CHAPTER VII

CAWNPORE, 1809-1810

Mrs. Sherwood, known in the first decade of this century as a writer

of such Anglo-Indian tales as _Little Henry and his Bearer_, and as a

philanthropist who did much for the white and the dark orphans of

British soldiers in India, was one of the many who came under the

influence of Henry Martyn. This Lichfield girl, whose father had been

the playmate of Samuel Johnson, and who had known Garrick and Dr.

Darwin, Hannah More and Maria Edgeworth, had married her cousin, the

paymaster of the King's 53rd Regiment of Foot. The regiment was sent

to Bengal. On its way up the Hoogli from Calcutta in boats, Mr.

Sherwood and his wife were walking after sunset, when they stumbled on

'a small society' of their own men, who met regularly to read their

Bibles and to pray, often in old stores, ravines, woods, and other

retired places. 'The very existence of any person in the barracks who

had the smallest notion of the importance of religion was quite

unsuspected by me,' writes Mrs. Sherwood in her Autobiography.[32] 'I

am not severe when I assert that at that time there really was not one

in the higher ranks in the regiment who had courage enough to come

forward and say, "I think it right, in this distant land, to do, as

it regards religion, what I have been accustomed to do at home."' At

Berhampore, the chaplain, Mr. Parson, began that good work in the 53rd

which Martyn and Corrie afterwards carried on. When it continued the

voyage up the Ganges, after a season, by Dinapore to Cawnpore, Mr.

Parson gave the Sherwoods a letter of introduction to Martyn, then

about to leave Dinapore. To this fact we owe the fullest and the

brightest glimpses that we get of Henry Martyn, from the outside, all

through his career. We are enabled to supplement the abasing

self-revelation of his nature before God, as recorded in his

_Journal_, by the picture of his daily life, drawn by a woman of keen

sympathy and some shrewdness.

The moment the boat anchored at Dinapore Mr. Sherwood set out on foot

to present his letter. He found the chaplain in the smaller square, at

some distance, in a 'sort of church-like abode with little furniture,

the rooms wide and high, with many vast doorways, having their green

jalousied doors, and long verandahs encompassing two sides of the

quarters.'

Mr. Martyn received Mr. Sherwood not as a stranger, but as a

brother,--the child of the same father. As the sun was already

low, he must needs walk back with him to see me. I perfectly

remember the figure of that simple-hearted and holy young man,

when he entered our budgerow. He was dressed in white, and

looked very pale, which, however, was nothing singular in India;

his hair, a light brown, was raised from his forehead, which was

a remarkably fine one. His features were not regular, but the

expression was so luminous, so intellectual, so affectionate, so

beaming with Divine charity, that no one could have looked at

his features, and thought of their shape or form,--the

out-beaming of his soul would absorb the attention of every

observer. There was a very decided air, too, of the gentleman

about Mr. Martyn, and a perfection of manners which, from his

extreme attention to all minute civilities, might seem almost

inconsistent with the general bent of his thoughts to the most

serious subjects. He was as remarkable for ease as for

cheerfulness, and in these particulars his _Journal_ does not

give a graphic account of this blessed child of God. I was much

pleased at the first sight of Mr. Martyn. I had heard much of

him from Mr. Parson; but I had no anticipation of his hereafter

becoming so distinguished as he subsequently did. And if I

anticipated it little, he, I am sure, anticipated it less; for

he was one of the humblest of men.

Mr. Martyn invited us to visit him at his quarters at Dinapore,

and we agreed to accept his invitation the next day. Mr.

Martyn's house was destitute of every comfort, though he had

multitudes of people about him. I had been troubled with a pain

in my face, and there was not such a thing as a pillow in the

house. I could not find anything to lay my head on at night but

a bolster stuffed as hard as a pin-cushion. We had not, as is

usual in India, brought our own bedding from the boats. Our kind

friend had given us his own room; but I could get no rest during

the two nights of my remaining there, from the pain in my face,

which was irritated by the bolster; but during each day,

however, there was much for the mind to feed upon with delight.

After breakfast Mr. Martyn had family prayers, which he

commenced by singing a hymn. He had a rich, deep voice, and a

fine taste for vocal music. After singing, he read a chapter,

explained parts of it, and prayed extempore. Afterwards he

withdrew to his studies and translations. The evening was

finished with another hymn, Scripture reading, and prayers. The

conversion of the natives and the building up of the kingdom of

Christ were the great objects for which alone that child of God

seemed to exist.

He believed that he saw the glimmering of this day in the

exertions then making in Europe for the diffusion of the

Scriptures and the sending forth of missionaries. Influenced by

the belief that man's ministry was the instrumentality which, by

the Holy Spirit, would be made effectual to the work, we found

him labouring beyond his strength, and doing all in his power to

excite other persons to use the same exertions.

Henry Martyn was one of the very few persons whom I have ever

met who appeared never to be drawn away from one leading and

prevailing object of interest, and that object was the promotion

of religion. He did not appear like one who felt the necessity

of contending with the world, and denying himself its delights,

but rather as one who was unconscious of the existence of any

attractions in the world, or of any delights which were worthy

of his notice. When he relaxed from his labours in the presence

of his friends, it was to play and laugh like an innocent, happy

child, more especially if children were present to play and

laugh with him. In my Indian Journal I find this remark: 'Mr.

Martyn is one of the most pleasing, mild, and heavenly-minded

men, walking in this turbulent world with peace in his mind, and

charity in his heart.'

As the regiment was passing Chunar, after a night in 'the polluted

air' of Benares, the Sherwoods were met by a boat with fresh bread and

vegetables from Corrie. On their arrival at Cawnpore, Mrs. Sherwood at

once opened two classes for the 'great boys' and 'elder girls.' Many

of the former died in a few years, and not a few of the latter married

officers above their own birth. Such were the conditions of military

life in India at that time, notwithstanding the Calcutta Orphan

Schools which David Brown had first gone out to India to organise; for

Henry Lawrence and his noble wife, Honoria, with their Military Orphan

Asylums in the hills, belonged to a later generation.

When first ordered to Cawnpore, in the hottest months of 1809, Henry

Martyn resolved to apply to the Military Board for permission to delay

his departure till the rainy season. But, though even then wasted by

consumption and ceaseless toil, and tempted to spend the dreary months

with the beloved Corrie at Chunar, as he might well have done under

the customary rules, he could not linger when duty called. Had he not

resolved to 'burn out' his life? So, deluding himself by the intention

to 'stay a little longer to recruit' at Chunar, should he suffer from

the heat, he set off in the middle of April in a palanquin by Arrah,

afterwards the scene of a heroic defence in the great Mutiny; Buxar,

where a battle had been fought not long before, and Ghazipore, seat of

the opium manufacture, like Patna. Sabat was sent on in a budgerow,

with his wife Ameena and the baggage. This is Martyn's account, to

Brown, of the voyage above Chunar:

Cawnpore: May 3, 1809.

I transported myself with such rapidity to this place that I had

nearly transported myself out of the world. From Dinapore to

Chunar all was well, but from Allahabad to that place I was

obliged to travel two days and nights without intermission, the

hot winds blowing like fire from a furnace. Two days after my

arrival the fever which had been kindling in my blood broke out,

and last night I fainted repeatedly. But a gracious God has

again interposed to save my life; to-day I feel well again.

Where Sabat is I do not know. I have heard nothing of him since

leaving Dinapore. Corrie is well, but it is grievous to see him

chained to a rock with a few half-dead invalids, when so many

stations--amongst others, the one I have left--are destitute....

I do not like this place at all. There is no church, not so much

as the fly of a tent; what to do I know not except to address

Lord Minto in a private letter. Mr. (Charles) Grant, who is

anxious that we should labour principally for the present among

the Europeans, ought, I think, to help us with a house. I mean

to write to Mr. Simeon about this.

I feel a little uncomfortable at being so much farther removed

from Calcutta. At Dinapore I had friends on both sides of me,

and correspondence with you was quick: here I seem cut off from

the world. Alas! how dependent is my heart upon the creature

still. I am ordered to seal up.--Yours affectionately ever,

H. MARTYN.

This is Mrs. Sherwood's description of his arrival:

On May 30 the Rev. Henry Martyn arrived at our bungalow. The

former chaplain had proceeded to the presidency, and we were so

highly favoured as to have Mr. Martyn appointed in his place. I

am not aware whether we expected him, but certainly not at the

time when he did appear. It was in the morning, and we were

situated as above described, the desert winds blowing like fire

without, when we suddenly heard the quick steps of many bearers.

Mr. Sherwood ran out to the leeward of the house, and exclaimed,

'Mr. Martyn!' The next moment I saw him leading in that

excellent man, and saw our visitor, a moment afterwards, fall

down in a fainting fit. He had travelled in a palanquin from

Dinapore, and the first part of the way he moved only by night.

But between Cawnpore and Allahabad, being a hundred and thirty

miles, there is no resting-place, and he was compelled for two

days and two nights to journey on in his palanquin, exposed to

the raging heat of a fiery wind. He arrived, therefore, quite

exhausted, and actually under the influence of fever. There was

not another family in Cawnpore except ours to which he could

have gone with pleasure; not because any family would have

denied shelter to a countryman in such a condition, but, alas!

they were only Christians in name. In his fainting state Mr.

Martyn could not have retired to the sleeping-room which we

caused to be prepared immediately for him, because we had no

means of cooling any sleeping-room so thoroughly as we could the

hall. We, therefore, had a couch set for him in the hall. There

he was laid, and very ill he was for a day or two. The hot winds

left us, and we had a close, suffocating calm. Mr. Martyn could

not lift his head from the couch. In our bungalow, when shut up

as close as it could be, we could not get the thermometer under

96°, though the punkah was constantly going. When Mr. Martyn got

a little better he became very cheerful, and seemed quite happy

with us all about him. He commonly lay on his couch in the hall

during the morning, with many books near to his hand, and

amongst these always a Hebrew Bible and a Greek Testament. Soon,

very soon, he began to talk to me of what was passing in his

mind, calling to me at my table to tell me his thoughts. He was

studying the Hebrew characters, having an idea, which I believe

is not a new one, that these characters contain the elements of

all things, though I have reason to suppose he could not make

them out at all to his satisfaction; but whenever anything

occurred to him he must needs make it known to me.

He was much engaged also with another subject, into which I was

more capable of entering. It was his opinion that, if the Hindus

could be persuaded that all nations are made of one blood, to

dwell upon the face of the earth, and if they could be shown how

each nation is connected by its descent from the sons and

grandsons of Noah with other nations existing upon the globe, it

would be a means of breaking down, or at least of loosening,

that wall of separation which they have set up between

themselves and all other people. With this view Mr. Martyn was

endeavouring to trace up the various leading families of the

earth to their great progenitors; and so much pleased was I

with what he said on this subject, that I immediately committed

all I could remember to paper, and founded thereupon a system of

historical instruction which I ever afterwards used with my

children. Mr. Martyn, like myself at this time, was often

perplexed and dismayed at the workings of his own heart, yet,

perhaps, not discerning a hundredth part of the depth of the

depravity of his own nature, the character of which is summed up

in Holy Writ in these two words--'utterly unclean.' He felt this

the more strongly because he partook also of that new nature

'which sinneth not.' It was in the workings and actings of that

nature that his character shone so pre-eminently as it did amid

a dark and unbelieving society, such as was ours then at

Cawnpore.

