have not ventured to go forward in the dictionary, but have employed myself in revising and transcribing for the press the first half of the English and Burmese part, that had been previously sketched out. This work I had hardly completed when the cry of Land, ho! saluted my ears.”

In passing the Island of St. Helena, his thoughts dwelt tenderly upon her who, like Rachel of old, had died “on the way, when it was but a little way to go unto Ephrath.”

“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:

“I can hardly realize that I am sitting in the old house, where we all lived together so long; and now your mamma, yourselves, your sister Abby Ann, and little Charlie are gone. It is now evening. I am writing in the hall where I used to sit and study, when your mamma had gone down the coast with Captain and Mrs. Durand. Your new mamma has just put your little brothers, Henry and Edward, to bed. They lie in the room where you used to sleep before you removed to the corner room. Henry is singing and talking aloud to himself; and what do you think he is saying? Your new mamma has just called me to listen. ‘My own mamma went away, away in a boat. And then she got wings and went up. And Charlie, too, went up, and they are flying above the moon and the stars.’ I preach in the chapel, as I used to do, but have not yet begun to work at the dictionary; for we have been very busy seeing company and getting our house and things in order. Everything looks as it used to do when you were here.... We found Henry in this place, when we arrived. My dear boys, I don’t know when I shall see you again. If I ever should, you will not be the dear little fellows I left at Worcester. But I hope that as you grow larger, and change the features that are now so deeply engraven on my heart, you will also grow wiser and better, and become more worthy of my fondest love. That you will give your hearts to the Saviour is my most earnest desire. Love your dear uncle and aunt Newton. Mind all they say, and ever try to please them.”

Upon his return Mr. Judson found that the mission had flourished during his absence, and was able to send an encouraging report to the Corresponding Secretary.

“The native church, under the care of brother Stevens, is not much enlarged, but it is much improved, in consequence of the exclusion of several unworthy members, and the admission of more promising characters, chiefly from among the children of the converts. Brother Howard’s school has greatly improved both in numbers and in qualifications. Brother Binney’s school, which was just beginning when I left, has attained a high degree of respectability and usefulness. The Karen missionaries and their disciples are mostly absent from Maulmain at this season; but I understand that prospects in that department of the mission were never more encouraging. The printing-office and the secular business of the mission are managed by brother Ranney with promptitude and efficiency. Brother Haswell resides here at present, superintending the printing of the New Testament in the Peguan, and is preaching on all occasions. Brother Stilson is also here, making and superintending the printing of elementary books for schools in the Burman—a work for which he has a peculiar tact and penchant.”

But for himself he still ardently cherished the purpose to enter Burmah proper. His eye was upon his old field, Rangoon. To be sure, the new Burman king was a bigoted Buddhist, and therefore bitterly opposed to the propagation of the Christian religion. But in Maulmain there were laborers enough; while in Rangoon he would be favorably situated for completing the dictionary, as he would there have access to learned men, and also to books not to be found in Maulmain. Moreover, he hoped that Burman intolerance might at last yield, and he was eager to press into the interior of the empire and establish a mission in Ava, the scene of his sufferings.

Even before leaving America he had written to the Corresponding Secretary on this point:

“The accounts of the late revolution in Burmah are so contradictory, and the prospect of more toleration so indefinite, that no certain expectation can well be entertained. It is possible, however, that, on my arriving in Maulmain, there may be an opening for me to proceed to Ava. There is sometimes a tide in affairs which, once lost, returns not again. Have the Board sufficient confidence in me to authorize me, by an overland dispatch which shall meet me on arriving in Maulmain, to attempt a mission at Ava, without waiting for further permission, or being under the necessity of debating the matter with other missionaries, who may demur, for want of something express from the Board?

“The dictionary would not be done so soon, if I should go to Ava; but it would be done much better, by means of the aids which the capital would furnish.”

Impelled by these motives Mr. and Mrs. Judson, taking with them their two little boys, embarked at Maulmain for Rangoon on February 15, 1847.

Only two months and a half had passed since their return from America. They might have been pardoned had they remained longer in the society of their missionary associates in Maulmain. But it was not their purpose to seek their own pleasure. They willingly left the twilight of Maulmain, in order to penetrate the dense darkness of Rangoon, although, as Mr. Judson wrote, “it seemed harder for him to leave Maulmain for Rangoon than to leave Boston for Maulmain.”

After a voyage of five days they and their two children arrived in Rangoon. Mr. Judson had previously made a visit there alone, in order “to ascertain the state of things in Burmah more definitely before making an attempt to settle there.” He had on that occasion hired, for fifty rupees a month, the upper part of a large brick house, which Mrs. Judson subsequently named “Bat Castle.” He describes it as—

“A place dreary indeed, and destitute of almost all outward comforts, but one which will afford an opportunity of building up the feeble church by private efforts, and of seizing the first opening for more public efforts that God in His providence may present, in answer to the prayers of His people in beloved, far-distant America.”

Before engaging the house he wrote to Mrs. Judson: “The place looks as gloomy as a prison.... I shrink at taking you and the children into such a den, and fear you would pine and die in it.” It was into this forbidding abode that Mr. Judson introduced the lady to whom he had been so recently married. He wrote:

“We have had a grand bat hunt yesterday and to-day—bagged two hundred and fifty, and calculate to make up a round thousand before we have done. We find that, in hiring the upper story of this den, we secured the lower moiety only, the upper moiety thereof being preoccupied by a thriving colony of vagabonds, who flare up through the night with a vengeance, and the sound of their wings is as the sound of many waters, yea, as the sound of your boasted Yankee Niagara; so that sleep departs from your eyes, and slumber from our eyelids. But we are reading them some lessons which we hope will be profitable to all parties concerned.”

But we are indebted to Mrs. Judson’s pen, in a letter to her younger sister, for a still more vivid portraiture of “Bat Castle”:

“Dear Kitty: I write you from walls as massive as any you read of in old stories and a great deal uglier—the very eyeball and heart-core of an old white-bearded Mussulman. Think of me in an immense brick house with rooms as large as the entire ‘loggery’ (our centre room is twice as large, and has no window), and only one small window apiece. When I speak of windows, do not think I make any allusion to glass—of course not. The windows (holes) are closed by means of heavy board or plank shutters, tinned over on the outside, as a preventive of fire. The bamboo houses of the natives here are like flax or tinder, and the foreigners, who have more than the one cloth which Burmans wrap about the body, and the mat they sleep on, dare live in nothing but brick. Imagine us, then, on the second floor of this immense den, with nine rooms at our command, the smallest of which (bathing-room and a kind of pantry) are, I think, quite as large as your dining-room, and the rest very much larger. Part of the floors are of brick, and part of boards; but old ‘Green Turban’ whitewashed them all, with the walls, before we came, because the Doctor told him, when he was over here, that he must ‘make the house shine for madam.’ He did make it shine with a vengeance, between whitewashing and greasing. They oil furniture in this country, as Americans do mahogany; but all his doors and other woodwork were fairly dripping, and we have not got rid of the smell yet; nor, with all our rubbing, is it quite safe to hold too long on the door. The partitions are all of brick, and very thick, and the door-sills are built up, so that I go over them at three or four steps, Henry mounts and falls off, and Edward gets on all-fours, and accomplishes the pass with more safety. The floor overhead is quite low, and the beams, which are frequent, afford shelter to thousands and thousands of bats, that disturb us in the daytime only by a little cricket-like music, but in the night—oh, if you could only hear them carouse! The mosquito curtains are our only safeguard; and getting up is horrible. The other night I awoke faint, with a feeling of suffocation; and without waiting to think jumped out on the floor. You would have thought ‘Old Nick’ himself had come after you, for, of course, you believe these firm friends of the ladies of the broomstick incipient imps. If there is nothing wickeder about them than about the little sparrows that come in immense swarms to the same beams, pray what do they do all through the hours of darkness, and why do they circle and whizz about a poor mortal’s head, flap their villainous wings in one’s face, and then whisk away, as if snickering at the annoyance? We have had men at work nearly a week trying to thin them out, and have killed a great many hundreds; but I suppose their little demoniac souls come back, each with an attendant, for I am sure there are twice as many as at first. Everything, walls, tables, chairs, etc., are stained by them. Besides the bats, we are blessed with our full share of cockroaches, beetles, spiders, lizards, rats, ants, mosquitoes, and bed-bugs. With the last the woodwork is all alive, and the ants troop over the house in great droves, though there are scattering ones beside. Perhaps twenty have crossed my paper since I have been writing. Only one cockroach has paid me a visit, but the neglect of these gentlemen has been fully made up by a company of black bugs about the size of the end of your little finger—nameless adventurers.”...

The Judsons were scarcely settled in these forbidding quarters when they learned that the house in Maulmain, where they had deposited their best clothing and most valuable goods—many of them presents from dear friends whom they were to see no more—had taken fire and had been burned to the ground with all its contents. They had brought but a few articles with them, not being willing to trust the most valuable part of their personal effects to the rapacious Government at Rangoon. They had thought it best to draw their supplies from Maulmain, and now the precious consignment of articles which they had brought with them from their dear native land had been consumed in the flames. But Mr. Judson had long since mastered the science of contentment. He had been instructed both “to be full and to be hungry; both to abound and to suffer need.” He wrote to the Rev. E. A. Stevens, a beloved fellow-sufferer in this calamity:

“‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ My heart overflows with gratitude, and my eyes with tears, as I pen these precious inspired words. There are some other lines, quaint in garb, but rich in core, that are worth more than all your house and contents:

“But I sympathize with you and dear sister Stevens. Brother Bullard has also sustained a heavy loss. Brother Brayton’s will not, on the whole, be any great loss. As to me—the leeks and onions that were packed up in those two valuable boxes, worth about seven or eight hundred rupees, were very bright to the eye and soft to the feel; and many of them we shall greatly need if we live a year or two longer; but they have gone to dust and ashes, where I have seen many bright, dear eyes go, to rescue any pair of which I would have given those boxes ten times over.

