LIFE IN AMHERST.
1826-1827.
The treaty of peace was signed by the British and Burmese Commissioners
on the 24th of February, 1826. On the sixth of the following month, Mr.
and Mrs. Judson, with the infant Maria, left the English army encamped
at Yan-ta-bo. They sailed down the Irrawaddy in a British gun-boat, and
arrived at Rangoon March 21, 1826. Having at last emerged from the long
nightmare of Oriental imprisonment, Mr. Judson turned to his life-work
with undiminished ardor. The English desired to retain his valuable
services as interpreter, and offered him a salary equivalent to three
thousand dollars. But the offer was declined. Like the late Professor
Agassiz, he had “no time to make money.” He writes:
“I feel a strong desire henceforth to know nothing among this people
but Jesus Christ and Him crucified; and under an abiding sense of the
comparative worthlessness of all worldly things, to avoid every
secular occupation, and all literary and scientific pursuits, and
devote the remainder of my days to the simple declaration of the
all-precious truths of the Gospel of our great God and Saviour Jesus
Christ.”
Mrs. Judson had rapidly recovered, and was now in perfect health.
“Even little Maria,” he writes, “who came into the world a few months
after my imprisonment, to aggravate her parents’ woes, and who has
been, from very instinct, it would seem, a poor, sad, crying thing,
begins to brighten up her little face, and be somewhat sensible of our
happy deliverance.”
Dr. Price had been left behind at Ava. He had entered the service of the
Burman king. He thought it his duty to live and die in the capital city;
and proposed to open a school for teaching several branches of useful
learning, such as geography, astronomy, chemistry, etc. And he thought
that “in a few years, perhaps twenty, the whole system of Burman
religion, founded as it was on false astronomy and geography, would be
completely undermined and subverted.”
When Mr. Judson arrived at Rangoon, he found that his little mission,
the result of ten years of hard work, was completely broken up. He had
left the Wades and Houghs in charge, but the war had driven them to
Calcutta. At the very beginning of the campaign, before advancing up the
Irrawaddy River, the English army had, of course, captured Rangoon,
situated at its mouth—Burmah’s great seaport. Rangoon offered but little
resistance to the foreign invader. The missionaries, however, narrowly
escaped with their lives. As the English fleet approached the town, Mr.
Hough and Mr. Wade were arrested, imprisoned, and even put in irons. It
was in vain for them to remonstrate, saying that “they were Americans
and not English,” for Burmans were not disposed to make any such nice
distinctions. The prison-guard were ordered to massacre them upon the
discharge of the first British gun. The executioners sharpened the
instruments of death, and brandished them about the heads of the
missionaries, to show with what dexterity and pleasure they would
execute the fatal orders. The floor was strewn with sand to receive
their blood. At this moment the foundations of the prison were shaken by
a heavy broadside from Her Majesty’s ship _Liffey_, and a
thirty-two-pound shot passed with a tremendous noise directly over the
prison. The executioners, stricken with panic, threw down their knives
and fled from the prison, fastening the door, however, behind them. Soon
other Burmans came and dragged the prisoners to the place of execution.
They were forced to kneel down. The executioner, with a large knife, was
ordered to proceed. He had just lifted it to strike off the head of the
prisoner nearest him, when Mr. Hough begged permission to speak to the
officer in charge. He proposed that one or two of the prisoners be sent
to the English ships, and assured the cowardly Burman that the firing
would then cease directly. At that moment another broadside came from
the _Liffey_, and the Burman officers and men again forsook their
prisoners, and took refuge under the banks of a neighboring tank.
During all this time Mrs. Hough and Mrs. Wade had been exposed to the
greatest danger, from which they had escaped by disguising themselves as
Burman women. Over their own clothes they had put the garments of their
servants; had dressed their heads in the Burman style and blackened
their hands and faces. Meanwhile Sir Archibald Campbell had sent a
message to the governor of Rangoon: “If the Burmans shed a drop of white
blood, we will lay the whole country in ruins and give no quarter.”
The Burman officials who had been frightened from their victims by the
discharges of artillery, again seized them, and proceeded to confine
them in a brick building. Here they were at last discovered, and rescued
by the advancing British troops. Having thus narrowly escaped martyrdom,
Mr. Hough and Mr. Wade, with their wives, embarked for Calcutta, where
they thought it best to remain until the close of the war. So when Mr.
Judson returned to Rangoon he was without a missionary associate. Mr.
Wade was ready to join him as soon as he should decide as to the best
place for renewed operations; while Mr. Hough soon after entered the
service of the British Government.