In a very few days he had discerned the sweet qualities of the

orphan Annie, and had so encouraged her to come about him that

she drew her chair, and her table, and her green box to the

vicinity of his couch. She showed him her verses, and consulted

him about the adoption of more passages into the number of her

favourites. Annie had a particular delight in all the pastoral

views given in Scripture of our Saviour and of His Church; and

when Mr. Martyn showed her this beautiful passage, 'Feed Thy

people with Thy rod, the flock of Thine heritage, which dwell

solitarily in the wood, in the midst of Carmel' (Micah vii. 14),

she was as pleased with this passage as if she had made some

wonderful acquisition. What could have been more beautiful than

to see the Senior Wrangler and the almost infant Annie thus

conversing together, whilst the elder seemed to be in no ways

conscious of any condescension in bringing down his mind to the

level of the child's? Such are the beautiful influences of the

Divine Spirit, which, whilst they depress the high places of

human pride, exalt the lowly valleys.

When Mr. Martyn lost the worst symptoms of his illness he used

to sing a great deal. He had an uncommonly fine voice and fine

ear; he could sing many fine chants, and a vast variety of hymns

and psalms. He would insist upon it that I should sing with him,

and he taught me many tunes, all of which were afterwards

brought into requisition; and when fatigued himself, he made me

sit by his couch and practise these hymns. He would listen to my

singing, which was altogether very unscientific, for hours

together, and he was constantly requiring me to go on, even when

I was tired. The tunes he taught me, no doubt, reminded him of

England, and of scenes and friends no longer seen. The more

simple the style of singing, the more it probably answered his

purpose.

As soon as Mr. Martyn could in any way exert himself, he made

acquaintance with some of the pious men of the regiment (the

same poor men whom I have mentioned before, who used to meet in

ravines, in huts, in woods, and in every wild and secret place

they could find, to read, and pray, and sing); and he invited

them to come to him in our house, Mr. Sherwood making no

objection. The time first fixed was an evening after parade, and

in consequence they all appeared at the appointed hour, each

carrying their mora (a low seat), and their books tied up in

pocket-handkerchiefs. In this very unmilitary fashion they were

all met in a body by some officers. It was with some difficulty

that Mr. Sherwood could divert the storm of displeasure which

had well-nigh burst upon them on the occasion. Had they been all

found intoxicated and fighting, they would have created less

anger from those who loved not religion. How truly is it said

that 'the children of this world are wiser in their generation

than the children of light.' Notwithstanding this unfortunate

_contretemps_, these poor good men were received by Mr. Martyn

in his own apartment; and a most joyful meeting he had with

them. We did not join the party, but we heard them singing and

praying, and the sound was very sweet. Mr. Martyn then promised

them that when he had got a house he would set aside a room for

them, where they might come every evening, adding he would meet

them himself twice in the week. When these assemblies were

sanctioned by our ever kind Colonel Mawby, and all difficulties,

in short, overcome, many who had been the most zealous under

persecution fell quite away, and never returned. How can we

account for these things? Many, however, remained steadfast

under evil report as well as good report, and died, as they had

lived, in simple and pure faith.

I must not omit another anecdote of Mr. Martyn, which amused us

much at the time, after we had recovered the alarm attending it.

The salary of a chaplain is large, and Mr. Martyn had not drawn

his for so long a time, that the sum amounted perhaps to some

hundreds. He was to receive it from the collector at Cawnpore.

Accordingly he one morning sent a note for the amount, confiding

the note to the care of a common coolie, a porter of low caste,

generally a very poor man. This man went off, unknown to Mr.

Sherwood and myself, early in the morning. The day passed, the

evening came, and no coolie arrived. At length Mr. Martyn said

in a quiet voice to us, 'The coolie does not come with my money.

I was thinking this morning how rich I should be; and, now, I

should not wonder in the least if he has not run off, and taken

my treasure with him.' 'What!' we exclaimed, 'surely you have

not sent a common coolie for your pay?' 'I have,' he replied. Of

course we could not expect that it would ever arrive safe; for

it would be paid in silver, and delivered to the man in cotton

bags. Soon afterwards, however, it did arrive--a circumstance at

which we all greatly marvelled.

Cawnpore, of which Henry Martyn was chaplain for the next two years,

till disease drove him from it, was the worst station to which he

could have been sent. The district, consisting of clay uplands on the

Doab between the Ganges and the Jumna rivers, which unite below at

Allahabad, was at that time a comparatively desolate tract, swept by

the hot winds, and always the first to suffer from drought. The great

famine of 1837 afterwards so destroyed its unhappy peasantry and

labourers, that the British Government made its county town one of the

two terminals of the great Ganges canal, which the Marquis of

Dalhousie opened, and irrigated the district by four branches with

their distributing channels. Even then, and to this day, Cawnpore has

not ceased to be a repulsive station. Its leather factories and cotton

mills do not render it less so, nor the memory of the five massacres

of British officers, their wives and children, by the infamous Nana

Dhoondoo Panth, which still seems to cover it as with a pall,

notwithstanding the gardens and the marble screen inclosing the figure

of the Angel of the Resurrection with the palm of victory above the

Massacre Well. The people of the town at least have always been

disagreeable, from Hindu discontent and Mohammedan sulkiness. The

British cantonment used to be at Bilgram, on the opposite bank, in the

territory of Oudh. Well might Martyn write of such a station as

Cawnpore: 'I do not like this place at all,' although he then enjoyed

the social ministrations of the Sherwoods, and was constant in his own

service to the Master among British and natives alike, and at his desk

in translation work.

The first use which the chaplain made of his pay was this, according

to Mrs. Sherwood: 'Being persuaded by some black man, he bought one of

the most undesirable houses, to all appearance, which he could have

chosen.' But he had chosen wisely for his daily duties of translation

and preaching to the natives.

Mr. Martyn's house was a bungalow situated between the Sepoy

Parade and the Artillery Barracks, but behind that range of

principal bungalows which face the Parade. The approach to the

dwelling was called the Compound, along an avenue of palm trees

and aloes. A more stiff, funereal avenue can hardly be imagined,

unless it might be that one of noted sphynxes which I have read

of as the approach to a ruined Egyptian temple. At the end of

this avenue were two bungalows, connected by a long passage.

These bungalows were low, and the rooms small. The garden was

prettily laid out with flowering shrubs and tall trees; in the

centre was a wide space, which at some seasons was green, and a

_chabootra_, or raised platform of chunam (lime), of great

extent, was placed in the middle of this space. A vast number

and variety of huts and sheds formed one boundary of the

compound; these were concealed by the shrubs. But who would

venture to give any account of the heterogeneous population

which occupied these buildings? For, besides the usual

complement of servants found in and about the houses of persons

of a certain rank in India, we must add to Mr. Martyn's

household a multitude of pundits, moonshis, schoolmasters, and

poor nominal Christians, who hung about him because there was no

other to give them a handful of rice for their daily

maintenance; and most strange was the murmur which proceeded at

times from this ill-assorted and discordant multitude. Mr.

Martyn occupied the largest of the two bungalows. He had given

up the least to the wife of Sabat, that wild man of the desert

whose extraordinary history has made so much noise in the

Christian world.

It was a burning evening in June, when after sunset I

accompanied Mr. Sherwood to Mr. Martyn's bungalow, and saw for

the first time its avenue of palms and aloes. We were conducted

to the _chabootra_, where the company was already assembled;

there was no lady but myself. This _chabootra_ was many feet

square, and chairs were set for the guests. A more heterogeneous

assembly surely had not often met, and seldom, I believe, were

more languages in requisition in so small a party. Besides Mr.

Martyn and ourselves, there was no one present who could speak

English. But let me introduce each individual separately. Every

feature in the large disk of Sabat's face was what we should

call exaggerated. His eyebrows were arched, black, and strongly

pencilled; his eyes dark and round, and from time to time

flashing with unsubdued emotion, and ready to kindle into flame

on the most trifling occasion. His nose was high, his mouth

wide, his teeth large, and looked white in contrast with his

bronzed complexion and fierce black mustachios. He was a large

and powerful man, and generally wore a skull-cap of rich

shawling, or embroidered silk, with circular flaps of the same

hanging over each ear. His large, tawny throat and neck had no

other covering than that afforded by his beard, which was black.

His attire was a kind of jacket of silk, with long sleeves,

fastened by a girelle, or girdle, about his loins, to which was

appended a jewelled dirk. He wore loose trousers, and

embroidered shoes turned up at the toes. In the cold season he

threw over this a wrapper lined with fur, and when it was warmer

the fur was changed for silk. When to this costume is added

ear-rings, and sometimes a golden chain, the Arab stands before

you in his complete state of Oriental dandyism. This son of the

desert never sat in a chair without contriving to tuck up his

legs under him on the seat, in attitude very like a tailor on

his board. The only languages which he was able to speak were

Persian, Arabic, and a very little bad Hindustani; but what was

wanting in the words of this man was more than made up by the

loudness with which he uttered them, for he had a voice like

rolling thunder. When it is understood that loud utterance is

considered as an ingredient of respect in the East, we cannot

suppose that one who had been much in native courts should

think it necessary to modulate his voice in the presence of the

English Sahib-log.[33]

The second of Mr. Martyn's guests, whom I must introduce as

being not a whit behind Sabat in his own opinion of himself, was

the Padre Julius Cæsar, an Italian monk of the order of the

Jesuits, a worthy disciple of Ignatius Loyola. Mr. Martyn had

become acquainted with him at Patna, where the Italian priest

was not less zealous and active in making proselytes than the

Company's chaplain, and probably much more wise and subtle in

his movements than the latter. The Jesuit was a handsome young

man, and dressed in the complete costume of the monk, with his

little skull-cap, his flowing robes, and his cord. The

materials, however, of his dress were very rich; his robe was of

the finest purple satin, and his cord of twisted silk, and his

rosary of costly stones, whilst his air and manner were

extremely elegant. He spoke French fluently, and there Mr.

Sherwood was at home with him, but his native language was

Italian. His conversation with Mr. Martyn was carried on partly

in Latin and partly in Italian. A third guest was a learned

native of India, in his full and handsome Hindustani costume;

and a fourth a little, thin, copper-coloured, half-caste

Bengali gentleman, in white nankeen, who spoke only Bengali. Mr.

Sherwood made a fifth, in his scarlet and gold uniform; myself,

the only lady, was the sixth; and add our host, Mr. Martyn, in

his clerical black silk coat, and there is our party. Most

assuredly I never listened to such a confusion of tongues before

or since. Such a noisy, perplexing Babel can scarcely be

imagined. Everyone who had acquired his views of politeness in

Eastern society was shouting at the top of his voice, as if he

had lost his fellow in a wood; and no less than eight languages

were in constant request, viz. English, French, Italian, Arabic,

Persian, Hindustani, Bengali, and Latin.

In order to lengthen out the pleasures of the evening, we were

scarcely seated before good Mr. Martyn recollected that he had

heard me say that I liked a certain sort of little mutton

pattie, which the natives made particularly well; so, without

thinking how long it might take to make these same patties, he

called to a servant to give orders that mutton patties should be

added to the supper. I heard the order, but never dreamed that

perhaps the mutton might not be in the house. The consequence of

this order was that we sat on the _chabootra_ till it was quite

dark, and till I was utterly weary with the confusion. No one

who has not been in or near the tropics can have an idea of the

glorious appearance of the heavens in these regions, and the

brilliancy of the star-lit nights, at Cawnpore. Mr. Martyn used

often to show me the pole-star, just above the line of the

horizon; and I have seen the moon, when almost new, looking like

a ball of ebony in a silver cup. Who can, therefore, be

surprised that the science of astronomy should first have been

pursued by the shepherds who watched their flocks by night in

the plains of the South? When the mutton patties were ready, I

was handed by Mr. Martyn into the hall of the bungalow. Mr.