“I am glad and thankful that the New Testament and the manuscripts are not wholly lost, though some are. And I am glad that so much interest has been excited in the Christian community at Maulmain. I am glad, also, that my house was empty, and ready to afford you immediate shelter.

“We arrived here the Saturday after leaving Maulmain, and got our things through the custom-house on the next Monday, a week ago yesterday. We now begin to feel a little settled, and are about commencing a routine of study, and, I may add, missionary labor; for though the Burmese converts are few and timid, the Karens flock in from different parts, and occupy a good deal of my time. All the men understand Burman pretty well, and I have had some interesting meetings among them....

“I have recommenced the work of the dictionary, which has been suspended nearly two years. Why has this grievous interruption been permitted, and all this precious time lost? And why are our houses and property allowed to be burned up? And why are those most dear to us, and most qualified to be useful in the cause, torn from our arms and dashed into the grave, and all their knowledge and qualification with them? Because infinite wisdom and love will have it so. Because it is best for us, and best for them, and best for the cause, and best for the interests of eternity, that it should be so. And blessed be God, we know it, and are thankful, and rejoice, and say, Glory be to God.”

Missionary operations in Rangoon were obstructed from the very outset by the intolerance of the Burmese Government. It must be remembered that the missionaries were no longer under the protection of the English flag, as they had been at Maulmain. They were exposed to the barbarities of a bigoted and unlimited despotism. The Burman monarch and his younger brother, the heir apparent, were both rigid Buddhists. And the administration of the Government, though more friendly to strangers, had become more doggedly intolerant of Christianity than that of the late king Tharawadi. Buddhism was in full force throughout the empire, and the prospects of a missionary were never darker. The vice-governor of Rangoon, who was at that time acting-governor, is described by Mr. Judson as being the most ferocious, bloodthirsty monster he had ever known in Burmah. His house and court-yard resounded day and night with the screams of people under torture.

“Even foreigners,” Mr. Judson wrote, “are not beyond his grasp. He lately wreaked his rage on some Armenians and Mussulmans, and one of the latter class died in the hands of a subordinate officer. His crime was quite a venial one; but in order to extort money, he was tortured so barbarously that the blood streamed from his mouth, and he was dead in an hour.”

It must be remembered that Mr. Judson had been received and patronized by the Government, not as a missionary or propagator of religion, but as the priest of a foreign religion, ministering to the foreigners in the place.

Missionary operations, accordingly, had to be conducted with the utmost secrecy. Any known attempt at proselyting would have been instantly amenable at the criminal tribunal, and would probably have been punished by the imprisonment or death of the proselyte, and the banishment of the missionary. Nothing but a wholesome fear of the British Government kept these bloodthirsty wretches from the throat of the missionary himself. Every step was cautious—every movement slow. Mrs. Judson quietly pursued the two tasks of learning the language and writing a Memorial of Mrs. Sarah Boardman Judson, which was finished during this trying period at Rangoon. Mr. Judson kept at work on the dictionary, while he gathered for secret worship the few scattered members of the native church, and the inquirers who, at the risk of imprisonment and death, visited him by night. He thus wrote to the Hon. Heman Lincoln and family:

.... “From this land of darkness and intolerance I address a line to you, my dear, very dear friends, in blessed America, in bright, beautiful Boston and vicinity. It seems like an Elysian vision, that I have so lately seen your happy dwellings and elegant surroundings—a vision, however, dispelled instantly by a crushing nightmare feeling, on looking round upon the wretched habitations, the rude, filthy population, the towering pagodas, and the swarms of well-fed priests which everywhere here pain the eye and the heart. Buddhism has come out in full bloom. The few traces of Christianity discoverable in the early stages of the mission seem almost obliterated. The present king and his brother, the heir presumptive, are devoted Buddhists, especially the latter. He begs his elder brother to allow him to turn priest, that he may gratify his pious propensities; and on being refused, he does, poor man! all that he can. He descends from his prince-regal seat, pounds and winnows the rice with his own hands, washes and boils it in his own cook-house, and then, on bended knees, presents it to the priests. This strong pulsation at the heart has thrown fresh blood throughout the once shrivelled system of the national superstition; and now every one vies with his neighbor in building pagodas and making offerings to the priests. What can one poor missionary effect, accompanied by his yet speechless wife, and followed by three men and one woman from Maulmain, and summoning to his aid the aged pastor of Rangoon and eight or ten surviving members of the church? But as the Mussulman says, God is great. He sitteth on the heavens, he setteth His foot on the earth, and the inhabitants are as grasshoppers before Him. He dwelleth also in the humble and contrite soul; and the rays of indwelling glory appear more resplendent, gleaming through the chinks of the humble tenement. O for that humility and contrition, O for that simplicity of faith, which will secure the indwelling glory! May such sinners as we are hope for such a blessing? O help us with your prayers, ye who sit under the droppings of the sanctuary, and are sometimes allowed to approach the presence; O Thou that hearest prayer, help Thou our unbelief!

“Last Sabbath was our stated communion season, occurring once in four months. No alcoholic liquor can be procured in this place, the importation of all such being strictly forbidden. Our wine was a decoction of raisins, the unadulterated juice of the grape. Ten Burmans, one Karen, and two Americans came around the lowly, glorious board. To-day I had about the same number of disciples, and several listeners, two of whom remained long after worship, and, with two others whom I have found since arriving here, make up the small number of four hopeful inquirers. But all our operations are conducted in secrecy. I have been introduced to the Government, not as a missionary—though the governor and the vice-governor both knew me well from old acquaintance—but as a minister of a foreign religion, ministering to foreigners in the place, and as a lexicographer, laboring to promote the literature of both nations! In one room, therefore, of the upper story of the brick house—for which upper story I am obliged to pay fifty rupees a month—will the Christian public bear me out in this extra expense?—I have paraded my lexicographical apparatus, and commenced hammering at the anvil of the dictionary, which has hardly resounded with my blows for two years past; two years, alas! lost, lost, in tossing on the sea, closing dear eyes, digging graves, rending heartstrings, and feeling about for new ones. Thanks be to God, I have a sweet little family around me once more—F. F., Harry, and Eddy. God is not only ‘great,’ but good. God is love. And He can change our hard, selfish hearts, and make them full of love. Do I not love you, dear friends? Shall I see you no more? Yes, in heaven, whither we are fast hastening.”

The condition of the missionaries in Rangoon was made still more distressing by sickness. The great brick house became a hospital. One member of the family after another was prostrated by disease. Their maladies were also aggravated by the want of nourishing food.

Mrs. Judson gives an interesting reminiscence of this doleful episode in Rangoon:

“In the meantime the rainy season set in; and it proved a season of unusual sickliness, even for that sickly place. To add still more to the uncomfortableness of our situation, the season for the Buddhistic Lent, which continues several months, came round; and, probably for the first time in fifty years, foreigners were so far compelled to observe it as to abstain from eating flesh or fowl. If we had known of the prohibition in season, we could have been prepared; but it took us quite by surprise. A few fish were exhibited in the bazaar; but it was so disreputable to trade, even in these, that they could scarcely be found, except in a half-putrid state. The only baker in town left soon after our arrival; and we were forced to live almost exclusively on boiled rice and fruits. To the former I unfortunately took an unconquerable disgust; and the latter proved unwholesome to all of us. One child was seized with erysipelas; the other with a complication of diseases brought on, as we supposed, by the meagre diet, and exposure to the damp winds; and Dr. Judson himself had a most violent attack of dysentery, which kept him from his study-table six weeks. For myself, my appetite had failed in proportion to the means of gratifying it; so, without being ill, I was so reduced in strength as often, in walking across the room, to fall, or rather slide, down on the floor, not from faintness, but sheer physical weakness. One of the assistants also took the fever; and the nurse I brought from Maulmain, the only woman besides myself in the household, became seriously ill. Of course we had no medical adviser; and if we had desired it ever so much, we could not get away, as the monsoon was now at its height, and the small native vessels in the harbor were not only without accommodations for invalids, but too frail to be trusted with the freight of human lives.”

And thus again to her friends in America she wrote:

“Trouble on trouble—trouble on trouble! You could scarce imagine, dear aunt Cynthia, people in a worse condition than we are now. Last Saturday evening Dr. J. came into my room with red eyes and a voice all tremulous with weeping. ‘We must be at the worst now,’ he said; ‘and in all my troubles in this dreadful country, I never before looked on so discouraging a prospect. We are hunted down here like wild beasts; watched by Government and plotted against by Catholic priests. The churches at home have made no provision for our going to Ava, the governor is importuned to send us out of the country, the monsoon is raging, and we could not go to Maulmain if we wished, and you are failing every day—it seems to me dying before my eyes—without the possibility of obtaining either medicines or a physician.”...