But missionary reinforcements had already come from America. Mr. Wade,
while waiting in Calcutta for the war to close, was joined by George
Dana Boardman, whose brief and saintly career was destined to make his
name peculiarly fragrant to American Christians. He seemed an ideal
missionary, so completely was he fitted for his work by his scholarly
tastes, affectionate disposition, and fervent piety. He had taken up a
newspaper a little while before, and had seen a notice of Colman’s
untimely death in Arracan. In the twinkling of an eye there flashed
through his mind the question and answer: “Who will go to fill his
place?” “_I_ will go.”
He had married Sarah Hall, a native of Salem, Massachusetts. Those who
knew her speak of “faultless features, moulded on the Grecian model,
beautiful transparent skin, warm, meek blue eyes, and soft hair, brown
in the shadow and gold in the sun.” She was pronounced by her English
friends in Calcutta to be “the most finished and faultless specimen of
an American woman that they had ever known.” From her earliest years she
had possessed an enthusiasm for missions. When ten years old, she wrote
a poem upon the death at Rangoon of Mrs. Judson’s infant Roger. Little
did the child dream that many years after she was to take the place of
the ideal heroine of her childhood, who, worn out with the prolonged
horrors of Ava and Oung-pen-la, lay down to rest beneath the hopia-tree
at Amherst.
Mr. Wade and Mr. Boardman waited anxiously in Calcutta for news from the
Judsons. They did not, however, wait in idleness. They were learning the
Burman language, as best they could, and preaching in English in the
Circular Road Baptist chapel, where they were permitted to see, as a
result of their labors, many persons converted and baptized. When news
came at last from Mr. Judson, they were ready to join him and labor
wherever he should think it best.
But to return to Mr. Judson in Rangoon. Not only did he find that the
white teachers and their wives had been driven away by the war, but the
native church membership was much reduced. He had left a church of
eighteen disciples. He found on his return only four. With the exception
of two, none, however, had disgraced their holy profession.
The learned teacher, Moung Shwa-gnong, had gone into the interior of the
country, and soon afterward died of the cholera. The only four whom Mr.
Judson could muster after the war had swept over Rangoon were Moung
Shwa-ba, who had remained at the mission-house; Moung Ing, who with such
fidelity served Mrs. Judson through all her long, bitter experiences at
Ava; and two faithful women, Mah-men-la and Mah-doke, who had been
living in boats at Prome, the half-way place between Rangoon and Ava,
and who instantly resolved to accompany the Judsons to Rangoon. These
four faithful disciples were ready to follow their white teacher
wherever he should think it best to establish a mission.
It was out of the question to think of remaining at Rangoon. The English
were only holding the place temporarily, until the Burmans should pay
their war debt. Indeed, at the close of the year, the English army did
vacate Rangoon, and the Burmans resumed possession of their chief
seaport. Should the missionaries therefore remain in Rangoon, they would
still be under the cruel sway of Burman despotism. In addition, the
monarch at Ava was peculiarly exasperated with his subjects in the
southern part of the empire, because they had put themselves under the
benignant protection of the English; many of the peaceful inhabitants
were no doubt to be massacred by the royal troops. A state of anarchy
followed the war. A famine succeeded, in which beasts of prey became
proportionally bold. Tigers began to infest the suburbs of Rangoon, and
carry off cattle and human beings. A tiger was killed even in the
streets of the city. All these circumstances impelled the missionaries
to leave Rangoon.
It was now no longer necessary for them to remain there in order to
reach the native Burmans. One of the results of the war was that the
British had wrested from the Burmans a large part of their sea-coast.
The Tenasserim provinces had been ceded to the British. These embraced a
strip of country along the sea, 500 miles long, and from 40 to 80 miles
wide.[33] This country was peopled with Burmans, and the cruelty of the
despot at Ava was sure to cause a large overflow of the population of
Burmah proper into it. Here the Judsons might teach the new religion
unmolested, under the protection of the British flag.
But where upon this long strip of ceded territory should the mission be
established? Just at this time Mr. Judson was invited by Mr. Crawfurd,
the British Civil Commissioner of the new province, to accompany him on
an exploring expedition. The purpose of the expedition was to ascertain
the best location for a town, which was to be the capital of the new
territory—the seat of government and the headquarters of the army. Mr.
Judson’s acquaintance with the language of the Burmans made him an
invaluable assistant in such an enterprise, and finally Mr. Judson and
Mr. Crawfurd selected as the site for the new city the promontory where
the waters of the Salwen empty themselves into the sea. “The climate was
salubrious, the land high and bold to the seaward, and the view of the
distant hills of Ballou Island very captivating.” The town, in honor of
the Governor-General of India, was named Amherst. The proclamation
issued at the founding is quite characteristic of the state of society
at that time in Burmah:
“The inhabitants of the towns and villages who wish to come, shall be
free from molestation, extortion, and oppression. They shall be free
to worship as usual, temples, monasteries, priests, and holy men. The
people shall go and come, buy and sell, do and live as they please,
conforming to the laws. In regard to slavery, since all men, common
people or chiefs, are by nature equal, there shall be under the
English Government no slaves. Whoever desires to come to the new town
may come from all parts and live happy, and those who do not wish to
remain, may go where they please without hindrance.”