Martyn took the top of the table, and Sabat perched himself on

a chair at the bottom. I think it was on this day, when at

table, Sabat was telling some of his own adventures to Mr.

Martyn, in Persian, which the latter interpreted to Mr. Sherwood

and myself, that the wild Arab asserted that there were in

Tartary and Arabia many persons converted to Christianity, and

that many had given up their lives for the faith. He professed

to be himself acquainted with two of these, besides Abdallah.

'One,' he said, 'was a relation of his own.' But he gave but

small proof of this man's sincerity. This convert, if such he

was, drew the attention of the priests by a total neglect of all

forms; and this was the more remarkable on account of the

multiplied forms of Islam; for at the wonted hour of prayer a

true Mussulman must kneel down and pray in the middle of a

street, or between the courses of a feast, nay, even at the

moment when perhaps his hands might be reeking with a brother's

blood. This relative of Sabat's, however, was, as he remarked,

observed to neglect all forms, and he was called before the

heads of his tribe, and required to say wherefore he was guilty

of this offence. His answer was, 'It is nothing.' He proceeded

to express himself as if he doubted the very existence of a God.

The seniors of the tribe told him that it would be better for

him to be a Christian than an atheist; adding, therefore, 'If

you do not believe in our prophet you must be a Christian;' for

they wisely accounted that no man but a fool could be without

some religion. The man's reply was, that he thought the

Christian's a better religion than that of Mahomet; the

consequence of which declaration was that they stoned him until

he died. The other example which Sabat gave us was of a boy in

Baghdad, who was converted by an Armenian, and endeavoured to

escape, but was pursued, seized, and offered pardon if he would

recant; but he was preserved in steadfastness to the truth, and

preferred death to returning to Mahometanism. His life was

required of him.

From the time Mr. Martyn left our house he was in the constant

habit of supping with us two or three times a week, and he used

to come on horseback, with the sais running by his side. He sat

his horse as if he were not quite aware that he was on

horseback, and he generally wore his coat as if it were falling

from his shoulders. When he dismounted, his favourite place was

in the verandah, with a book, till we came in from our airing.

And when we returned many a sweet and long discourse we had,

whilst waiting for our dinner or supper. Mr. Martyn often looked

up to the starry heavens, and spoke of those glorious worlds of

which we know so little now, but of which we hope to know so

much hereafter. Often we turned from the contemplation of these

to the consideration of the smallness, and apparent

diminutiveness in creation, of our own little globe, and of the

exceeding love of the Father, who so cared for its inhabitants

that He sent His Son to redeem them.

On the occasion of the baptism of my second Lucy, never can I

forget the solemn manner with which Mr. Martyn went through the

service, or the beautiful and earnest blessing he implored for

my baby, when he took her into his arms after the service was

concluded. I still fancy I see that child of God as he looked

down tenderly on the gentle babe, and then looked upwards,

asking of his God that grace and mercy for the infant which he

truly accounted as the only gift which parents ought to desire.

This babe, in infancy, had so peculiar a gentleness of aspect,

that Mr. Martyn always called her Serena.

Little was spoken of at Mr. Martyn's table but of various plans

for advancing the triumphs of Christianity. Among the plans

adopted, Mr. Martyn had, first at Dinapore and then at Cawnpore,

established one or two schools for children of the natives of

the lower caste. His plan was to hire a native schoolmaster,

generally a Mussulman, to appoint him a place, and to pay him an

anna (1-1/2_d._) a head for each boy whom he could induce to

attend school. These boys the master was to teach to write and

read. It was Mr. Martyn's great aim, and, indeed, the sole end

of his exertions, to get Christian books into the school. As no

mention was ever made of proselytism, there was never any

difficulty found in introducing even portions of the Scripture

itself, more especially portions of the Old Testament, to the

attention of the children. The books of Moses are always very

acceptable to a Mussulman, and Genesis is particularly

interesting to the Hindus. Mr. Martyn's first school at Cawnpore

was located in a long shed, which was on the side of the cavalry

lines. It was the first school of the kind I ever saw. The

master sat at one end, like a tailor, on the dusty floor; and

along under the shed sat the scholars, a pack of little urchins,

with no other clothes on than a skull-cap and a piece of cloth

round the loins. These little ones squatted, like their master,

in the sand. They had wooden imitations of slates in their

hands, on which, having first written their lessons with chalk,

they recited them, _à pleine gorge_, as the French would say,

being sure to raise their voices on the approach of any European

or native of note. Now, Cawnpore is about one of the most dusty

places in the world. The Sepoy lines are the most dusty part of

Cawnpore; and as the little urchins are always well greased,

either with cocoanut oil or, in failure thereof, with rancid

mustard oil, whenever there was the slightest breath of air they

always looked as if they had been powdered all over with brown

powder. But what did this signify? They would have been equally

dusty in their own huts. In these schools they were in the way

of getting a few ideas; at all events, they often got so far as

to be able to copy a verse on their wooden slates. Afterwards

they committed to memory what they had written. Who that has

ever heard it can forget the sounds of the various notes with

which these little people intonated their 'Aleph Zubbur

ah--Zair a--Paiche oh,' as they waved backwards and forwards in

their recitations? Or who can forget the vacant self-importance

of the schoolmaster, who was generally a long-bearded, dry old

man, who had no other means of proving his superiority over the

scholars but making more noise than even they could do? Such a

scene, indeed, could not be forgotten; but would it not require

great faith to expect anything green to spring from a soil so

dry? But this faith was not wanting to the Christians then in

India.

Besides the 53rd Regiment, the Cavalry Corps called in those days the

8th Light Dragoons, and six companies of Artillery, were stationed at

Cawnpore. At the first parade service, on May 15, 1809, 'two officers

dropped down and some of the men. They wondered how I could go through

the fatigue,' wrote their new chaplain, not many days after his nearly

fatal palanquin journey from Chunar. His voice even reached the men at

the other end of the square which they had formed. Above a hundred men

were in hospital, a daily congregation. Every night about a dozen of

the soldiers met with him in the house. Not only the men but the

officers were privately rebuked by him for swearing. Of the General he

writes: 'He has never been very cordial, and now he is likely to be

less so; though it was done in the gentlest way, he did not seem to

like it. Were it not to become all things to all men in order to save

some, I should never trouble them with my company. But how then should

I be like Christ? I have been almost the whole morning engaged in a

good-humoured dispute with Mrs. P., who, in an instant after my

introduction to her, opened all her guns of wit and eloquence against

me for attempting to convert the Brahmans.' A little later he writes

of a dinner at the brigade-major's with the chief persons of the

station: 'I could gain no attention while saying grace; and the moment

the ladies withdrew the conversation took such a turn that I was

obliged to make a hasty retreat. Oh! the mercy to have escaped their

evil ways.'

The year was one of alarms of war, from which the history of our

Indian Empire can rarely be free, surrounded as it is by a ring-fence

of frontier tribes and often aggressive States. But in those days the

great internal conflicts for the consolidation of our power, and the

peace and prosperity of peoples exposed to anarchy for centuries, were

still being waged. Marathas, Sikhs, and Goorkhas had all to be

pacified in 1809. Now the infantry were being sent to the conquest of

Bundlekhund and difficult siege of the fortress of Kalinjar, as old as

the Mahabharat Epic in which it is mentioned. Now the artillery were

under orders to march to Lodiana to check Ranjeet Singh. Now the

cavalry were sent off to the, at first, fatal chase of the Goorkhas by

Gillespie. Thus it was that their ever-careful chaplain sought to

prepare them for the issue:

_October 20._--Spoke to my men on preparation for the Lord's

Supper, and endeavoured to prepare myself for the ordinance, by

considering my former life of sin, and all my unfaithfulness

since my call to the Gospel. My heart was, as usual, insensible

for a long time, but at last a gracious God made me feel some

compunction, and then my feelings were such as I would wish they

always were. I resolved at the time that it should be my special

labour every day to obtain, and hold fast, this humbling view of

my own depravity.

_October 22._ (Sunday.)--Preached at sunrise to the 53rd, on

Acts xxviii. 29. At ten, about sixteen of the regiment, with Mr.

and Mrs. Sherwood and Sabat, met in my bungalow, where, after a

short discourse on 'Behold the Lamb of God,' we commemorated the

death of the Lord. It was the happiest season I have yet had at

the Lord's Table, though my peace and pleasure were not

unalloyed; the rest of the day I felt weak in body, but calm in

mind, and rather spiritual; at night I spoke to the men on Rev.

xxii. 2; the number was double; afterwards had some conversation

on eternal things, but had reason to groan at the

hollow-heartedness and coldness with which I do my best works.

_November 18._--At night I took leave of my beloved Church

previous to their departure for Bundlekhund with their regiment.

I spoke to them from Gen. xxviii: 'I will be with thee in all

places whithersoever thou goest,' etc. The poor men were much

affected; they gave me their wills and watches.

_November 19._ (Sunday.)--Preached at sunrise to the dragoons,

on John i. 17: 'The law was given by Moses.' At eleven at

head-quarters, on Rom. iii. 19.

Nowhere are eucharistic seasons of communion so precious as in exile,

and especially in the isolation of a tropical station. Not unfrequently

in India, Christian people, far separated from any ordained minister,

and about to part from each other, are compelled, by loving obedience to

the Lord, to meet thus together. But what joy it must have been to have

been ministered to at such times by one of Henry Martyn's consecrated

saintliness! Mrs. Sherwood lingers over her description of that Cawnpore

service of October 22, 1809--the long inner verandah of the house, where

daily prayer was wont to be made, shut in by lofty doors of green

lattice-work; the table, with the white cloth and all things requisite,

at one end; hassocks on which to kneel, and a high form in front of the

table; all 'decent and in good order, according to the forms of the

Church of England.' Still there was no church building. His first parade

service in the hot winds brought on fever, so that he proposed to ask

for the billiard-room, 'which is better than the ball-room,' but in

vain. His next service was in the riding-school, but 'the effluvium was

such as would please only the knights of the turf. What must the

Mohammedans think of us? Well may they call us "dogs," when even in

Divine worship we choose to kennel ourselves in such places.' The

General delayed to forward to Government the proposal for a church.

Henry Martyn's missionary work among the natives became greatly

extended at Cawnpore, as his scrupulous conscience and delicate

scholarship allowed him to use in public the colloquial Hindustani,

and in conversation the more classical Persian. To Corrie he wrote,

five months after his arrival there:

What will friends at home think of Martyn and Corrie? They went

out full of zeal, but, behold! what are they doing? Where are

their converts? They talked of the banyan-tree before they went

out; but now they seem to prefer a snug bungalow to

field-preaching. I fear I should look a little silly if I were

to go home just at this time; but more because I should not be

able to make them understand the state of things than because my

conscience condemns me. Brother, what can you do? If you

itinerate like a European, you will only frighten the people; if

as a native, you will be dead in one year. Yet the latter mode

pleases me, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than so

to live, with the prospect of being able to hold out a few

years.

Again, to an old Cambridge friend:

_November, 1809._--Respecting my heart, about which you ask, I

must acknowledge that H. Martyn's heart at Dinapore is the same

as H. Martyn's heart at Cambridge. The tenor of my prayer is

nearly the same, except on one subject, the conversion of the

heathen. At a distance from the scene of action, and trusting

too much to the highly-coloured description of missionaries, my

heart used to expand with rapture at the hope of seeing

thousands of the natives melting under the Word as soon as it

should be preached to them. Here I am called to exercise

faith--that so it shall one day be. My former feelings on this

subject were more agreeable, and at the same time more according

with the truth; for if we believe the prophets, the scenes that

time shall unfold, 'though surpassing fable, are yet true.'