To what straits the family was reduced for food may be seen in the following sketch from Mrs. Judson’s pen:

“Our milk is a mixture of buffaloes’ milk, water, and something else which we can not make out. We have changed our milk-woman several times, but it does no good. The butter we make from it is like lard with flakes of tallow. But it is useless to write about these things—you can get no idea. I must tell you, however, of the grand dinner we had one day. ‘You must contrive and get something that mamma can eat,’ the doctor said to our Burmese purveyor; ‘she will starve to death.’ ‘What shall I get?’ ‘Anything.’ ‘Anything?’ ‘Anything.’ Well, we did have a capital dinner, though we tried in vain to find out by the bones what it was. Henry said it was touk-tahs, a species of lizard, and I should have thought so too, if the little animal had been of a fleshy consistence. Cook said he didn’t know, but he grinned a horrible grin which made my stomach heave a little, notwithstanding the deliciousness of the meat. In the evening we called Mr. Bazaar-man. ‘What did we have for dinner to-day?’ ‘Were they good?’ ‘Excellent.’ A tremendous explosion of laughter, in which the cook from his dish-room joined as loud as he dared. ‘What were they?’ ‘Rats!’ A common servant would not have played such a trick, but it was one of the doctor’s assistants who goes to bazaar for us. You know the Chinese consider rats a great delicacy, and he bought them at one of their shops.”

But amid all the discouragements and sufferings of his life in Rangoon, Mr. Judson did not lapse into despondency. He wrote to a friend:

“My sojourn in Rangoon, though tedious and trying in some respects, I regard as one of the brightest spots, one of the greenest oases in the diversified wilderness of my life. May God make me thankful for all the blessings which have hitherto fallen to my lot, and for the hope of those richer blessings which are just concealed by the cloud of sense from our spiritual vision. If this world is so happy, what must heaven be? And as to trials, let us bear up under them, remembering that if we suffer for Christ’s sake, with Him we shall reign.”

At last, however, the intolerance of the Government became so fierce that there was no hope of retaining a foothold in Rangoon, without going to Ava in order to secure the favor of the royal court.

“One Saturday morning,” says Mrs. Judson, “we were startled by some private intimations that the bloody ray-woon, as one of the vice-governors was called, had his eye on us; and a little before evening the hints were fully confirmed. We learned from an undoubted source that a police guard had been stationed in the vicinity of our house, with orders to seize every native, not known to be a servant of the house, seen coming out of it. We inferred that their policy was not to disturb us at present, but the blow was first to fall on the poor Christians. Several Karens were stopping with us, and in addition to our usual company of worshippers quite a number of invited friends and strangers had promised to be with us on the next day. The church had been making individual efforts to enlarge the congregation. I shall never forget the expression of my husband’s face, as though really piercing to the invisible, when he exclaimed, ‘I tell you, if we had but the power to see them, the air above us is thick with contending spirits—the good and the bad, striving for the mastery. I know where final victory lies, but the struggle may be a long one.’ There was not much time for talking, however. He communicated the state of things, as far as he thought expedient, to his two native assistants, and sent them out to warn the nearer worshippers. In this, great caution was necessary, in order to prevent a panic; and I suppose that the Rangoon Christians have never, to this day, known the extent of their danger. As the assistants, by an especial arrangement, did not return till after our landlord’s hour for closing the gate, Dr. Judson, with some difficulty, got the key into his own possession; and so, in the first gray of the morning, the Karens were guided out of town, and advised to return to the jungle. The last place to which the assistants carried their warning, on Sunday morning, was a little village five miles from Rangoon, where they remained till toward evening. Dr. Judson was afraid of compromising the Christians by going to any of their houses that day; but he had advised them, through the assistants, how to hold worship, and we knew of several places where little knots of men and women were gathered for prayer.

“These demonstrations on the part of Government were followed up by a series of petty annoyances and insults, which effectually precluded the possibility of accomplishing much good. The governor was friendly, but weak and cowardly; and we soon found that his protection was really worthless, except as he could hold the petty officers in awe. The bloody ray-woon laughed at his authority, and once actually assembled the troops against him, when the poor governor yielded. Both Christians and inquirers, however, still came to us in private; and many a man, who refused to take even a book from the teacher’s hands, would watch his opportunity, when going out, to snatch one from a box placed near the door for that purpose, and hide it in his dress, congratulating himself, no doubt, that he was unsuspected even by us.”

Under these circumstances, the only hope lay in a visit to Ava. Mr. Judson’s heart was set upon this. He believed that it was the only way by which the Gospel could be established in Burmah proper; besides, in the completion of his dictionary, he desired to avail himself of the help of the scholars and the literature to be found only at the capital. And bitter indeed was his disappointment when the policy of retrenchment at home not only prevented his pushing on to Ava, but also compelled him to retreat from Rangoon. It was with an almost broken heart that this wise and intrepid leader, after this last fruitless effort to break the serried ranks of Burman intolerance, returned to Maulmain in obedience to the timid and narrow policy of his brethren in America. He wrote:

“I am persuaded, as I have been for years past, that the only way to keep footing in Rangoon is to obtain some countenance at Ava. My principal object in coming hither was to ascertain the practicability and probable advantage of proceeding to the capital. The present governor has given his permission, and the season favorable for going up the river is not far distant. But at the approaching crisis, I find myself destitute of the requisite means. The Board have approved the measure, but have not been able to accompany their approval with the needful remittance. On the contrary, I learn from my last letters from Maulmain, that the annual appropriation for the Burman mission is ten thousand rupees less than the current expenses require. The brethren have been obliged to retrench in every department, instead of being able to make an appropriation for a new enterprise. My extra expense in Rangoon for assistants and house-rent is eighty-six rupees a month, and they have been able to allow me seventeen and a half only. The Mission Secretary writes me that for anything beyond that sum I must look, not to their treasury, but to the Board. Instead, therefore, of entering on a new and expensive undertaking, I find myself unable to remain in Rangoon. But no; I might hope that an appeal home would provide the means for remaining here; but in present circumstances, unable to remain to any advantage without making friends at Ava, and having no hope that the Board will be able to commence a new station, or even sustain the old ones much longer, there remains nothing for me but to fall back upon Maulmain.

“It is my growing conviction that the Baptist churches in America are behind the age in missionary spirit. They now and then make a spasmodic effort to throw off a nightmare debt of some years’ accumulation, and then sink back into unconscious repose. Then come paralyzing orders to re-trench; new enterprises are checked in their very conception, and applicants for missionary employ are advised to wait, and soon become merged in the ministry at home. Several cases of that sort I encountered during my late visit to the United States. This state of things can not last always. The Baptist missions will probably pass into the hands of other denominations, or be temporarily suspended; and those who have occupied the van will fall back into the rear. Nebuchadnezzar will be driven out from men, to eat grass like an ox, until seven times pass over him. But he will, at length, recover his senses, and be restored to the throne of his kingdom, and reign over the whole earth.”

And how deeply his heroic nature mourned over the signal to retreat may be seen in the description of the situation at Rangoon, as given by her who shared-with him this bitter experience:

“Dr. Judson, when he could keep down his groans, used to speak of our position as ‘the pass of the Splugen,’ and say he had no doubt we should find sunny vales and fruited vineyards the other side. The Government was certainly very bad, and our prospects, at the best, misty; yet as soon as his health and the children’s began to amend, our courage revived. We could not bear, now we had gone so far, and been through so much, to think of retreating, without an effort to get to Ava. For myself, as I believe is natural to the practical minds of women, I sat down to examine the worst features of the case in detail. We should of course be subjected to inconceivable annoyances, but we must trust Providence to give us wise thoughts. We very likely might be banished; but we could always hold ourselves in readiness to go, and the loss of the few goods we had would not be much. Possibly we should be imprisoned; but I did not think that very likely, and we should always have means of informing our friends in Maulmain. Death was the worst. We must endure it some time. If it came a little earlier, it would be in a good cause; and there would be faithful Christians about us, who would never rest till they had taken the children to Maulmain. The way seemed clear to me. Dr. Judson said it was scarcely possible for us to encounter the complication of troubles that we had already passed through in Rangoon. Ava, he said, was always better governed than Rangoon; and this starving of people during Lent had never occurred before in all his missionary-life, and was not likely to occur again; besides, the rains were less heavy, and consequently the rainy season less sickly. In addition to this, he had a friend at court—a Burman of rank, who loved him, and was exerting himself to the utmost to gain respect for the ‘wise man,’ and to explain that Americans were not Englishmen. The plan of going to Ava really seemed, on the whole, feasible. Accordingly Dr. Judson used his first returning strength to call on the governor, to obtain permission to go. Not that we could not go without permission; but it was polite and conciliatory to ask, and in the permission would be an implied exemption from annoyance in getting away, and protection—probably that of a Government flag or official umbrella—on the river. The Lent was not yet over; but what with boxes of biscuit from Maulmain, bribing a Mussulman—a rascally fellow, who afterward came and robbed us of our dearly-bought treasure—to obtain fowls for us secretly, and the improved health of some of us, we began to be quite valorous. As Dr. Judson expressed it, ‘our faces began to shine.’ Indeed, we had not been very desponding any of the time. Never, except during an occasional hour, when his illness was most alarming, did his courage falter. It was delightful to be so directly in the hands of God. Then, we had not expected much when we left Maulmain. The church in Rangoon had been aroused, a few baptisms had taken place, and several more hopeful conversions; and the way to Ava, if not the golden city itself, was open before us.