On July 2, 1826, Mr. and Mrs. Judson began their missionary life in
Amherst. They had the four faithful Rangoon converts as the nucleus of a
native church, and expected soon to be joined by Mr. and Mrs. Wade, and
Mr. and Mrs. Boardman. They were among the first settlers, and made
their home right in the very jungle. There was a prospect that the new
town would have a very rapid growth. Three hundred Burmans had just
arrived, and reported that three thousand more were on their way in
boats. It would not seem strange if in two or three years a city of
twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants should spring up on this
salubrious, wooded promontory.
But before missionary operations were fairly begun, Mr. Judson was
compelled reluctantly to visit Ava, the scene of his imprisonment. The
English Government desired to negotiate a commercial treaty with the
Burman king; and Mr. Crawfurd, the Civil Commissioner of the newly-ceded
provinces, was appointed envoy. He invited Mr. Judson to accompany him
as a member of the embassy. The missionary’s profound knowledge of the
Burman language and character well qualified him for the delicate and
difficult task of treating with the court at Ava. At first he firmly
declined. He had no relish for diplomatic occupation, and he longed to
plunge again into his own work. But when he was assured that, if he
would go as an English ambassador, every effort would be made to secure
the insertion of a clause in the treaty granting religious liberty to
the Burmans, so that the whole country would be thrown open to the
Gospel, he reluctantly consented. The stubborn intolerance of the native
Government had hitherto been the chief obstacle in his missionary work,
and religious freedom for the Burmese was a blessing for which he had
long prayed and striven in vain.
This step, which proved to be a most unfortunate one, was, however, the
result of the most mature deliberation. Mr. Judson with the English
embassy arrived in Ava September 30, 1826, and remained there about two
months and a half. This period embraces one of the saddest episodes of
his life. He was forced to witness the scene of his prolonged sufferings
in prison, and yet was separated from the wife and babe who had shared
with him those horrible experiences. He was engaged in the tedious and
uncongenial task of wrestling as a diplomat with the stupidity and
intolerance of the Burmese court. He soon learned that the king would on
no terms agree to a clause in the treaty granting his subjects freedom
of worship. And to crown his sorrows, on the 4th of November there was
placed in his hands a sealed letter, containing the intelligence that
Mrs. Judson was no more!
After the departure of her husband for Amherst, she had begun her work
with good heart. She built a little bamboo dwelling-house and two
school-houses. In one of these she gathered ten Burman children who were
placed under the instruction of faithful Moung Ing; while she herself
assembled the few native converts for public worship every Sunday. At
one time she writes:
“My female school will, I trust, soon be in operation. Then you shall
hear from me constantly.”
And again:
“After all the impediments which have retarded the progress of our
mission, after all our sufferings and afflictions, I can not but hope
that God has mercy and a blessing in store for us. Let us strive to
obtain it by our prayers and holy life.”
But in the midst of these sacred toils she was smitten with fever. Her
constitution, undermined by the hardships and sufferings which she had
endured, could not sustain the shock, and on October 24, 1826, in the
37th year of her age, she breathed her last. The hands so full of holy
endeavors were destined to be suddenly folded for rest. She died apart
from him to whom she had given her heart in her girlhood, whose
footsteps she had faithfully followed for fourteen years, over land and
sea, through trackless jungles and strange crowded cities, sharing his
studies and his privations, illumining his hours of gloom with her
beaming presence, and with a heroism and fidelity unparalleled in the
annals of missions, soothing the sufferings of his imprisonment. He whom
she had thus loved, and who, from his experience of Indian fever, might
have been able to avert the fatal stroke, was far away in Ava. No
missionary was with her when she died, to speak words of Christian
consolation. The Burman converts like children gathered helplessly and
broken-heartedly about their _white mamma_. The hands of strangers
smoothed her dying pillow, and their ears received her last faint
wandering utterances. Under such auspices as these her white-winged
spirit took its flight to the brighter scenes of the new Jerusalem.
In a letter to the Corresponding Secretary, Rev. Dr. Bolles, Mr. Judson
wrote:
“So far, therefore, as I had a view to the attainment of religious
toleration in accompanying the embassy, I have entirely failed. I feel
the disappointment more deeply on account of the many tedious delays
which have already occurred, and which we anticipate during our
return; so that, instead of four or five months, I shall be absent
from home seven or eight.