While I write, hope and joy spring up in my mind. Yes, it shall

be; yonder stream of Ganges shall one day roll through tracts

adorned with Christian churches, and cultivated by Christian

husbandmen, and the holy hymn be heard beneath the shade of the

tamarind. All things are working together to bring on the day,

and my part in the blessed plan, though not at first exactly

consonant to my wishes, is, I believe, appointed me by God. To

translate the Word of God is a work of more lasting benefit than

my preaching would be. But, besides that, I am sorry to say that

my strength for public preaching is almost gone. My

ministrations among the Europeans at this station have injured

my lungs, and I am now obliged to lie by except on the Sabbath

days, and once or twice in the week.... However, I am

sufficiently aware of my important relations to the natives, and

am determined not to strain myself any more for the Europeans.

This rainy season has tried my constitution severely. The first

attack was with spasms, under which I fainted. The second was a

fever, from which a change of air, under God, recovered me.

There is something in the air at the close of the rains so

unfavourable, that public speaking at that time is a violent

strain upon the whole body. Corrie passed down a few weeks ago

to receive his sister. We enjoyed much refreshing communion in

prayer and conversation on our dear friends at and near

Cambridge, and found peculiar pleasure in the minutest

circumstances we could recollect about you all.

At Cawnpore, in front of his house, he began his wonderful preaching

to the native beggars and ascetics of all kinds, Hindoo _jogees_ and

Mohammedan _fakeers_, the blind and the deaf, the maimed and the halt,

the diseased and the dying, the impostor and the truly needy. These

classes had soon found out the sympathetic padre-sahib, and to secure

peace he seems to have organised a weekly dole of an anna each or of

rice.

He wrote to Corrie:

I feel unhappy, not because I do nothing, but because I am not

willing to do my duty. The flesh must be mortified, and I am

reluctant to take up the cross. Sabat said to me yesterday,

'Your beggars are come: why do not you preach to them? It is

your duty.' I made excuses; but why do not I preach to them? My

carnal spirit says that I have been preaching a long time

without success to my servants, who are used to my tongue; what

can I expect from them--the very dregs of the people? But the

true cause is shame: I am afraid of exposing myself to the

contempt of Sabat, my servants, and the mob, by attempting to

speak in a language which I do not speak well. To-day in prayer,

one consideration has been made of some power in overcoming this

shameful backwardness:--these people, if I neglect to speak to

them, will give me a look at the last day which may fill me with

horror. Alas! brother, where is my zeal?

_December 17._ (Sunday.)--Preached to H.M. Light Dragoons on

Rev. iii. 20: 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock,' etc.

There was great attention. In the afternoon the beggars came, to

the number of above four hundred, and, by the help of God, I

determined to preach to them, though I felt as if I were leading

to execution. I stood upon the _chabootra_ in front of which

they were collected.

To Corrie he thus described his talks with his 'congregation of the

poor':

I went without fear, trusting to myself, and not to the Lord,

and accordingly I was put to shame--that is, I did not read half

as well as the preceding days. I shuffled and stammered, and

indeed I am persuaded that there were many sentences the poor

things did not understand at all. I spoke of the dry land,

rivers, etc.; here I mentioned Gunga,'a good river,' but there

were others as good. God loves Hindus, but does He not love

others also? He gave them a good river, but to others as good.

All are alike before God. This was received with applause. On

the work of the fourth day, 'Thus sun and moon are lamps. Shall

I worship a candle in my hand? As a candle in the house, so is

the sun in the sky.' Applause from the Mohammedans. There were

also hisses, but whether these betokened displeasure against me

or the worship of the sun I do not know. I then charged them to

worship Gunga and sun and moon no more, but the honour they used

to give to them, henceforward to give to God their Maker. Who

knows but even this was a blow struck, at least a branch lopped

from the tree of heathenism? The number was about 550. You need

not be deterred, dear brother, if this simple way of teaching do

any good.

Again:

I spoke on the corruption of human nature, 'The Lord saw that

every imagination,' etc. In the application I said, 'Hence all

outward works are useless while the heart remains in this state.

You may wash in Gunga, but the heart is not washed.' Some old

men shook their heads, in much the same way as we do when

seriously affected with any truth. The number was about seven

hundred. The servants told me it was nonsense to give them all

rice, as they were not all poor; hundreds of them are working

people; among them was a whole row of Brahmins. I spoke to them

about the Flood; this was interesting, as they were very

attentive, and at the end said, 'Shabash wa wa' (Well said).

Mrs. Sherwood pictures the scene after an almost pathetic fashion:

We went often on the Sunday evenings to hear the addresses of

Mr. Martyn to the assembly of mendicants, and we generally stood

behind him. On these occasions we had to make our way through a

dense crowd, with a temperature often rising above 92°, whilst

the sun poured its burning rays upon us through a lurid haze of

dust. Frightful were the objects which usually met our eyes in

this crowd: so many monstrous and diseased limbs, and hideous

faces, were displayed before us, and pushed forward for our

inspection, that I have often made my way to the _chabootra_

with my eyes shut, whilst Mr. Sherwood led me. On reaching the

platform I was surrounded by our own people, and yet even there

I scarcely dared to look about me. I still imagine that I hear

the calm, distinct, and musical tones of Henry Martyn, as he

stood raised above the people, endeavouring, by showing the

purity of the Divine law, to convince the unbelievers that by

their works they were all condemned; and that this was the case

of every man of the offspring of Adam, and they therefore needed

a Saviour who was both willing and able to redeem them. From

time to time low murmurs and curses would arise in the distance,

and then roll forward, till they became so loud as to drown the

voice of this pious one, generally concluding with hissings and

fierce cries. But when the storm passed away, again might he be

heard going on where he had left off, in the same calm,

steadfast tone, as if he were incapable of irritation from the

interruption. Mr. Martyn himself assisted in giving each person

his _pice_ (copper) after the address was concluded; and when he

withdrew to his bungalow I have seen him drop, almost fainting,

on a sofa, for he had, as he often said, even at that time, a

slow inflammation burning in his chest, and one which he knew

must eventually terminate his existence. In consequence of this

he was usually in much pain after any exertion of speaking.

No dreams nor visions excited in the delirium of a raging fever

can surpass these realities. These devotees vary in age and

appearance: they are young and old, male and female, bloated and

wizened, tall and short, athletic and feeble; some clothed with

abominable rags; some nearly without clothes; some plastered

with mud and cow-dung; others with matted, uncombed locks

streaming down to their heels; others with heads bald or scabby,

every countenance being hard and fixed, as it were, by the

continual indulgence of bad passions, the features having become

exaggerated, and the lips blackened with tobacco, or blood-red

with the juice of the henna. But these and such as these form

only the general mass of the people; there are among them still

more distinguished monsters. One little man generally comes in a

small cart drawn by a bullock; his body and limbs are so

shrivelled as to give, with his black skin and large head, the

appearance of a gigantic frog. Another has his arm fixed above

his head, the nail of the thumb piercing through the palm of the

hand; another, and a very large man, has his ribs and the bones

of his face externally traced with white chalk, which, striking

the eye in relief above the dark skin, makes him appear, as he

approaches, like a moving skeleton. When Mr. Martyn collected

these people he was most carefully watched by the British

authorities.

Shall anyone say that the missionary chaplain's eighteen months' work

among this mixed multitude of the poor and the dishonest was as vain

as he himself, in his humility, feared that it was? 'Greater works'

than His own were what the Lord of Glory, who did like service to man

in the Syria of that day, promised to His believing followers.

On the wall which enclosed his compound was a kiosk, from which some

young Mussulman idlers used to look down on the preacher, as they

smoked their hookahs and sipped their sherbet. One Sunday, determined

to hear as well as see, that they might the more evidently scoff, they

made their way through the crowd, and with the deepest scorn took

their place in the very front. They listened in a critical temper,

made remarks on what they heard, and returned to the kiosk. But there

was one who no longer joined in their jeering. Sheikh Saleh, born at

Delhi, Persian and Arabic moonshi of Lucknow, then keeper of the King

of Oudh's jewels, was a Mussulman so zealous that he had persuaded his

Hindu servant to be circumcised. But he was afterwards horrified by

the treachery and the atrocities of his co-religionists in the Rajpoot

State of Joudhpore, whither he had gone. He was on his way back to his

father at Lucknow when, on a heart thus prepared, there fell the

teaching of the English man of God as to the purity of the Divine law

and salvation from sin by Jesus Christ.

Eager to learn more of Christianity from its authoritative records, he

sought employment on the translating staff of the preacher, through a

friend who knew Sabat. He was engaged to copy Persian manuscripts by

that not too scrupulous tyrant, without the knowledge of Martyn or any

of the English. On receiving the completed Persian New Testament, to

have it bound, he read it all, and his conversion by the Spirit of

God, its Author, was complete. He determined to attach himself to

Martyn, who as yet knew him not personally. He followed him to

Calcutta, and applied to him for baptism. After due trial during the

next year he was admitted to the Church under the new name of 'Bondman

of Christ,' Abdool Massee'h. This was almost the last act of the Rev.

David Brown, who since 1775 had spent his life in diffusing Christian

knowledge in Bengal. Abdool's conversion caused great excitement in

Lucknow. Nor was this all. The new convert was sent to Meerut, when

Mr. Parson was chaplain in that great military station, and there he

won over the chief physician of the Rajah of Bhurtpore, naming him

Taleb Massee'h. After preaching and disputing in Meerut, Abdool

visited the Begum Sumroo's principality of Sardhana, where he left

Taleb to care for the native Christians. They and the Sherwoods

together were the means of calling and preparing several native

converts for baptism, all the fruit, direct and indirect, of Henry

Martyn's combined translating and preaching of the New Testament at

Cawnpore.

Mrs. Sherwood writes:

We were told that Mr. Corrie might perhaps be unable to come as

far as Delhi, and the candidates for baptism became so anxious

that they set off to meet him on the Delhi road. We soon heard

of their meeting from Mr. Corrie himself, and that he was

pleased with them. Shortly afterwards our beloved friend

appeared, with tents, camels, and elephants, and we had the

pleasure of having his largest tent pitched in our compound, for

we had not room for all his suite within the house. Then for the

next week our house and grounds brought to my mind what I had

often fancied of a scene in some high festival in Jerusalem;

but ours was an assembly under a fairer, brighter dispensation.

'Here we are,' said Mr. Corrie, 'poor weary pilgrims;' and he

applied the names of 'Christian' and 'Mercy' to his wife and an

orphan girl who was with them. Dear Mr. Corrie! perhaps there

never was a man so universally beloved as he was. Wherever he

was known, from the lisping babe who climbed upon his knee to

the hoary-headed native, he was regarded as a bright example of

Christian charity and humility. On Sunday, January 31, the

baptism of all the converts but one took place. Numbers of

Europeans from different quarters of the station attended. The

little chapel was crowded to overflowing, and most affecting

indeed was the sight. Few persons could restrain their tears

when Mr. Corrie extended his hand to raise the silver curls

which clustered upon the brow of Monghul Das, one of the most

sincere of the converts. The ceremony was very affecting, and

the convert, who stood by and saw the others baptized, became so

uneasy that, when Mr. Corrie set off to return, he followed him.

For family reasons this man's baptism had been deferred, as he

hoped by so doing to bring others of his family into the Church

of God.