“The letter from Maulmain with no appropriation for our contemplated expedition, and giving us only twenty rupees to cover the eighty-six rupees we were even then monthly expending, came upon us like a sudden tornado in a sunny day. Oddly enough, it had not once occurred to us that the money could be wanting. You will readily appreciate the one broad feature of the case, which would have made the blow heavy to any sincere Christian having much of the missionary spirit; but to my husband there was additional bitterness in the manner of his disappointment, and in the hands from which it came. ‘I thought they loved me,’ he would say, mournfully, ‘and they would scarcely have known it if I had died.’ ‘All through our troubles, I was comforted with the thought that my brethren in Maulmain, and in America, were praying for us, and they have never once thought of us.’ At other times he would draw startling pictures of missionaries abandoning the spirit of their mission, and sacrificing everything to some darling project; and at others he would talk hopelessly of the impulsive nature of the home movements, and then pray, in a voice of agony, that these sins of the children of God might not be visited on the heathen. This was an unnatural state of excitement—for him peculiarly unnatural—and he was not long in recovering from it. He very soon began to devise apologies for everybody, and said we must remember that so far as we were concerned, or the missionary cause itself, God had done this thing, and done it, as He always does, for good. It was not His will that we should go to Ava then, and we had no right to complain of the means He made use of to prevent it. He insisted, too, that our obedience was not to be yielded grudgingly; that it must be a cheerful acquiescence in all that God had done, and a sincere, careful study of the indications of His providence afterward, without any suspicion that our ways were hedged by anything harder or thornier than His love and mercy. By the time he had an opportunity to send letters to Maulmain and Boston, his mind was restored to its usual serenity. My impression, however, is, that his first letter to the Board was written in a slightly discouraged tone. He wrote more hopefully to Maulmain, but I have sometimes thought that his generosity took the point from his letter, and that his meaning was not understood in saying that it was for the best. I think now that they mistook resignation to God for a personal willingness to abandon the enterprise.”

Two years afterward, only a few months before his death, he received permission from the Board to go to Ava. It was couched in the following resolutions:

1. “That the Executive Committee accede to the proposition of Dr. Judson to visit Ava, for the purpose of perfecting his Burman dictionary.

2. “That the sum of one thousand rupees be appropriated to defray the expense of said visit.

3. “That the Foreign Secretary be requested to assure Dr. Judson of the earnest wish of the Committee, that he should carefully avoid all that may jeopard his life, or interfere with his invaluable labors.”

But this permission came too late. The opportunity of penetrating Burmah proper had passed, and the aid of an excellent Burmese scholar, once a priest at Ava, had been secured at Maulmain, and then the toiling translator replied to the resolutions as follows:

“Considering, therefore, the uncertainty of life, and the state of my manuscripts, so effaced by time, or so erased and interlined as to be illegible to any other person but myself, I have thought it was my duty to forego, for the present, what I can not but regard as an interesting expedition, in order to drive forward the heavy work of the dictionary in the most satisfactory manner, and without increasing the hazard of any serious interruption.”

Thus after spending half a year of toil and suffering at Rangoon, he was compelled to fall back upon Maulmain. He arrived there with his family on September 5, 1847.

From the time of his return to Maulmain until his last sickness, he worked steadily at the dictionary. Again and again in his letters he alludes to this colossal undertaking.

“Since my return from America, with the exception of a visit of a few months at Rangoon, I have been occupying my old stand, engaged chiefly in preparing a Burmese dictionary, which is now in the press; that is, the English and Burmese part. The Burmese and English part will, I hope, be ready for the press in the course of another year. They will make two quarto volumes of five or six hundred pages each.... I am still hard at work on the dictionary, and shall be for above a year to come, if I live so long. The work will make two volumes quarto, containing above a thousand pages. No one can tell what toil it has cost me. But I trust it will be a valuable and standard work for a long time. It sweetens all toil to be conscious that we are laboring for the King of kings, the Lord of lords. I doubt not we find it so, whether in Maulmain or in Philadelphia.”...

“I have taken shelter in the house lately occupied by brother Simons, though remote from missionary operations, where I intend to make an effort to finish the dictionary.”

His wife, in one of her letters, thus describes his indefatigable industry:

.... “‘The goodman’ works like a galley slave; and really it quite distresses me sometimes, but he seems to get fat on it, so I try not to worry. He walks—or rather runs—like a boy over the hills, a mile or two every morning; then down to his books, scratch-scratch, puzzle-puzzle, and when he gets deep in the mire, out on the veranda with your humble servant by his side, walking and talking (kan-ing we call it in the Burman) till the point is elucidated, and then down again—and so on till ten o’clock in the evening. It is this walking which is keeping him out of the grave.”

At the same time he took a general oversight of the mission work in Maulmain, being, in the nature of the case, a guiding and inspiring force. He preached occasionally in the native chapel, “one sermon at least every Lord’s day.” When his beloved fellow-missionary, Mr. Haswell, was compelled to return home for a short visit on account of his ill health, the whole care of the native church devolved on him.

These literary and pastoral labors were, however, lightened by social and domestic pleasures. Though he had come to the ripe age of sixty, he had within him the fresh heart of a boy. It has been truly said of him that his spirit was intensely, unconquerably youthful. He loved to romp with his children, and early in the morning to brush

In a life of self-sacrifice he had discovered the perennial fountain of joy. While he followed the narrow path of stern duty, the butterfly pleasure which the worldling chases from flower to flower, had flown into his bosom. Byron, on his thirty-ninth birthday, breathed the sigh:

How different Judson’s words uttered on his death-bed:

“I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials. But I am not old—at least in that sense; you know I am not. Oh, no man ever left the world with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes, or warmer feelings—warmer feelings.”

We are indebted for the following description of his personal appearance at this time to Dr. Wayland’s Memoir:

“In person, Dr. Judson was of about the medium height, slenderly built, but compactly knitted together. His complexion was in youth fair; but residence in India had given him the sallow hue common to that climate. His hair, when in this country, was yet of a fine chestnut, with scarcely a trace of gray. The elasticity of his movement indicated a man of thirty, rather than of nearly sixty years of age. His deportment was, in a remarkable degree, quiet and self-possessed, and his manner was pointed out as perfectly well bred, by those who consider the cultivation of social accomplishments the serious business of life. A reviewer writes on this subject as follows:

“‘A person overtaking Judson in one of his early morning walks, as he strode along the pagoda-capped hills of Maulmain, would have thought the pedestrian before him rather under-sized, and of a build showing no great muscular development; although the pace was good and the step firm, yet there was nothing to indicate great powers of physical endurance, in the somewhat slight and spare frame tramping steadily in front of the observer. The latter would scarcely suppose that he had before him the man who, on the 25th of March, 1826, wrote, “Through the kind interposition of our heavenly Father, our lives have been preserved in the most imminent danger from the hand of the executioner, and in repeated instances of most alarming illness during my protracted imprisonment of one year and seven months; nine months in three pairs of fetters, two months in five, six months in one, and two months a prisoner at large.” Illness nigh unto death, and three or five pairs of fetters to aid in weighing down the shattered and exhausted frame, seemed a dispensation calculated for the endurance of a far more muscular build. But meet the man, instead of overtaking him, or, better still, see him enter a room and bare his head, and the observer at once caught an eye beaming with intelligence, a countenance full of life and expression. Attention could scarce fail of being riveted on that head and face, which told at once that the spiritual and intellectual formed the man; the physical was wholly subordinate, and must have been borne through its trials by the more essential elements of the individual, by the feu sacre which predominated in his disposition. Nor was this impression weakened by his conversation. Wisdom and piety were, as might be expected in such a man, its general tone; but there was a vivacity pervading it which indicated strong, buoyant, though well, it may be said very severely, disciplined animal spirits. Wit, too, was there, playful, pure, free from malice, and a certain quiet Cervantic humor, full of benignity, would often enliven and illustrate what he had to say on purely temporal affairs. His conversation was thus both very able and remarkably pleasing.’”

His reputation had extended through the whole of India, and he was held in the highest esteem even by eminent Buddhists, as may be seen in the following letter addressed to him by his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Siam, who subsequently became king:

.... “I put together with my box, comprising a few artificial flowers, two passion flower, one mogneyet, or surnamed flower, and three roses, manufactured by most celebrated princess the daughter of late second king, or sub-king, who was my royal uncle, for your memorial, but are, indeed, that I don’t know what would be in your necessity from me, beg to let me know without hesitation, I shall endeavor for your desire how my power would allow.

“If you desire to visit Siam some time, don’t come by land, as the strangers are prohibited to come by northern way from command of his majesty, and you would be tributed for coming by way of three pagodas, though traveling of strangers by it was allowed by political authority. It would be best if you embark on board the steamer for Singapore, and lodge little while at residence of my beloved friend Tan Tock Sing, whom I can request to comfort or make attention to you respectfully, and take passage by Siamese vessels that visit the Singapore almost every month to our country, and on your ascending and descending to and fro between this post and Singapore you need not expend any of your own, as I can pay or request the owners of ships for you if you let me be aware.

“Whenever do you please to send me packet or letters, or to certain of your friend herein, you shall send by sea to Singapore with the direction thus:

“To His Royal Highness, T. V. Chaufa Mongkut, of Bangkok, Siam. Kind care of Tan Tock Sing, of Singapore.

“If you have opportunity to send by land, you shall send by hand of Rahany messengers, or credible traveling trademen of the same, for care of my friend the Rahany chief governor, with Siamese characters in direction as follows [here is inserted the direction in Siamese], because there is none interpreter of English. I am not pleasing the Peguen, or Pegunese, or Mons messenger, who were dignified and appointed to visit Maulmein once for a year from our court, as they generally are proud in vain and ignorant of foreign custom, and wondering or surprising themselves that they are embassadors from the king improper to carry letters from others. I think if you commit your letter or pack to them, lest they might say or do any laughable.

“All white race at Bangkok, both clergymen and merchant, are well during time of cholera, as the missionaries were generally prevented themselves from filling of disease by using of drinking the dissolved mixture of calomel and opium with some spirit and oil put in water, and others by generally use of brandy.

“On the ninth day of the current month, eight of Roman Catholic French priests disputed away from Siamese kingdom, on account of disagreement with the king, for ordinance the annual taxes, which were ordained upon all inhabitants of district of Bangkok. You will hear exactly from letters, perhaps, of your friends. I have no time to write you more.