How delightfully passed that Sunday!--how sweet was our private

intercourse with Mr. Corrie! He brought our children many

Hindustani hymns, set to ancient Oriental melodies, which they

were to sing at the Hindu services, and we all together sang a

hymn, which I find in my Journal designated by this title:

'WE HAVE SEEN HIS STAR IN THE EAST'

In Britain's land of light my mind

To Jesus and His love was blind,

Till, wandering midst the heathen far,

Lo in the East I saw His star.

Oh, should my steps, which distant roam,

Attain once more my native shore,

Better than India's wealth by far,

I'll speak the worth of Bethlehem's star.

There is little merit in the composition of this hymn; but it

had a peculiar interest for us at that time, and the sentiment

which it professes must ever retain its interest.

Long after this the good seed of the Kingdom, as sown by Henry Martyn,

continued to bear fruit, which in its turn propagated itself. In 1816

there came to Corrie in Calcutta, for further instruction, from

Bareilly, a young Mohammedan ascetic and teacher who, at seventeen,

had abandoned Hinduism, seeking peace of mind. He fell in with

Martyn's Hindustani New Testament, and was baptized under the new name

of Fuez Massee'h. Under somewhat similar circumstances Noor Massee'h

was baptized at Agra. The missionary labours of Martyn at Cawnpore,

followed up by Corrie there and at Agra soon after, farther resulted

in the baptism there of seventy-one Hindus and Mohammedans, of whom

fifty were adults. All of these, save seven, remained steadfast, and

many became missionaries in their turn. The career of Abdool Massee'h

closed in 1827, after he had been ordained in the Calcutta cathedral

by Bishop Heber, who loved him. His last breath was spent in singing

the Persian hymn, translated thus:

Beloved Saviour, let not me

In Thy kind heart forgotten be!

Of all that deck the field or bower,

Thou art the sweetest, fairest flower!

Youth's morn has fled, old age comes on.

But sin distracts my soul alone;

Beloved Saviour, let not me

In Thy kind heart forgotten be.

As from Dinapore Martyn sought out the moulvies of Patna, so from

Cawnpore he found his way to Lucknow There, after he had baptized a

child of the Governor-General's Resident, he met the Nawab Saadut Ali,

and his eyes for the first time beheld one who had full power of life

and death over his subjects. He visited the moulvies, at the tomb of

Asaf-ood-Dowla, who were employed to read the Koran constantly. 'With

them I tried my strength, of course, and disputed for an hour; it

ended in their referring me for an answer to another.'

Toil such as Martyn's, physical and mental, in successive hot seasons,

in such hospitals and barracks as then killed off the British troops

and their families, and without a decent church building, would have

sacrificed the healthiest in a few years. Corrie had to flee from it,

or he would never have lived to be the first and model Bishop of

Madras. But such labours, such incessant straining of the voice

through throat and lungs, acting on his highly neurotic constitution,

and the phthisical frame which he inherited from his mother, became

possible to Henry Martyn only because he willed, he agonised, to live

till he should give at least the New Testament to the peoples of

Arabia and Persia, and to the Mohammedans of India, in their own

tongues. We see him in his _Journal_, before God, spiritually spurring

the sides of his intent day by day, and running like the noble Arab

horse till it drops--its object gained. He had many warnings, and if

he had had a wife to see that he obeyed the voice of Providence he

might have outlived his hereditary tendency in such a tropical climate

as that of India--a fact since proved by experience. He had narrowly

escaped death at Dinapore a few months before, and he knew it. But it

is well that, far more frequently than the world knows, such cases

occur in the missionary fields of the world. The Brainerds and the

Martyns, the Pattesons and the Hanningtons, the Keith-Falconers and

the Mackays--to mention some of the dead only--have their reward in

calling hundreds to fill their places, not less than the Careys and

the Livingstones, the Duffs and the Wilsons, the Frenches and the

Caldwells. To all who know the tropics, and especially the seasons of

India, the dates that follow are eloquent.

_1809, May 29._--The East has been long forsaken of God, and

depravity in consequence more thoroughly wrought into them. I

have been very ill all this week, the disorder appearing in the

form of an intermittent. In the night cold sweats, and for about

five hours in the day head-ache and vertigo. Last night I took

some medicine, and think that I am better, though the time when

the fever has generally come on is not yet arrived. But I hardly

know how to be thankful enough for this interval of ease.

_September 25._--Set out at three in the morning for Currah, and

reached it on the 26th in the morning, and married a Miss K. to

Mr. R.; the company was very unpleasant, so after passing the

night there, I set out and travelled all day and night, and

through Divine mercy arrived at home again on the 28th, but

excessively fatigued, indeed almost exhausted. At night with the

men, my whole desire was to lie low in the dust. 'Thou hast left

thy first love,' on which I spoke, was an awful call to me, and

I trust in God I shall ever feel it so.

_November 19._--Received a letter from Mr. Simeon, mentioning

Sarah's illness; consumption has seized her, as it did my mother

and sister, and will carry her off as it did them, and now I am

the only one left. Oh, my dear Corrie, though I know you are

well prepared, how does nature bleed at the thought of a beloved

sister's drooping and dying! Yet still to see those whom I love

go before me, without so much as a doubt of their going to

glory, will, I hope, soothe my sorrow. How soon shall I follow?

I know it must be soon. The paleness and fatigue I exhibit after

every season of preaching show plainly that death is settled in

my lungs.

_1810, April 9._--From the labours of yesterday, added to

constant conversation and disagreement with visitors to-day, I

was quite exhausted, and my chest in pain.

_April 10._--My lungs still so disordered that I could not meet

my men at night.

_April 15._ (Sunday.)--Preached to the Dragoons on the parable

of the pounds. At the General's on Luke xxii 22. With the native

congregation I strained myself greatly in order to be heard, and

to this I attribute the injury I did myself to-day. Attempted

the usual service with my men at night, but after speaking to

them from a passage in Scripture, was obliged to leave them

before prayer.

_April 16._--Imprudently joined in conversation with some dear

Christian friends to-night, and talked a great deal; the pain in

the chest in consequence returned.

_May 12._--This evening thrown with great violence from my

horse: while he was in full gallop, the saddle came off, but I

received no other injury but contusion. Thus a gracious

Providence preserves me in life. But for His kindness I had been

now dragging out a wretched existence in pain, and my blessed

work interrupted for years perhaps.

Henry Martyn was too absorbed in the higher life at all times to be

trusted in riding or driving. Mrs. Sherwood writes:

I often went out with him in his gig, when he used to call

either for me or Miss Corrie, and whoever went with him went at

the peril of their lives. He never looked where he was driving,

but went dashing through thick and thin, being always occupied

in reading Hindustani by word of mouth, or discussing some text

of Scripture. I certainly never expected to have survived a

lesson he gave me in his gig, in the midst of the plain at

Cawnpore, on the pronunciation of one of the Persian letters.

All through his Cawnpore life, also, the wail of disappointed love

breaks from time to time. On Christmas day, 1809, he received, through

David Brown as usual, a letter 'from Lydia, containing a second

refusal; so now I have done.' On March 23, 1810, Mr. Steven's letter

reached him, reporting the death of his last sister. 'She was my dear

counsellor and guide for a long time in the Christian way. I have not

a relation left to whom I feel bound by ties of Christian fellowship,

and I am resolved to form no new connection of a worldly nature, so

that I may henceforward hope to live entirely, as a man of another

world.' Meanwhile he has received Lydia Grenfell's sisterly offer, to

which he thus replies in the first of eleven letters, to one who had

sunk the lover in the Christian friend, as was possible to two hearts

so far separated and never to meet again in this world. But she was

still his 'dearest.'

TO LYDIA GRENFELL

Cawnpore: March 30, 1810.

Since you kindly bid me, my beloved friend, consider you in the

place of that dear sister whom it has pleased God in His wisdom

to take from me, I gratefully accept the offer of a

correspondence, which it has ever been the anxious wish of my

heart to establish. Your kindness is the more acceptable,

because it is shown in the day of affliction. Though I had heard

of my dearest sister's illness some months before I received the

account of her death, and though the nature of her disorder was

such as left me not a ray of hope, so that I was mercifully

prepared for the event, still the certainty of it fills me with

anguish. It is not that she has left me, for I never expected

to see her more on earth. I have no doubt of meeting her in

heaven, but I cannot bear to think of the pangs of dissolution

she underwent, which have been unfortunately detailed to me with

too much particularity. Would that I had never heard them, or

could efface them from my remembrance. But oh, may I learn what

the Lord is teaching me by these repeated strokes! May I learn

meekness and resignation. May the world always appear as vain as

it does now, and my own continuance in it as short and

uncertain. How frightful is the desolation which Death makes,

and how appalling his visits when he enters one's family. I

would rather never have been born than be born and die, were it

not for Jesus, the Prince of life, the Resurrection and the

Life. How inexpressibly precious is this Saviour when eternity

seems near! I hope often to communicate with you on these

subjects, and in return for your kind and consolatory letters to

send you, from time to time, accounts of myself and my

proceedings. Through you I can hear of all my friends in the

West. When I first heard of the loss I was likely to suffer, and

began to reflect on my own friendless situation, you were much

in my thoughts, whether you would be silent on this occasion or

no? whether you would persist in your resolution? Friends indeed

I have, and brethren, blessed be God! but two brothers[34]

cannot supply the place of one sister. When month after month

passed away, and no letter came from you, I almost abandoned the

hope of ever hearing from you again. It only remained to wait

the result of my last application through Emma. You have kindly

anticipated my request, and, I need scarcely add, are more

endeared to me than ever.

Of your illness, my dearest Lydia, I had heard nothing, and it

was well for me that I did not.--Yours most affectionately,

H. MARTYN.

To David Brown he wrote, 'My long-lost Lydia consents to write to me

again;' and in three weeks he thus addresses to Lydia herself again a

letter of exquisite tenderness:

TO LYDIA GRENFELL

Cawnpore: April 19, 1810.

I begin my correspondence with my beloved Lydia, not without a

fear of its being soon to end. Shall I venture to tell you that

our family complaint has again made its appearance in me, with

more unpleasant symptoms than it has ever yet done? However,

God, who two years ago redeemed my life from destruction, may

again, for His Church's sake, interpose for my deliverance.

Though, alas! what am I that my place should not instantly be

supplied with far more efficient instruments? The symptoms I

mentioned are chiefly a pain in the chest, occasioned, I

suppose, by over-exertion the two last Sundays, and

incapacitating me at present from all public duty, and even from

conversation. You were mistaken in supposing that my former

illness originated from study. Study never makes me

ill--scarcely ever fatigues me--but my lungs! death is seated

there; it is speaking that kills me. May it give others life!

'Death worketh in us, but life in you.' Nature intended me, as I

should judge from the structure of my frame, for

chamber-council, not for a pleader at the Bar. But the call of

Jesus Christ bids me cry aloud and spare not. As His minister, I

am a debtor both to the Greek and the barbarian. How can I be

silent when I have both ever before me, and my debt not paid?

You would suggest that energies more restrained will eventually

be more efficient. I am aware of this, and mean to act upon this

principle in future, if the resolution is not formed too late.

But you know how apt we are to outstep the bounds of prudence

when there is no kind of monitor at hand to warn us of the

consequences.

Had I been favoured with the one I wanted, I might not now have

had occasion to mourn. You smile at my allusion, at least I hope

so, for I am hardly in earnest. I have long since ceased to

repine at the decree that keeps us as far asunder as the east is

from the west, and yet am far from regretting that I ever knew

you. The remembrance of you calls forth the exercise of

delightful affections, and has kept me from many a snare. How

wise and good is our God in all His dealings with His children!

Had I yielded to the suggestions of flesh and blood, and

remained in England, as I should have done, without the

effectual working of His power, I should without doubt have sunk

with my sisters into an early grave. Whereas here, to say the

least, I may live a few years, so as to accomplish a very

important work. His keeping you from me appears also, at this

season of bodily infirmity, to be occasion of thankfulness.

Death, I think, would be a less welcome visitor to me, if he

came to take me from a wife, and that wife were you. Now, if I

die, I die unnoticed, involving none in calamity. Oh, that I

could trust Him for all that is to come, and love Him with that

perfect love which casteth out fear; for, to say the truth, my

confidence is sometimes shaken. To appear before the Judge of

quick and dead is a much more awful thought in sickness than in

health. Yet I dare not doubt the all-sufficiency of Jesus

Christ, nor can I, with the utmost ingenuity of unbelief, resist

the reasonings of St. Paul, all whose reasons seem to be drawn

up on purpose to work into the mind the persuasion that God will

glorify Himself by the salvation of sinners through Jesus

Christ. I wish I could more enter into the meaning of this

'chosen vessel.' He seems to move in a world by himself, and

sometimes to utter the unspeakable words such as my natural

understanding discerneth not; and when I turn to commentators I

find that I have passed out of the spiritual to the material

world, and have got amongst men like myself. But soon, as he

says, we shall no longer see as in a glass, by reflected rays,

but see as we are seen, and know as we are known.

_April 25._--After another interval I resume my pen. Through the

mercy of God I am again quite well, but my mind is a good deal

distressed at Sabat's conduct. I forbear writing what I think,

in the hope that my fears may prove groundless; but indeed the

children of the East are adepts in deceit. Their duplicity

appears to me so disgusting at this moment, that I can only find

relief from my growing misanthropy by remembering Him who is the

faithful and true Witness; in whom all the promises of God are

'yea and amen'; and by turning to the faithful in

Europe--children that will not lie. Where shall we find

sincerity in a native of the East? Yesterday I dined in a

private way with ----. After one year's inspection of me they

begin to lose their dread and venture to invite me. Our

conversation was occasionally religious, but topics of this

nature are so new to fashionable people, and those upon which

they have thought so much less than on any other, that often

from the shame of having nothing to say they pass to other

subjects where they can be more at home. I was asked after

dinner if I liked music. On my professing to be an admirer of

harmony, cantos were performed and songs sung. After a time I

inquired if they had no sacred music. It was now recollected

that they had some of Handel's, but it could not be found. A

promise, however, was made that next time I came it should be

produced. Instead of it the 145th Psalm-tune was played, but

none of the ladies could recollect enough of the tune to sing

it. I observed that all our talents and powers should be

consecrated to the service of Him who gave them. To this no

reply was made, but the reproof was felt. I asked the lady of

the house if she read poetry, and then proceeded to mention

Cowper, whose poems, it seems, were in the library; but the lady

had never heard of the book. This was produced, and I read some

passages. Poor people! here a little and there a little is a

rule to be observed in speaking to them.

_April 26._--From speaking to my men last night, and again

to-day conversing long with some natives, my chest is again in

pain, so much so that I can hardly speak. Well, now I am taught,

and will take more care in future. My sheet being full, I must

bid you adieu. The Lord ever bless and keep you. Believe me to

be with the truest affection,--Yours ever,

H. MARTYN.

TO REV. T.M. HITCHINS, PLYMOUTH DOCK

Cawnpore: October 10, 1809.

My dearest Brother,--I am again disappointed in receiving no

letter from you. The last intelligence from the West of England

is Lydia's letter of July 8, 1808. Colonel Sandys has long since

ceased to write to me, and I have no other correspondent. It is

very affecting to me to be thus considered as dead by almost all

my natural relations and early connections; and at this time,

when I am led to think of you and the family to which you are

united, and have been reading all your letters over, I feel that

I could dip my pen deep in melancholy; for, strange as it may

seem to you, I love so true, that though it is now the fifth

year since I parted from the object of my affection, she is as

dear to me as ever; yet, on the other hand, I find my present

freedom such a privilege that I would not lose it for hardly any

consideration. It is the impossibility of compassing every wish,

that I suppose is the cause of any uneasiness that I feel. I

know not how to express my thoughts respecting Lydia better than

in Martial's words--_Nec tecum possum vivere nec sine te_.

However, these are not my general sentiments; it pleases God to

cause me to eat my meat with gladness, praising God. Almost

always I am without carefulness, as indeed it would be to my

shame if I were not.

My kindest remembrances attend my dearest sisters, Emma and

Lydia, as they well know. You two are such bad correspondents

that on this ground I prefer another petition for the renewal of

Lydia's correspondence,--she need not suspect anything now, nor

her friends. I have no idea that I should trouble her upon the

old subject, even if I were settled in England--for oh, this

vain world! _quid habet commodi? quid non potius laboris?_

But I never expect to see England more, nor do I expect that

though all obstacles should be removed, she would ever become

mine unless I came for her, and I now do not wonder at it,

though I did before. If any one of my sisters had had such a

proposal made to them, I would never have consented to their

going, so you may see the affair is ended between us. My wish is

that she would be scribe for you all, and I promise on my part

to send you through her an ample detail _of all my_ proceedings;

also she need not imagine that I may form another attachment--in

which case she might suppose a correspondence with an unmarried

lady might be productive of difficulties,--for after one

disappointment I am not likely to try my chance again, and if I

do I will give her the earliest intelligence of it, with the

same frankness with which I have always dealt (with her).

Meanwhile, on the silent shores of South Cornwall, Lydia Grenfell was

thus remembering him before God:

_1809, March 30._--My dear friend in India much upon my heart

lately, chiefly in desires that the work of God may prosper in

his hands, and that he may become more and more devoted to the

Lord. I seem, as to the future, to have attained what a year or

two since I prayed much for--to regard him absent as in another

state of existence, and my affection is holy, pure, and

spiritual for this dear saint of God; when it is otherwise, it

is owing to my looking back. Recollections sometimes intrude,

and I welcome them, alas, and act over again the past--but

Lord, Thy holy, blessed will be done--cheerfully, thankfully I

say this.

_Tregembo, July 11._--I have suffered from levity of spirit, and

lost thereby the enjoyment of God. How good then is it in the

Lord to employ means in His providence to recall His wanderer to

Himself and happiness! Such mercy belongeth unto God--and this

His care over me I will record as a testimony against myself, if

I forsake Him again and lose that sweet seriousness of mind, so

essential to my peace and safety. Though I have never (perhaps

for many hours in a day) ceased to remember my dear friend in

India, it has not of late been in a way but as I might love and

think of him in heaven. Why is it then that the intelligence of

his probable nearness to that blessed abode should distress me?

yet it did, and does so still. It is this intelligence which

has, I hope, taught that my late excessive cheerfulness was

dangerous to my soul, in weakening my hold of better and calmer

joys. I was directed, I think, to the thirty-sixth Psalm for

what I wanted on this occasion, as I was once before to the

sixty-first, and I have found it most wonderfully cheering to my

heart. The Lord, as 'the preserver of man and beast,' caused me

to exercise dependence on Him respecting the result of my

friend's illness. Then the description of the Divine perfections

drew back my wandering heart, I hope to God. The declaration of

those who trust in God being abundantly satisfied with the

fatness of His house, taught me where real enjoyment alone will

be found; but the concluding part opened in a peculiarly sweet

way to my mind: 'Thou shalt make them drink of the river of Thy

pleasures.'

_October 23._--I am under some painful forebodings respecting my

dear absent friend, and know not how to act. I am strongly

impelled to write to him, now that he is in affliction and

perhaps sickness himself--yet I dread departing from the plain

path of duty. 'O Lord, direct me,' is my cry. I hope my desire

is to do Thy will, and only Thy will. I have given him up to

Thee--oh, let me do so sincerely, and trust in Thy fatherly

care.

_1810, January 1._--Felt the necessity of beginning this year

with prayer for preserving grace. Prayed with some sense of my

own weakness and dependence on God--with a conviction of much

sin and hope in His mercy through Jesus Christ. Oh, to be Thine,

Lord, in heart and life this year! Had a remembrance of those

most dear to me in prayer, and found it very sweet to commend

them to God, especially my friend in India--perhaps not now in

India, but in heaven. Oh, to join him at last in Thy blissful

presence!

_January 24._--Heard yesterday of the marriage of Mr. John--what

a mercy to me do I feel it!--a load gone off my mind, for every

evil I heard of his committing I feared I might have been the

cause of, by my conduct ten years since--I rejoice in this event

for his sake and my own.

_February 6._--Heard at last of the safety of my friend in

India, and wrote to him--many fears on my mind as to its

propriety, and great deadness of soul in doing it--yet ere I

concluded I felt comforted from the thought of the nearness of

eternity, and the certainty that then, without any fear of doing

wrong, I should again enjoy communion with him.

_February 24._--Many sad presages of evil concerning my absent

friend, yet I am enabled to leave all to God--only now I pray,

if consistent with His will, his life may be spared, and as a

means of it, that God may incline him to return again to this

land. I never did before dare to ask this, believing the cause

of God would be more advanced by his remaining in India; but now

I pray, without fear of doing wrong or opposing the will of God,

for his return.

_March 5._--I am sensible of a very remarkable change in the

desires of my soul before God, respecting my absent friend. I

with freedom and peace now pray continually that he may be

restored to his friends and country; before, I never dared to

ask anything but that the Lord would order this as His wisdom

saw fit, and thought it not a subject for prayer. His injured

health causes me to believe that India is not the place for his

labours--and, oh, that his mind may be rightly influenced and

the Lord's will done, whether it be his remaining there or

returning.

_April 23._--Wrote to India.

_November 30._--Heard yesterday, and again to-day, from

India.[35] The illness of my friend fills me with apprehensions

on his account, and I seemed called on to prepare for hearing of

his removal. I wish to place before my eyes the blessedness of

the change to him, and, though agitated and sad, I can bear to

think of our never more beholding each other in this world. This

indeed has long been my expectation, and that he should have

left the toils of mortality for the joys of heaven should, on

his account, fill me with praise--yet my heart cannot rise with

thankfulness. I seem stupefied, insensible to any feeling but

that of anxiety to hear again and know the truth, and that my

heart could joy in God at all times; but alas! all is cold

there! Oh, return, blessed Spirit of life and peace.

_1811, March 28._--Heard from my dearest friend in India.[36]

Rose early. Found my spirit engaged in prayer, but was far ...

otherwise in reading. Such dulness and inattention as ought

deeply to abase me, vanity and a desire to appear of importance

in the school, beset me.