“I wrote you so long to fulfill your desire to hear from again as you had requested, in your addressed, as I am seeming to be, your curious but little as I was just studied of some way of English 4 years ago, commencing June, 1845, during one less of which I learned from mouth of my teacher, and on rest but by reading only.

To his fellow-missionaries his wide experience and affectionate disposition made him an invaluable adviser and friend. When they found themselves in trouble and sorrow they were sure to receive from his lips words of comfort and counsel. To Mrs. Moore, of Maulmain, who had lost her child, he wrote:

“Dear Sister: I do sympathize with you while suffering under the loss of your little babe. It is true that it breathed the breath of life a day or two only; but your heart—a mother’s heart—feels anguish never before conceived of; and as the coffin-lid shuts out the sweet face from your longing gaze, and bars all further maternal care, the tears you shed will be, O, so bitter!

“You need not my suggestion that God has done this thing in infinite wisdom and love. While, therefore, you mourn, be thankful. A part of yourself has gone before you to heaven. Yours is the early privilege of furnishing a little seraph to occupy its place in Paradise. There it will wait to welcome its mother’s arrival. The prayers you have frequently offered for the little creature will yet all be answered; the warm affections now apparently crushed in the bud will expand and bloom in heavenly glory; and every succeeding age of eternity will heighten your song of praise to God for making you the mother of a little immortal, and then, for some special purpose, bearing it away thus early to the grave, and to heaven.

And to his afflicted fellow-laborer, the Rev. Mr. Osgood, he sends these words of comfort:

“So the light in your dwelling has gone out, my poor brother, and it is all darkness there, only as you draw down by faith some faint gleams of the light of heaven; and coldness has gathered round your hearth-stone; your house is probably desolate, your children scattered, and you a homeless wanderer over the face of the land. We have both tasted of these bitter cups once and again; we have found them bitter, and we have found them sweet too. Every cup stirred by the finger of God becomes sweet to the humble believer. Do you remember how our late wives, and sister Stevens, and perhaps some others, used to cluster around the well-curb in the mission compound at the close of day? I can almost see them sitting there, with their smiling faces, as I look out of the window at which I am now writing. Where are ours now? Clustering around the well-curb of the fountain of living water, to which the Lamb of heaven shows them the way—reposing in the arms of infinite love, who wipes away all their tears with His own hand.

“Let us travel on and look up. We shall soon be there. As sure as I write or you read these lines, we shall soon be there. Many a weary step we may yet have to take, but we shall surely get there at last. And the longer and more tedious the way, the sweeter will be our repose.”

The great pressure of his public cares and other labors did not make him moody or absent-minded at home. His love for his children was deep and tender. To his daughter Abby, who was living at Bradford in the old homestead of the Hasseltine family, he wrote as follows:

.... “We are a deliciously happy family; but we think much of the three dear absent ones, and my tears frequently fall for your dear, dear mother in her lone bed at St. Helena. And any time I enter the burial-place here, I see the white gravestone of poor little black-eyed Charlie. Ah, we had to leave the poor little fellow to die in the arms of Mrs. Osgood. It was hard, but we could not help it. God’s will be done. He is now happy with his mother. If you should die, would you go to them too? O that I could hear of your and your brothers’ conversion!

“You can never know how much I want to see you, how much I think of you, how much I pray for you, always when I pray for myself. O my dear daughter, my motherless daughter, meet me at the throne of grace; meet me in the bosom of Jesus, and we shall live in His blessed presence on high, together with your dear mother, lost to us for a time, but not forever; whose spirit ever watches over you, and will rejoice with joy yet unfelt, when you turn to the Saviour and give your heart to Him.

Nor does he forget his boys who are pursuing their studies in Worcester:

“Is it possible that I have letters from you at last? I had waited so long that I began to think it would never be. And I am so glad to hear of your welfare, and especially that you have both been under religious impressions, and that Elnathan begins to entertain a hope in Christ! O, this is the most blessed news. Go on, my dear boys, and not rest until you have made your calling and election sure. I believe that you both and Abby Ann will become true Christians, and meet me in heaven; for I never pray without praying for your conversion, and I think I pray in faith. Go to school, attend to your studies, be good scholars, try to get a good education; but, O, heaven is all. Life, life, eternal life! Without this, without an interest in the Lord of life, you are lost, lost forever. Dear Adoniram, give your heart at once to the Saviour. Don’t go to sleep without doing it. Try, try for your life. Don’t mind what anybody may say to the contrary, nor how much foolish boys may laugh at you. Love the dear Saviour, who has loved you unto death. Dear sons, so soon as you have a good hope in Christ that your sins are pardoned, and that Christ loves you, urge your pastor and the church to baptize and receive you into communion. They will hold back, thinking you are too young, and must give more evidence. But don’t be discouraged. Push on. Determine to do it. Determine to stand by Christ, come what will. That is the way to get to heaven.... Will Elnathan tell me what little book it was that was so much blessed to him? I have forgotten what I sent him. I have sent you copies of your mother’s Memoir. You will be delighted to read it, so beautifully and so truthfully is it written. Ever love to cherish the memory of your own dear mother—how much she loved you to the last gasp—and prepare to follow her to heaven.

And the two little boys who formed a part of the family group at Maulmain, often found in their father an ardent companion in their play. One of them well remembers how his father used to come into his room in the morning and greet him upon his first awakening with a delicious piece of Burmese cake, or with the joyful tidings that a rat had been caught in a trap the night before! He wrote to Mr. Stevens in Rangoon:

“I have to hold a meeting with the rising generation every evening, and that takes time. Henry can say, ‘Twinkle, twinkle,’ all himself, and Edward can repeat it after his father! Giants of genius! paragons of erudition!”

On December 24, 1847, Emily Frances Judson was born at Maulmain. The happy mother addressed to her infant the following exquisite lines, which have been since treasured in so many hearts in many lands:

But dark shadows began to gather around the path of the missionary. Soon after the birth of Emily, Mrs. Judson’s health began to decline. Mr. Judson thus wrote to her friend, Miss Anable:

“A crushing weight is upon me. I can not resist the dreadful conviction that dear Emily is in a settled and rapid decline. For nearly a year after the birth of baby, she enjoyed pretty good health, and I flattered myself that she would be spared for many years. But three or four months ago her appetite almost entirely failed her. Soon after, baby was taken very ill, and in the midst of it our usual help left us, and she was obliged to undergo a great deal of severe fatigue; and I see now that she has been declining ever since. She soon became unable to take our usual walks, and I procured a pony for her, and she tried riding, but without any good effect. I next sent her to Tavoy in a steamer, on a visit to the missionaries there. She was gone ten days, and returned thinner in flesh and weaker than ever. I now take her out every morning in a chaise, and this is all the exercise she can bear. She is under the care of a very skilful doctor, who appears to be making every possible effort to save her; but the symptoms are such that I have scarcely any hope left. She is thinner than she has ever been; strength almost gone; no appetite; various pains in the region of the lungs; a dry cough, which has hung on pertinaciously for two or three months. She was preparing some ‘Notes,’ to append to the Memoir, but has been obliged to leave them unfinished, being unable to write, or even read, without aggravating her pains. I look around in despair. If a change to any place promised the least relief, I would go anywhere. But we are here in the healthiest part of India, and in the dry, warm season; and she suffers so much at sea that a voyage would hardly be recommended for itself. My only hope is, that the doctor declares that her lungs are not seriously affected, and that as soon as her system is fairly brought under the influence of the course of medicine he is pursuing—digitalis being a principal ingredient—there will be a favorable result. I shall dissuade her from writing by this month’s mail, though she has mentioned that she wants to write to you and her family. Nor does she know that I am writing to you. Her family I don’t want to distress at present. She may get better. But I suffer so much myself, that I felt it would be some relief to sit down and tell you all about it.... When she was at Tavoy, she made up her mind that she must die soon, and that is now her prevailing expectation; but she contemplates the event with composure and resignation. Within a few months she has grown much in devotional feelings, and in longing desires to be wholly conformed to the will of Christ. She had formerly some doubts about the genuineness of her early conversion, but they have all left her; and though she feels that in her circumstances prolonged life is exceedingly desirable, she is quite willing to leave all at the Saviour’s call. Praise be to God for His love to her.”

Little did he imagine while he cherished these doleful forebodings, that, in the journey through the valley of the shadow of death, he was to precede his wife by several years. In November, 1849, only a few months after he wrote the above lines, he was attacked by the disease, which, after a period of a little over four months, culminated in his death. One night, while sharing with Mrs. Judson the care of one of the children who had been taken suddenly ill, he caught a severe cold. This settled on his lungs and produced a terrible cough with some fever. After three or four days, he was attacked with dysentery, and before this was subdued a congestive fever set in, from which he never recovered. A trip down the coast of Mergui afforded only partial relief. He tried the sea air of Amherst, but only sank the more rapidly, and then hastened back to Maulmain. The following is his last communication to the Board:

“My dear Brother: I can not manage a pen; so please to excuse pencil. I have been prostrated with fever ever since the latter part of last November, and have suffered so much that I have frequently remarked that I was never ill in India before. Through the mercy of God, I think I am convalescent for the last ten days; but the doctor and all my friends are very urgent that I should take a sea voyage of a month or two, and be absent from this a long time. May God direct in the path of duty. My hand is failing; so I will beg to remain

His only hope now lay in a long sea voyage. He was never so happy as when upon the deep. The ocean breezes had never failed to invigorate him. But it was a sore trial to part with his wife and children when there was but little prospect of ever seeing them again. There was, however, no alternative. A French barque, the Aristide Marie, was to sail from Maulmain on the 3d of April. The dying missionary was carried on board by his weeping disciples, accompanied only by Mr. Ranney, of the Maulmain mission. There were unfortunate delays in going down the river; so that several days were lost. Meantime that precious life was ebbing rapidly away. It was not until Monday, the 8th, that the vessel got out to sea. Then came head winds and sultry weather, and after four days and nights of intense agony, Mr. Judson breathed his last on the 12th of April, and on the same day his body was buried in the sea. He died within a week from the time that he parted with his wife, and almost four months of terrible suspense elapsed before she learned of his death. The tidings were sent to her by the Rev. Dr. Mackay, a Scotch Presbyterian minister of Calcutta. Who can fathom her experience of suffering during those weary months of waiting! On the 22d of April, within three weeks of the time when she said farewell to her husband, exactly ten days after his body without her knowledge had found its resting-place in the sea, she gave birth to her second child, whom she named Charles, for her father. But the same day his little spirit, as though unwilling to linger amid such scenes of desolation, took its upward flight to be forever united with the parent who had entered the gates of Paradise only a little in advance. The same lyre that had echoed such glad music upon the birth of Emily, breathed the following soft, pensive strains of sorrow:

The following account of the closing scenes in Dr. Judson’s life was communicated to his sister by Mrs. Judson:

“My dear Sister: Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful bereavement, which, though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the account of your brother’s last days on board the Aristide Marie, in a letter written by Mr. Ranney, from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversations with Mr. Ranney and the Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so—that I was not permitted to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the pain which I at first felt is gradually yielding to gratitude for the inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.