Corrie had been ordered from his narrow parish of Chunar to the wider

field of Agra, and on his way up was directed to remain at Cawnpore to

help his friend, whose physical exhaustion was too apparent even to

the most careless officer. Among those influenced by both was one of

the surgeons, Dr. Govan,[37] who was spared, at St. Andrews, till

after the Mutiny of 1857, when in an unpublished lecture to its

Literary and Philosophical Society, he thus alluded to these workers

in Cawnpore:

The Hukeem and the missionary hear native opinion spoken out

with much greater freedom than the political agent, the judge,

or commandant. 'Were there many more of the _Sahibean Ungez_

(the English gentlemen) in character like the Padre Sahibs

(Corrie and Martyn), Christianity would make more progress

here,' was the unvaried testimony of the natives in their

favour.... I cannot help mentioning the results of various

conversations I had with two natives of Eastern rank and family

employed by the Venerable Mr. Corrie, afterwards Bishop of

Madras, and the Rev. Henry Martyn, in Scripture translation, and

whose assistance I had used in the study of the languages, as

they quite coincide with much which I had the opportunity of

hearing among men of still higher position in the native

educated community, when attached to the staff of the

Governor-General: 'By the decrees of God,' said the Mohammedan

noble, 'and the ubiquity of their fleets, armaments, and

commerce, it appears plainly that the European nations have

become the arbiters of the destinies of the nations of Asia. Yet

this seems to us strange in the followers of Him who taught that

His true disciples must be ready to give their cloaks also to

him who took from them their coats.' To which I had no better

reply than this, that the progress of events in the world's

history seems to us to give evidence that undoubtedly a Divine

message had been sent, both to governments and their subjects,

to which, at their peril, both must give attention. But that,

as a question of public national policy, it seemed generally

admitted and understood that the civil rulers of no nation,

Christian, Mohammedan, or Heathen, were laid under an

obligation, by their individual beliefs, to allow a country,

unable to govern itself by reason of its interminable divisions

and subjects of deadly internal strife, to be occupied and made

use of by their European or other enemies, as a means for their

own injury or destruction, for any criminal or sinful acts, done

in the building up of a nation or government. I may add that I

never heard a native of India attempt directly to impugn the

perfect justice of the British possession of India on this

ground. 'The Padre Sahib has put the subject in its true light'

(said the same Mohammedan authority) 'when he said that

Christianity had higher objects in view, in its influence on

human character, than to enforce absolute rules about meats and

drinks; for should he even induce me (which is unlikely) to

become more of a Christian than I am, believing, as I do, in the

authority of the Old Testament prophets, and in Jesus Christ as

a prophet sent by God, he will never persuade me to look upon

many articles of diet used by Christians with anything but the

most intense disgust and abhorrence, and he will assuredly find

it the same with most of these idolatrous Hindus.'

We return to Martyn's _Journal_ and _Correspondence_:

_July 8._ (Sunday.)--Corrie preached to the 53rd a funeral

sermon on the death of one of their captains. In the afternoon I

spoke to the natives on the first commandment, with greater

fluency than I have yet found. My thoughts to-day very much

towards Lydia; I began even to be reconciled to the idea of

going to England for her. 'Many are the thoughts of a man's

heart, but the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.'

TO LYDIA GRENFELL

Cawnpore: August 14, 1810.

With what delight do I sit down to begin a letter to my beloved

Lydia! Yours of February 5, which I received a few days ago, was

written, I conceive, in considerable embarrassment. You thought

it possible it might find me married, or about to be so. Let me

begin, therefore, with assuring you, with more truth than Gehazi

did his master, 'Thy servant went no whither:' my heart has not

strayed from Marazion, or Gurlyn, or wherever you are. Five long

years have passed, and I am still faithful. Happy would it be if

I could say that I had been equally true to my profession of

love for Him who is fairer than ten thousand, and altogether

lovely. Yet to the praise of His grace let me recollect that

twice five years have passed away since I began to know Him, and

I am still not gone from Him. On the contrary, time and

experience have endeared the Lord to me more and more, so that I

feel less inclination, and see less reason for leaving Him. What

is there, alas! in the world, were it even everlasting?

I rejoice at the accounts you give me of your continued good

health and labours of love. Though you are not so usefully

employed as you might be in India, yet as that must not be, I

contemplate with delight your exertions at the other end of the

world. May you be instrumental in bringing many sons and

daughters to glory. What is become of St. Hilary and its fairy

scenes? When I think of Malachy, and the old man, and your

sister, and Josepha, etc., how some are dead, and the rest

dispersed, and their place occupied by strangers, it seems all

like a dream.

_August 15._--It is only little intervals of time that I can

find for writing; my visitors, about whom I shall write

presently, taking up much of my leisure from necessary duty.

Here follow some extracts from my _Journal_....

Here my _Journal_ must close. I do not know whether you

understand from it how we go on. I must endeavour to give you a

clearer idea of it.

We all live here in bungalows, or thatched houses, on a piece of

ground enclosed. Next to mine is the church, not yet opened for

public worship, but which we make use of at night with the men

of the 53rd. Corrie lives with me, and Miss Corrie with the

Sherwoods. We usually rise at daybreak, and breakfast at six.

Immediately after breakfast we pray together, after which I

translate into Arabic with Sabat, who lives in a small bungalow

on my ground. We dine at twelve, and sit recreating ourselves

with talking a little about dear friends in England. In the

afternoon, I translate with Mirza Fitrut into Hindustani, and

Corrie employs himself in teaching some native Christian boys

whom he is educating with great care, in hopes of their being

fit for the office of catechist. I have also a school on my

premises, for natives; but it is not well attended. There are

not above sixteen Hindu boys in it at present: half of them read

the Book of Genesis. At sunset we ride or drive, and then meet

at the church, where we often raise the song of praise, with as

much joy, through the grace and presence of our Lord, as you do

in England. At ten we are all asleep. Thus we go on. To the

hardships of missionaries we are strangers, yet not averse, I

trust, to encounter them when we are called. My work at present

is evidently to translate; hereafter I may itinerate. Dear

Corrie, I fear, never will, he always suffers from moving about

in the daytime. But I should have said something about my

health, as I find my death was reported at Cambridge. I thank

God I am perfectly well, though not very strong in my lungs;

they do not seem affected yet, but I cannot speak long without

uneasiness. From the nature of my complaint, if it deserves the

name, it is evident that England is the last place I should go

to. I should go home only to find a grave. How shall I

therefore ever see you more on this side of eternity? Well! be

it so, since such is the will of God: we shall meet, through

grace, in the realms of bliss.

I am truly sorry to see my paper fail. Write as often as

possible, every three months at least. Tell me where you go, and

whom you see and what you read.

_August 17._--I am sorry to conclude with saying that my

yesterday's boasted health proved a mistake; I was seized with

violent sickness in the night, but to-day am better. Continue to

pray for me, and believe me to be, your ever affectionate,

H. MARTYN.

_September 22._--Was walking with Lydia; both much affected, and

speaking on the things dearest to us both. I awoke, and behold

it was a dream. My mind remained very solemn and pensive; shed

some tears; the clock struck three, and the moon was riding near

her highest noon; all was silence and solemnity, and I thought

with some pain of the sixteen thousand miles between us. But

good is the will of the Lord, if I see her no more.

TO LYDIA GRENFELL

From the Ganges: October 6, 1810.

My dearest Lydia,--Though I have had no letter from you very

lately, nor have anything particular to say, yet having been

days on the water without a person to speak to, tired also with

reading and thinking, I mean to indulge myself with a little of

what is always agreeable to me, and sometimes good for me; for

as my affection for you has something sacred in it, being

founded on, or at least cemented by, an union of spirit in the

Lord Jesus; so my separation also from you produced a deadness

to the world, at least for a time, which leaves a solemn

impression as often as I think of it. Add to this, that as I

must not indulge the hope of ever seeing you again in this

world, I cannot think of you without thinking also of that

world where we shall meet. You mention in one of your letters my

coming to England, as that which may eventually prove a duty.

You ought to have added, that in case I do come, you will

consider it a duty not to let me come away again without you.

But I am not likely to put you to the trial. Useless as I am

here, I often think I should be still more so at home. Though my

voice fails me, I can translate and converse. At home I should

be nothing without being able to lift my voice on high. I have

just left my station, Cawnpore, in order to be silent six

months. I have no cough, or any kind of consumption, except that

reading prayers, or preaching, or a slight cold, brings on pain

in the chest. I am advised therefore to recruit my strength by

rest. So I am come forth, with my face towards Calcutta, with an

ulterior view to the sea. Nothing happened at Cawnpore, after I

wrote to you in September but I must look to my _Journal_.

I think of having my portrait taken in Calcutta, as I promised

Mr. Simeon five years ago. Sabat's picture would also be a

curiosity. Yesterday I carried Col. Wood to dine with me, at the

Nabob Bahir Ali's. Sabat was there. The Colonel, who had been

reading by the way the account of his conversion, in the Asiatic

and East Society Report, which I had given him, eyed him with no

great complacency, and observed in French, that Sabat might not

understand him, 'Il a l'air d'un sauvage.' Sabat's countenance

is indeed terrible; noble when he is pleased, but with the look

of an assassin when he is out of humour. I have had more

opportunities of knowing Sabat than any man has had, and I

cannot regard him with that interest which the 'Star in the

East' is calculated to excite in most people. Buchanan says, I

wrote (to whom I do not know) in terms of admiration and

affection about him. Affection I do feel for him, but

admiration, if I did once feel it, I am not conscious of it at

present. I tremble for everything our dear friends publish

about our doings in India, lest shame come to us and them.

_Calcutta, November 5._--A sheet full, like the preceding, I had

written, but the moment it is necessary to send off my letter I

cannot find it. That it does not go on to you is of little

consequence, but into whose hands may it have fallen? It is this

that grieves me. It was the continuance of my _Journal_ to

Calcutta, where I arrived the last day in October. Constant

conversation with dear friends here has brought on the pain in

the chest again, so that I do not attempt to preach. In two or

three weeks I shall embark for the Gulf of Persia, where, if I

live, I shall solace myself in my hours of solitude with writing

to you.

Farewell, beloved friend; pray for me, as you do, I am sure, and

doubt not of an unceasing interest in the heart and prayers of

your ever affectionate,

H. MARTYN.

Ordered away on six months' sick leave, Henry Martyn had the joy of

once at least ministering to his soldier flock in the 'new church,'

which he had induced the authorities to form out of an ordinary

bungalow. Daily and fondly had he watched the preparations, reporting

to Brown: 'My church is almost ready for the organ and the bell.' On

Sunday, September 16, he had written:

'Rain prevented me from having any service in public; the

natives not being able to sit upon the grass, I could not preach

to them.'

On Sunday, September 30, he thus took farewell of his different

congregations:

Corrie preached to the Dragoons, at nine the new church was

opened. There was a considerable congregation, and I preached

on, 'In all places where I record my name, I will come unto thee

and bless thee.' I felt something of thankfulness and joy, and

our dear friends the same. The Sherwoods and Miss Corrie stayed

with us the rest of the day. In the afternoon I preached the

Gospel to the natives for the first time, giving them a short

account of the life, death, miracles, manner of teaching, death

and resurrection of Jesus, then the doctrines of His religion,

and concluded with exhorting them to believe in Him, and taking

them to record that I had declared to them the glad tidings that

had come to us, and that if they rejected it I was clear from

their blood, and thus I bid them farewell.

Mrs. Sherwood thus describes the scene:

On the Sunday before Mr. Martyn left the church was opened, and

the bell sounded for the first time over this land of darkness.

The church was crowded, and there was the band of our regiment

to lead the singing and the chanting. Sergeant Clarke--our

Sergeant Clarke--had been appointed as clerk; and there he sat

under the desk in due form, in his red coat, and went through

his duty with all due correctness. The Rev. Daniel Corrie read

prayers, and Mr. Martyn preached. That was a day never to be

forgotten. Those only who have been for some years in a place

where there never has been public worship can have any idea of

the fearful effect of its absence, especially among the mass of

the people, who, of course, are unregenerate. Every prescribed

form of public worship certainly has a tendency to become

nothing more than a form, yet even a form may awaken reflection,

and any state is better than that of perfect deadness. From his

first arrival at the station Mr. Martyn had been labouring to

effect the purpose which he then saw completed; namely, the

opening of a place of worship. He was permitted to see it, to

address the congregation once, and then he was summoned to

depart. How often, how very often, are human beings called away,

perhaps from this world, at the moment they have been enabled to

bring to bear some favourite object. Blessed are those whose

object has been such a one as that of Henry Martyn. Alas! he was

known to be, even then, in a most dangerous state of health,

either burnt within by slow inflammation, which gave a flush to

his cheek, or pale as death from weakness and lassitude.