“There was something exceedingly beautiful in the decline of your brother’s life—more beautiful than I can describe, though the impression will remain with me as a sacred legacy until I go to meet him where suns shall never set, and life shall never end. He had been, from my first acquaintance with him, an uncommonly spiritual Christian, exhibiting his richest graces in the unguarded intercourse of private life; but during his last year, it seemed as though the light of the world on which he was entering had been sent to brighten his upward pathway. Every subject on which we conversed, every book we read, every incident that occurred, whether trivial or important, had a tendency to suggest some peculiarly spiritual train of thought, till it seemed to me that, more than ever before, ‘Christ was all his theme.’ Something of the same nature was also noted in his preaching, to which I then had not the privilege of listening. He was in the habit, however, of studying his subject for the Sabbath, audibly, and in my presence, at which time he was frequently so much affected as to weep, and sometimes so overwhelmed with the vastness of his conceptions as to be obliged to abandon his theme and choose another. My own illness at the commencement of the year had brought eternity very near to us, and rendered death, the grave, and the bright heaven beyond it, familiar subjects of conversation. Gladly would I give you, my dear sister, some idea of the share borne by him in those memorable conversations; but it would be impossible to convey, even to those who knew him best, the most distant conception of them. I believe he has sometimes been thought eloquent, both in conversation and in the sacred desk; but the fervid, burning eloquence, the deep pathos, the touching tenderness, the elevation of thought, and intense beauty of expression, which characterized those private teachings, were not only beyond what I had ever heard before, but such as I felt sure arrested his own attention, and surprised even himself. About this time he began to find unusual satisfaction and enjoyment in his private devotions, and seemed to have new objects of interest continually rising in his mind, each of which in turn became special subjects of prayer. Among these, one of the most prominent was the conversion of his posterity. He remarked that he had always prayed for his children, but that of late he had felt impressed with the duty of praying for their children and their children’s children down to the latest generation. He also prayed most fervently that his impressions on this particular subject might be transferred to his sons and daughters, and thence to their offspring, so that he should ultimately meet a long, unbroken line of descendants before the throne of God, where all might join together in ascribing everlasting praises to their Redeemer.

“Another subject, which occupied a large share of his attention, was that of brotherly love. You are, perhaps, aware that, like all persons of his ardent temperament, he was subject to strong attachments and aversions, which he sometimes had difficulty in bringing under the controlling influence of divine grace. He remarked that he had always felt more or less of an affectionate interest in his brethren, as brethren, and some of them he had loved very dearly for their personal qualities; but he was now aware that he had never placed his standard of love high enough. He spoke of them as children of God, redeemed by the Saviour’s blood, watched over and guarded by His love, dear to His heart, honored by Him in the election, and to be honored hereafter before the assembled universe; and he said it was not sufficient to be kind and obliging to such, to abstain from evil speaking, and make a general mention of them in our prayers; but our attachment to them should be of the most ardent and exalted character; it would be so in heaven, and we lost immeasurably by not beginning now. ‘As I have loved you, so ought ye also to love one another,’ was a precept continually in his mind, and he would often murmur, as though unconsciously, ‘“As I have loved you,”—“as I have loved you,”’—then burst out with the exclamation, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’

“His prayers for the mission were marked by an earnest, grateful enthusiasm, and in speaking of missionary operations in general, his tone was one of elevated triumph, almost of exultation; for he not only felt an unshaken confidence in their final success, but would often exclaim, ‘What wonders—O, what wonders God has already wrought!’

“I remarked that during this year his literary labor, which he had never liked, and upon which he had entered unwillingly and from a feeling of necessity, was growing daily more irksome to him; and he always spoke of it as his ‘heavy work,’ his ‘tedious work,’ ‘that wearisome dictionary,’ etc., though this feeling led to no relaxation of effort. He longed, however, to find some more spiritual employment, to be engaged in what he considered more legitimate missionary labor, and drew delightful pictures of the future, when his whole business would be but to preach and to pray.

“During all this time I had not observed any failure in physical strength; and though his mental exercises occupied a large share of my thoughts when alone, it never once occurred to me that this might be the brightening of the setting sun; my only feeling was that of pleasure, that one so near to me was becoming so pure and elevated in his sentiments, and so lovely and Christ-like in his character. In person he had grown somewhat stouter than when in America; his complexion had a healthful hue, compared with that of his associates generally; and though by no means a person of uniformly firm health, he seemed to possess such vigor and strength of constitution, that I thought his life as likely to be extended twenty years longer, as that of any member of the mission. He continued his system of morning exercise, commenced when a student at Andover, and was not satisfied with a common walk on level ground, but always chose an up-hill path, and then frequently went bounding on his way with all the exuberant activity of boyhood.

“He was of a singularly happy temperament, although not of that even cast which never rises above a certain level, and is never depressed. Possessing acute sensibilities, suffering with those who suffered, and entering as readily into the joys of the prosperous and happy, he was variable in his moods; but religion formed such an essential element in his character, and his trust in Providence was so implicit and habitual, that he was never gloomy, and seldom more than momentarily disheartened. On the other hand, being accustomed to regard all the events of this life, however minute or painful, as ordered in wisdom, and tending to one great and glorious end, he lived in almost constant obedience to the apostolic injunction, ‘Rejoice evermore!’ He often told me that although he had endured much personal suffering, and passed through many fearful trials in the course of his eventful life, a kind Providence had also hedged him round with precious, peculiar blessings, so that his joys had far outnumbered his sorrows.

“Toward the close of September of last year, he said to me one evening, ‘What deep cause have we for gratitude to God! Do you believe there are any other two persons in the wide world so happy as we are?’ enumerating, in his own earnest manner, several sources of happiness, in which our work as missionaries, and our eternal prospects, occupied a prominent position. When he had finished his glowing picture, I remarked—I scarcely know why, but there was a heavy cloud upon my spirits that evening—‘We are certainly very happy now, but it can not be so always. I am thinking of the time when one of us must stand beside the bed, and see the other die.’

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that will be a sad moment; I felt it most deeply a little while ago, but now it would not be strange if your life were prolonged beyond mine—though I should wish, if it were possible, to spare you that pain. It is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ. If it should only be the will of God that we might go together, like young James and his wife! But He will order all things well, and we can safely trust our future to His hands.’

“That same night we were roused from sleep by the sudden illness of one of the children. There was an unpleasant, chilling dampness in the air, as it came to us through the openings in the sloats above the windows, which affected your brother very sensibly; and he soon began to shiver so violently that he was obliged to return to his couch, where he remained under a warm covering until morning. In the morning he awoke with a severe cold, accompanied by some degree of fever; but as it did not seem very serious, and our three children were all suffering from a similar cause, we failed to give it any especial attention. From that time he was never well, though in writing to you before, I think I dated the commencement of his illness from the month of November, when he laid aside his studies. I know that he regarded this attack as trifling; and yet one evening he spent a long time in advising me with regard to my future course, if I should be deprived of his guidance, saying that it is always wise to be prepared for exigencies of this nature. After the month of November, he failed gradually, occasionally rallying in such a manner as to deceive us all, but at each relapse sinking lower than at the previous one, though still full of hope and courage, and yielding ground only inch by inch, as compelled by the triumphant progress of disease. During some hours of every day he suffered intense pain; but his naturally buoyant spirits and uncomplaining disposition led him to speak so lightly of it, that I used sometimes to fear that the doctor, though a very skilful man, would be fatally deceived.

“As his health declined, his mental exercises at first seemed deepened; and he gave still larger portions of his time to prayer, conversing with the utmost freedom on his daily progress, and the extent of his self-conquest. Just before our trip to Mergui, which took place in January, he looked up from his pillow one day with sudden animation, and said to me earnestly, ‘I have gained the victory at last. I love every one of Christ’s redeemed, as I believe He would have me love them—in the same manner, though not probably to the same degree, as we shall love one another in heaven; and gladly would I prefer the meanest of His creatures, who bears His name, before myself.’ This he said in allusion to the text, ‘In honor preferring one another,’ on which he had frequently dwelt with great emphasis. After further similar conversation, he concluded: ‘And now here I lie at peace with all the world, and what is better still, at peace with my own conscience. I know that I am a miserable sinner in the sight of God, with no hope but in the blessed Saviour’s merits; but I can not think of any particular fault, any peculiarly besetting sin, which it is now my duty to correct. Can you tell me of any?’