On this occasion the bright glow prevailed--a brilliant light

shone from his eyes--he was filled with hope and joy; he saw the

dawn of better things, he thought, at Cawnpore, and most

eloquent, earnest, and affectionate was his address to the

congregation. Our usual party accompanied him back to his

bungalow, where, being arrived, he sank, as was often his way,

nearly fainting, on a sofa in the hall. Soon, however, he

revived a little, and called us all about him to sing. It was

then that we sang to him that sweet hymn which thus begins:

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.

We all dined early together, and then returned with our little

ones to enjoy some rest and quiet; but when the sun began to

descend to the horizon we again went over to Mr. Martyn's

bungalow, to hear his _last_ address to the _fakeers_. It was

one of those sickly, hazy, burning evenings, which I have before

described, and the scene was precisely such a one as I have

recounted above. Mr. Martyn nearly fainted again after this

effort, and when he got to his house, with his friends about

him, he told us that he was afraid he had not been the means of

doing the smallest good to any one of the strange people whom he

had thus so often addressed. He did not even then know of the

impression he had been enabled to make, on one of these

occasions, on Sheikh Saleh. On the Monday our beloved friend

went to his boats, which lay at the Ghaut, nearest the bungalow;

but in the cool of the evening, however, whilst Miss Corrie and

myself were taking the air in our tonjons, he came after us on

horseback. There was a gentle sadness in his aspect as he

accompanied me home; and Miss Corrie came also. Once again we

all supped together, and united in one last hymn. We were all

low, very, very low; we could never expect to behold again that

face which we then saw--to hear again that voice, or to be again

elevated and instructed by that conversation. It was impossible

to hope that he would survive the fatigue of such a journey as

he meditated. Often and often, when thinking of him, have these

verses, so frequently sung by him, come to my mind:

E'er since by faith I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply,

Redeeming love has been my theme,

And shall be till I die.

Then, in a nobler, sweeter song,

I'll sing Thy power to save,

When this poor lisping, stammering tongue

Is silent in the grave.

Henry Martyn's continued to be the military church of Cawnpore till

1857, when it was destroyed in the Mutiny. Its place has been taken

by a Memorial Church which visibly proclaims forgiveness and peace

on the never-to-be forgotten site of Wheeler's entrenchment--consecrated

ground indeed!

On October 1 he left Cawnpore, 'after a parting prayer with my dearest

brother Corrie,'[38] to whom he wrote from Allahabad:

Thus far we are come in safety; but my spirits tell me that I

have parted with friends. Your pale face as it appeared on

Monday morning is still before my eyes, and will not let me be

easy till you tell me you are strong and prudent. The first

night there blew a wind so bleak and cold, through and through

my boat and bed, that I rose, as I expected, with a pain in the

breast, which has not quite left me, but will, I hope, to-night,

when I shall take measures for expelling it. There is a gate not

paid for yet belonging to the churchyard, may you always go

through it in faith and return through it with praise. You are

now in prayer with our men. The Lord be with you, and be always

with you, dearest brother.

Ministering to all who needed his services, in preaching, baptizing,

and marrying, on his way down the great Ganges, at Benares, at

Ghazipore, where he met with 'the remains' of his old 67th regiment,

at Bhagulpore, and at Bandel, where he called on the Roman Catholics,

on November 12 he at last came to Aldeen.

Children jumping, shouting, and convoying me in troops to the

house. They are a lovely family indeed, and I do not know when I

have felt so delighted as at family worship last night. To-day

Mr. Brown and myself have been consulting at the Pagoda.

After four years' absence he seemed a dying man to his Serampore and

Calcutta friends, Brown, Thomason, Udny, and Colonel Young of Dinapore

memory. But he was ever cheerful, and he preached every Sunday for

five weeks, though in his _Journal_ we find this on November 21:

Caught a cold, and kept awake much of the night by a cough. From

this day perhaps I may date my decay. Nature shrinks from

dissolution, and conscience trembles at the thought of a

judgment to come. But I try to rejoice in God through our Lord

Jesus Christ.

_November 25._ (Sunday.)--Preached at the old church, on 'While

Paul reasoned of righteousness,' etc. The Governor-General, Lord

Minto, was present, desiring, as was supposed, to abolish the

distinction which had been made between the two churches. One

passage in my sermon appeared to some personal, and on

reconsideration I thought it so myself, and was excessively

distressed at having given causeless offence, and perhaps

preventing much good. Lord! pardon a blind creature. How much

mischief may I do through mere thoughtlessness!

_December 2._--Preached at eight, on 'Grace reigns,' and was

favoured with strength of body and joy of heart in proclaiming

the glorious truth.

_December 25._--Preached, with much comfort to myself, on 'God

so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son,' etc. Mr.

Brown on 'Let your light so shine before men,' etc. The whole

sum collected about seven thousand rupees. At night Mr. Thomason

on 'Through the tender mercy of our God, whereby the dayspring

from on high hath visited us.' This day how many of those who

love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity are rejoicing in His

birth. My dear Lydia remembers me.

_December 31._--Had a long dispute with Marshman, which brought

on pain in the chest.

He opened the year 1811 by preaching for the new Calcutta Auxiliary of

the British and Foreign Bible Society his published sermon on

Christian India and the Bible, to be read in the light of his own

translation work hereafter. He thus on the same day committed himself

to the future in the spirit of St. Paul:

_1811._--The weakness which has come upon me in the course of

the last year, if it should not give an entire new turn to my

life, is likely to be productive of events in the course of the

present year which I little expected, or at least did not expect

so soon. I now pass from India to Arabia, not knowing what

things shall befall me there; but assured that an ever-faithful

God and Saviour will be with me in all places whithersoever I

go. May He guide and protect me, and after prospering me in the

thing whereunto I go, bring me back again to my delightful work

in India. It would be a painful thought indeed, to suppose

myself about to return no more. Having succeeded, apparently,

through His blessing, in the Hindustani New Testament, I feel

much encouraged, and could wish to be spared in order to finish

the Bible.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] _The Life of Mrs. Sherwood_ (chiefly autobiographical), edited by

her Daughter. London, 1854.

[33] 'He was at that time married to his seventh wife; that is,

according to his own account. Ameena was a pretty young woman, though

particularly dark for a purdah-walla, or one, according to the Eastern

custom, who is supposed always to sit behind a purdah, or curtain. She

occupied the smaller bungalow, which adjoined the larger by a long,

covered passage. Our children often went to see her whilst they were

at Mr. Martyn's, and I paid her one formal visit. I found her seated

on the ground, encircled by cushions within gauze mosquito-curtains,

stretched by ropes from the four corners of the hall. In the daytime

these curtains were twisted and knotted over her head, and towards the

night they were let down around her, and thus she slept where she had

sat all day. She had one or two women in constant attendance upon her,

though her husband was a mere subordinate. These Eastern women have

little idea of using the needle, and very few are taught any other

feminine accomplishment. Music and literature, dancing and singing,

are known only to the Nautch or dancing-girls by profession. Hence,

nothing on earth can be imagined to be more monotonous than the lives

of women in the East; such, I mean, as are not compelled to servile

labour. They sit on their cushions behind their curtains from day to

day, from month to month, with no other occupation than that of having

their hair dressed, and their nails and eyelids stained, and no other

amusement than hearing the _gup_, or gossip of the place where they

may happen to be; nor is any gossip too low or too frivolous to be

unacceptable. The visits of our children and nurses were very

acceptable to Ameena, and she took much and tender notice of the baby.

She lived on miserable terms with her husband, and hated him most

cordially. She was a Mussulman, and he was very anxious to make her a

Christian, to which she constantly showed strong opposition. At

length, however, she terminated the controversy in the following

extraordinary manner: "Pray, will you have the goodness to inform me

where Christians go after death?" "To heaven and to their Saviour,"

replied Sabat. "And where do Mahometans go?" she asked. "To hell and

the devil," answered the fierce Arab. "You," said the meek wife, "will

go to heaven, of course, as being a Christian." "Certainly," replied

Sabat. "Well, then," she said, "I will continue to be a Mussulman,

because I should prefer hell and the devil without you, to heaven

itself in your presence." This anecdote was told to Mr. Martyn by

Sabat himself, as a proof of the hardened spirit of his wife.

'Ameena was, by the Arab's own account, his seventh wife. He had some

wonderful story to tell of each of his former marriages; but that

which he related of his sixth wife exceeded all the rest in the

marvellous and the romantic. He told this tale at Mr. Martyn's table

one evening, whilst we were at supper, during the week we lived in the

house. He spoke in Persian, and Mr. Martyn interpreted what he said,

and it was this he narrated: It was on some occasion, he said, in

which Fortune had played him one of her worst tricks, and reduced him

to a state of the most abject poverty, that he happened to arrive one

night at a certain city, which was the capital of some rajah, or petty

king--Sabat called this person a king. It seemed he arrived at a

crisis in which the king's only daughter had given her father some

terrible offence, and in order to be revenged upon her, the father

issued his commands that she should be compelled to take for her

husband the first stranger who arrived in the town after sunset. This

man happened to be our Arab; he was accordingly seized and subjected

to the processes of bathing and anointing with precious oil. He was

then magnificently dressed, introduced into the royal hall, and duly

married to the princess, who proved not only to be fair as the houris,

but to be quite prepared to love the husband whom Fortune had sent

her. He lived with her, he pretended, I know not how many years, and

they were perfectly happy until the princess died, and he lost the

favour of his majesty. I think that Sabat laid the scene of this

adventure in or near Agra. But this could hardly be. That such things

have been in the East--that is, that royal parents have taken such

means of avenging themselves on offending daughters--is quite certain;

but I cannot venture to assert that Sabat was telling the truth when

he made himself the hero of the tale.'

[34] Corrie and Brown.

[35] By letters written March 30 and April 19, 1810, from Cawnpore.

[36] By letter written August 14, 1810.

[37] On leaving the station Henry Martyn presented his French New

Testament to Dr. Govan, a little morocco-bound volume which his son

prizes as an heirloom.

[38] We have these reminiscences of Henry Martyn's Cawnpore from Bishop

Corrie, when, as Archdeacon of Calcutta, he again visited it. In 1824 he

writes: 'I arrived at this station on the day fourteen years after

sainted Martyn had dedicated the church. The house he occupied stands

close by. The view of the place and the remembrance of what had passed

greatly affected me.... I had to assist in administering the sacrament,

and well it was, on the whole, that none present could enter into my

feelings, or I should have been overcome.' Again: 'How would it have

rejoiced the heart of Martyn could he have had the chief authorities

associated, by order of Government, to assist him in the work of

education; and how gladly would he have made himself their servant in

the work for Jesus' sake! One poor blind man who lives in an outhouse of

Martyn's, and received a small monthly sum from him, often comes to our

house, and affords a mournful pleasure in reminding me of some little

occurrence of those times. A wealthy native too, who lived next door to

us, sent his nephew to express to me the pleasure he derived from his

acquaintance with Martyn. These are all the traces I have found of that

"excellent one of the earth" at the station.'

In 1833 Corrie was again at Cawnpore, which had two chaplains then,

and thus wrote: '_October 6._--I attended Divine service at the church

bungalow, and stood up once more in Martyn's pulpit. The place is a

little enlarged. The remembrance of Martyn and the Sherwoods, and Mary

(his sister), with the occupations of that period, came powerfully to

my recollection, and I could not prevent the tears from flowing. A

sense of the forgiving love of God, with the prospect of all joining

in thankful adoration in the realms of bliss, greatly preponderates.'