“And truly, from this time no other word would so well express his state of feeling as that one of his own choosing—peace. He had no particular exercises afterward, but remained calm and serene, speaking of himself daily as a great sinner, who had been overwhelmed with benefits, and declaring that he had never in all his life before had such delightful views of the unfathomable love and infinite condescension of the Saviour as were now daily opening before him. ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’ he would suddenly exclaim, while his eye kindled, and the tears chased each other down his cheeks; ‘we can not understand it now—but what a beautiful study for eternity!’

“After our return from Mergui, the doctor advised a still further trial of the effects of sea air and sea bathing; and we accordingly proceeded to Amherst, where we remained nearly a month. This to me was the darkest period of his illness—no medical adviser, no friend, at hand, and he daily growing weaker and weaker. He began to totter in walking, clinging to the furniture and walls, when he thought he was unobserved (for he was not willing to acknowledge the extent of his debility), and his wan face was of a ghastly paleness. His sufferings, too, were sometimes fearfully intense, so that, in spite of his habitual self-control, his groans would fill the house. At other times a kind of lethargy seemed to steal over him, and he would sleep almost incessantly for twenty-four hours, seeming annoyed if he were aroused or disturbed. Yet there were portions of the time when he was comparatively comfortable, and conversed intelligently; but his mind seemed to revert to former scenes, and he tried to amuse me with stories of his boyhood, his college days, his imprisonment in France, and his early missionary life. He had a great deal also to say on his favorite theme, ‘the love of Christ’; but his strength was too much impaired for any continuous mental effort. Even a short prayer, made audibly, exhausted him to such a degree that he was obliged to discontinue the practice.

“At length I wrote to Maulmain, giving some expression of my anxieties and misgivings, and our kind missionary friends, who had from the first evinced all the tender interest and watchful sympathy of the nearest kindred, immediately sent for us—the doctor advising a sea voyage. But as there was no vessel in the harbor bound for a port sufficiently distant, we thought it best, in the meantime, to remove from our old dwelling, which had long been condemned as unhealthy, to another mission-house, fortunately empty. This change was, at first, attended with the most beneficial results; and our hopes revived so much, that we looked forward to the approaching rainy season for entire restoration. But it lasted only a little while; and then both of us became convinced that, though a voyage at sea involved much that was exceedingly painful, it yet presented the only prospect of recovery, and could not, therefore, without a breach of duty, be neglected.

“‘O, if it were only the will of God to take me now—to let me die here!’ he repeated over and over again, in a tone of anguish, while we were considering the subject. ‘I can not, can not go! This is almost more than I can bear! Was there ever suffering like our suffering?’ and the like broken expressions, were continually falling from his lips. But he soon gathered more strength of purpose; and after the decision was fairly made, he never hesitated for a moment, rather regarding the prospect with pleasure. I think the struggle which this resolution cost injured him very materially; though probably it had no share in bringing about the final result. God, who saw the end from the beginning, had counted out his days, and they were hastening to a close. Until this time he had been able to stand, and to walk slowly from room to room; but as he one evening attempted to rise from his chair, he was suddenly deprived of his small remnant of muscular strength, and would have fallen to the floor but for timely support.

“From that moment his decline was rapid. As he lay helplessly upon his couch, and watched the swelling of his feet, and other alarming symptoms, he became very anxious to commence his voyage, and I felt equally anxious to have his wishes gratified. I still hoped he might recover; the doctor said the chances of life and death were, in his opinion, equally balanced. And then he always loved the sea so dearly! There was something exhilarating to him in the motion of a vessel, and he spoke with animation of getting free from the almost suffocating atmosphere incident to the hot season, and drinking in the fresh sea breezes. He talked but little more, however, than was necessary to indicate his wants, his bodily sufferings being too great to allow of conversation; but several times he looked up to me with a bright smile, and exclaimed, as heretofore, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’

“I found it difficult to ascertain, from expressions casually dropped from time to time, his real opinion with regard to his recovery; but I thought there was some reason to doubt whether he was fully aware of his critical situation. I did not suppose he had any preparation to make at this late hour, and I felt sure that, if he should be called ever so unexpectedly, he would not enter the presence of his Maker with a ruffled spirit; but I could not bear to have him go away without knowing how doubtful it was whether our next meeting would not be in eternity; and perhaps, too, in my own distress, I might still have looked for words of encouragement and sympathy to a source which had never before failed.

“It was late in the night, and I had been performing some little sick-room offices, when suddenly he looked up to me, and exclaimed, ‘This will never do! You are killing yourself for me, and I will not permit it. You must have some one to relieve you. If I had not been made selfish by suffering, I should have insisted upon it long ago.’

“He spoke so like himself, with the earnestness of health, and in a tone to which my ear had of late been a stranger, that for a moment I felt almost bewildered with sudden hope. He received my reply to what he had said with a half-pitying, half-gratified smile; but in the meantime his expression had changed—the marks of excessive debility were again apparent, and I could not forbear adding, ‘It is only a little while, you know.’

“‘Only a little while,’ he repeated mournfully; ‘this separation is a bitter thing, but it does not distress me now as it did—I am too weak.’ ‘You have no reason to be distressed,’ I answered, ‘with such glorious prospects before you. You have often told me it is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ.’ He gave me a rapid, questioning glance, then assumed for several moments an attitude of deep thought. Finally, he slowly unclosed his eyes, and fixing them on me, said in a calm, earnest tone, ‘I do not believe I am going to die. I think I know why this illness has been sent upon me; I needed it; I feel that it has done me good; and it is my impression that I shall now recover, and be a better and more useful man.’

“‘Then it is your wish to recover?’ I inquired. ‘If it should be the will of God, yes. I should like to complete the dictionary, on which I have bestowed so much labor, now that it is so nearly done; for though it has not been a work that pleased my taste, or quite satisfied my feelings, I have never underrated its importance. Then after that come all the plans that we have formed. O, I feel as if I were only just beginning to be prepared for usefulness.’

“‘It is the opinion of most of the mission,’ I remarked, ‘that you will not recover.’ ‘I know it is,’ he replied; ‘and I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials. But I am not old—at least in that sense; you know I am not. O, no man ever left this world, with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes or warmer feelings—warmer feelings,’ he repeated, and burst into tears. His face was perfectly placid, even while the tears broke away from the closed lids, and rolled, one after another, down to the pillow. There was no trace of agitation or pain in his manner of weeping, but it was evidently the result of acute sensibilities, combined with great physical weakness. To some suggestions which I ventured to make, he replied: ‘It is not that—I know all that, and feel it in my inmost heart. Lying here on my bed, when I could not talk, I have had such views of the loving condescension of Christ, and the glories of heaven, as I believe are seldom granted to mortal man. It is not because I shrink from death that I wish to live, neither is it because the ties that bind me here, though some of them are very sweet, bear any comparison with the drawings I at times feel toward heaven; but a few years would not be missed from my eternity of bliss, and I can well afford to spare them, both for your sake and for the sake of the poor Burmans. I am not tired of my work, neither am I tired of the world; yet when Christ calls me home, I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from his school. Perhaps I feel something like the young bride, when she contemplates resigning the pleasant associations of her childhood for a yet dearer home—though only a very little like her, for there is no doubt resting on my future.’ ‘Then death would not take you by surprise,’ I remarked, ‘if it should come even before you could get on board ship?’ ‘O, no,’ he said, ‘death will never take me by surprise—do not be afraid of that—I feel so strong in Christ. He has not led me so tenderly thus far, to forsake me at the very gate of heaven. No, no; I am willing to live a few years longer, if it should be so ordered; and if otherwise, I am willing and glad to die now. I leave myself entirely in the hands of God, to be disposed of according to His holy will.’

“The next day some one mentioned, in his presence, that the native Christians were greatly opposed to the voyage, and that many other persons had a similar feeling with regard to it. I thought he seemed troubled, and after the visitor had withdrawn, I inquired if he still felt as when he conversed with me the night previous. He replied, ‘O, yes; that was no evanescent feeling. It has been with me, to a greater or less extent, for years, and will be with me, I trust, to the end. I am ready to go to-day—if it should be the will of God, this very hour; but I am not anxious to die; at least when I am not beside myself with pain.’

“‘Then why are you so desirous to go to sea? I should think it would be a matter of indifference to you.’ ‘No,’ he answered quietly, ‘my judgment tells me it would be wrong not to go; the doctor says criminal. I shall certainly die here; if I go away I may possibly recover. There is no question with regard to duty in such a case; and I do not like to see any hesitation, even though it springs from affection.’

“He several times spoke of a burial at sea, and always as though the prospect were agreeable. It brought, he said, a sense of freedom and expansion, and seemed far pleasanter than the confined, dark, narrow grave, to which he had committed so many that he loved. And he added, that although his burial-place was a matter of no real importance, yet he believed it was not in human nature to be altogether without a choice.

“I have already given you an account of the embarkation, of my visits to him while the vessel remained in the river, and of our last sad, silent parting; and Mr. Ranney has finished the picture. You will find, in this closing part, some dark shadows that will give you pain; but you must remember that his present felicity is enhanced by those very sufferings; and we should regret nothing that serves to brighten his crown in glory. I ought also to add, that I have gained pleasanter impressions in conversation with Mr. Ranney than from his written account; but it would be difficult to convey them to you; and, as he whom they concern was accustomed to say of similar things, ‘you will learn it all in heaven.’

“During the last hour of your sainted brother’s life, Mr. Ranney bent over him, and held his hand, while poor Panapah stood at a little distance weeping bitterly. The table had been spread in the cuddy, as usual, and the officers did not know what was passing in the cabin, till summoned to dinner. Then they gathered about the door, and watched the closing scene with solemn reverence. Now—thanks to a merciful God!—his pains had left him; not a momentary spasm disturbed his placid face, nor did the contraction of a muscle denote the least degree of suffering; the agony of death was passed, and his wearied spirit was turning to its rest in the bosom of the Saviour. From time to time he pressed the hand in which his own was resting, his clasp losing in force at each successive pressure; while his shortened breath—though there was no struggle, no gasping, as if it came and went with difficulty—gradually grew softer and fainter, until it died upon the air—and he was gone. Mr. Ranney closed the eyes, and composed the passive limbs; the ship’s officers stole softly from the door, and the neglected meal was left upon the board untasted.

Of these days, Mr. Ranney thus wrote to the Corresponding Secretary:

“Dr. Judson was carried on board the French barque Aristide Marie, bound for the Isle of Bourbon, with the reluctant assent of his friends, his physician having recommended such a voyage as the only possible means of restoration. It being desirable to get to sea as soon as practicable, application was made to the commissioner of the provinces, to permit the barque to be towed out of the river by the steamer Proserpine, which was that morning to proceed southward with troops. Permission was granted, and on Wednesday, April 3, by the kindness of Captain Lawford, commandant of artillery, a palanquin and bearers took Dr. Judson, then too weak to stand, and carried him on board. There they learned, with surprise and sorrow, that the steamer would not take them in tow. The commander of the troops claimed that, while employed as a military transport, the vessel was not subject to the commissioner’s order, and on the ground that it might endanger the lives of the soldiers, declined to comply with it. The consequence of this collision of authorities was, that, instead of getting to sea in twenty-four hours, they were five days in reaching Amherst, and it was six days before the pilot left the vessel. How much was thus lost it is impossible to conjecture.

“The delay permitted Mrs. Judson (who would gladly have accompanied her husband, though at the hazard of her life, if he had consented), and Mr. Stilson, and Mr. and Mrs. Stevens to visit him repeatedly, and minister to his comfort. He bore the fatigue of embarkation very well, and on Thursday took more refreshment than for several days previous. This gave hope of a favorable change; but on Friday he was not as well, and his two Burmese assistants, Ko En and Ko Shway Doke, disciples of many years’ standing, who remained on board till the pilot left the vessel, requested that he might be taken back to Maulmain. They were confident he was near his end, and could not endure the thought of his burial in the ocean; they wanted his grave to be made where they and the other disciples could look upon it. But any attempt to do this would have proved fatal, and there was no choice but to fulfil their original purpose, Mr. Stilson reminding the affectionate disciples of the death and unknown burial-place of Moses.

“On Saturday he was perceptibly weaker. Such was his pain that he said he would willingly die if he could. On Sunday, being more calm and free from pain, he conversed freely and more at length than he had been able to do, describing somewhat minutely the causes of his pain. He said that no one could conceive the intensity of his sufferings. Death would have been a glad relief. The idea of death caused no peculiar emotion of either fear or transport. His mind was so affected by suffering that he could not think, or even pray. Nay, he could not think of his wife and family. He had bitter sorrow in parting with them at first; but in Mrs. Judson’s subsequent visit, speech had been almost denied him; and when they parted the day before, perhaps the last time on earth, it was without a word, and almost without a thought, so entirely had pain absorbed every faculty. Yet he felt he had nothing to complain of. He knew it was the will of God, and therefore right. Alluding to the swelling of his feet, he said: ‘The natives are frightened when they see this. They regard it as a sure sign of approaching death; but I do not. I have talked with the doctor about this, and have myself remarked, at different times, the swelling and subsiding. I still feel that there is so much of life in me that I shall recover.’

“On Monday, the 6th, at half-past three o’clock P.M., the pilot, with the two assistants above named, and Moung Shway-moung, of the Amherst church, left the ship. At the request of Dr. Judson, Mr. Ranney wrote to Mrs. Judson his opinion of himself, that ‘he went out to sea with a strong feeling that he should recover.’ But on the same day the violence of his pains returned, and his left side was swollen much, from which he gained partial relief. On Tuesday morning, the Tenasserim coast being yet visible, they enjoyed a fresh and invigorating breeze; but a violent thunder-storm came on, followed by a calm. For a short time Dr. Judson suffered less pain; but a hiccough increased upon him. He said, ‘This hiccough is killing me; can you think of anything to do for it?’ He afterward slept considerably, and took some slight refreshment; but in the afternoon a new symptom appeared, which continued to the last—frequent vomiting and an inability to retain anything upon his stomach.

“During the night and the next day the weather was exceedingly hot. Dr. Judson refused all nourishment, and inclined to sleep, probably on account of the laudanum and ether administered. He said he should weary them but little longer. The captain gave several prescriptions without effect; on which he said, ‘It is of but little consequence. I do not wish any one to think I died because all was not done that could be done for me. Medicine is of no use. The disease will take its course.’ While suffering the acute pain which invariably preceded vomiting, he said, ‘O that I could die at once, and go immediately into Paradise, where there is no pain.’

“On the evening of Wednesday, as Mr. Ranney was sitting by his bedside, he said, ‘I am glad you are here. I do not feel so abandoned. You are my only kindred now—the only one on board who loves Christ, I mean; and it is a great comfort to have one near me who loves Christ.’ ‘I hope,’ said Mr. Ranney, ‘you feel that Christ is now near, sustaining you.’ ‘O, yes,’ he replied, ‘it is all right there. I believe He gives me just so much pain and suffering as is necessary to fit me to die—to make me submissive to His will.’ The captain—who spoke but little English, but took unwearied pains to make himself understood by a frequent resort to a French and English dictionary, and was a pattern of kindness and benevolence—offered another prescription; but Dr. Judson thanked him, and declined. He spoke of the invigorating influence of the wind, and expressed a fear that they would lose it during the night; which proved true. After midnight there was a dead calm, and a very oppressive atmosphere. At two o’clock his breathing became very difficult; but afterward he breathed more freely.

“On Thursday morning his eyes had a dull appearance, remained half-closed while sleeping, and seemed glassy and death-like. His stomach rejected all refreshment. At ten and twelve o’clock he took some ether, which he said did him good. After vomiting, with the suffering which preceded it, he said, ‘O, how few there are who suffer such great torment—who die so hard!’ During all the night his sufferings increased, so that it was inexpressibly painful to behold his agony—sometimes calling for water, which gave relief only while he was drinking it, to be followed by the pain of ejecting it. At midnight he said his fever had returned. His extremities were cold, his head hot. It was the fever of death. His weakness was such that he now seldom spoke, except to indicate some want, which he more frequently did by signs.

“During the forenoon of Friday, the 12th, his countenance was that of a dying man. About noon he showed some aberration of mind; but it was only transient. At three o’clock he said, in Burman, to Panapah, a native servant, ‘It is done; I am going.’ Shortly after, he made a sign with his hand downward, which was not understood; drawing Mr. Ranney’s ear close to his mouth, he said, convulsively, ‘Brother Ranney, will you bury me? bury me?—quick! quick!’ These words were prompted, perhaps, by the thought of burial in the sea crossing his mind. Mr. Ranney here being called out for a moment, Dr. Judson spoke to the servant in English, and also in Burman, of Mrs. Judson, bidding him ‘take care of poor mistress’; and at fifteen minutes past four o’clock he breathed his last. ‘His death,’ says Mr. Ranney, ‘was like falling asleep. Not the movement of a muscle was perceptible, and the moment of the going out of life was indicated only by his ceasing to breathe. A gentle pressure of the hand, growing more and more feeble as life waned, showed the peacefulness of the spirit about to take its homeward flight.’

“It was first determined to keep the body until Saturday for burial; but Mr. Ranney was admonished of the necessity of immediate preparations. A strong plank coffin was soon constructed; several buckets of sand were poured in to make it sink; and at eight o’clock in the evening the crew assembled, the larboard port was opened, and in perfect silence, broken only by the voice of the captain, all that was mortal of Dr. Judson was committed to the deep, in latitude thirteen degrees north, longitude ninety-three degrees east, nine days after their embarkation from Maulmain, and scarcely three days out of sight of the mountains of Burmah.”

MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY.

From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853.

The record of these last days may be fittingly closed, by a poem written by Mrs. Judson after her husband’s departure from Maulmain:

. About twenty-five dollars.

. Now the wife of the Rev. T. A. T. Hanna, of Plantsville, Conn.

. “There is nothing outside of inspiration more touchingly and sublimely beautiful; nothing which, in its blending of the gushing tenderness of the man, with the hallowed raptures of the saint, gives a juster conception of the real elements of heaven.”—Dr. Kendrick’s “Life and Letters of Emily C. Judson.”

. Mr. Judson’s departure caused the deepest sorrow among the disciples whom he left behind. The following story is told concerning Ko Dwah, one of the deacons in the native church at Maulmain: “This man was devotedly attached to Dr. Judson. Both were taken sick at nearly the same time, so that during their illness they met but once, and the old deacon could not, with the other disciples, accompany the dying pastor to the wharf. As soon as Dr. Judson removed, the house which he occupied, and which had long been condemned by Dr. Morton for its unhealthiness, was removed. Ko Dwah was not aware of the circumstance, though living in the vicinity, until the spot was left bare. He then insisted upon leaving his bed to look upon the ruin. He hobbled on his staff across the road, ascended the chapel steps with great difficulty, and then sitting down, rested his chin on his palms, and burst into a loud, wild sort of lamentation, like the wailing at a funeral. Neither mind nor body ever recovered from the shock, though he lingered on for some time longer.”

↑ Back to top