“But, above all, the news of the death of my beloved wife has not only
thrown a gloom over all my future prospects, but has forever
embittered my recollections of the present journey, in consequence of
which I have been absent from her dying bed, and prevented from
affording the spiritual comfort which her lonely circumstances
peculiarly required, and of contributing to avert the fatal
catastrophe which has deprived me of one of the first of women, the
best of wives.
“I commend myself and motherless child to your sympathy and prayers.”
But when writing to the mother of his beloved wife, he describes still
more fully the sorrowful experience through which he passed:
_To Mrs. Hasseltine, of Bradford, Mass._
“AVA, _December_ 7, 1826.
“DEAR MOTHER HASSELTINE: This letter, though intended for the whole
family, I address particularly to you; for it is a mother’s heart that
will be most deeply interested in its melancholy details. I propose to
give you, at different times, some account of my great, irreparable
loss, of which you will have heard before receiving this letter.
“I left your daughter, my beloved wife, at Amherst, the 5th of July
last, in good health, comfortably situated, happy in being out of the
reach of our savage oppressors, and animated in prospect of a field of
missionary labor opening under the auspices of British protection. It
affords me some comfort that she not only consented to my leaving her,
for the purpose of joining the present embassy to Ava, but uniformly
gave her advice in favor of the measure, whenever I hesitated
concerning my duty. Accordingly I left her. On the 5th of July I saw
her for the last time. Our parting was much less painful than many
others had been. We had been preserved through so many trials and
vicissitudes, that a separation of three or four months, attended with
no hazards to either party, seemed a light thing. We parted,
therefore, with cheerful hearts, confident of a speedy reunion, and
indulging fond anticipations of future years of domestic happiness.
After my return to Rangoon, and subsequent arrival at Ava, I received
several letters from her, written in her usual style, and exhibiting
no subject of regret or apprehension, except the declining health of
our little daughter, Maria. Her last was dated the 14th of September.
She says, ‘I have this day moved into the new house, and, for the
first time since we were broken up at Ava, feel myself at home. The
house is large and convenient, and if you were here I should feel
quite happy. The native population is increasing very fast, and things
wear rather a favorable aspect. Moung Ing’s school has commenced with
ten scholars, and more are expected. Poor little Maria is still
feeble. I sometimes hope she is getting better; then again she
declines to her former weakness. When I ask her where papa is, she
always starts up and points toward the sea. The servants behave very
well, and I have no trouble about anything, excepting you and Maria.
Pray take care of yourself, particularly as it regards the
intermittent fever at Ava. May God preserve and bless you, and restore
you in safety to your new and old home, is the prayer of your
affectionate Ann.’
“On the 3d of October, Captain F., civil superintendent of Amherst,
writes, ‘Mrs. Judson is extremely well.’ Why she did not write herself
by the same opportunity, I know not. On the 18th, the same gentleman
writes, ‘I can hardly think it right to tell you that Mrs. Judson has
had an attack of fever, as before this reaches you she will, I
sincerely trust, be quite well, as it has not been so severe as to
reduce her. This was occasioned by too close attendance on the child.
However, her cares have been rewarded in a most extraordinary manner,
as the poor babe at one time was so reduced that no rational hope
could be entertained of its recovery; but at present a most favorable
change has taken place, and she has improved wonderfully. Mrs. Judson
had no fever last night, so that the intermission is now complete.’
The tenor of this letter was such as to make my mind quite easy, both
as it regarded the mother and the child. My next communication was a
letter with a black seal, handed me by a person, saying he was sorry
to have to inform me of the death of the child. I know not whether
this was a mistake on his part, or kindly intended to prepare my mind
for the real intelligence. I went into my room, and opened the letter
with feelings of gratitude and joy, that at any rate the mother was
spared. It was from Mr. B., assistant superintendent of Amherst, dated
the 26th of October, and began thus:
“‘MY DEAR SIR: To one who has suffered so much, and with such
exemplary fortitude, there needs but little preface to tell a tale of
distress. It were cruel indeed to torture you with doubt and suspense.
To sum up the unhappy tidings in a few words, _Mrs. Judson is no
more_.’
“At intervals I got through with the dreadful letter, and proceed to
give you the substance as indelibly engraven on my heart:
“‘Early in the month she was attacked with a most violent fever. From
the first she felt a strong presentiment that she should not recover,
and on the 24th, about eight in the evening, she expired. Dr. R. was
quite assiduous in his attentions, both as friend and physician.
Captain F. procured her the services of a European woman from the 45th
regiment; and be assured all was done to comfort her in her
sufferings, and to smooth the passage to the grave. We all deeply feel
the loss of this excellent lady, whose shortness of residence among us
was yet sufficiently long to impress us with a deep sense of her worth
and virtues. It was not until about the 20th that Dr. R. began
seriously to suspect danger. Before that period the fever had abated
at intervals; but its last approach baffled all medical skill. On the
morning of the 23d, Mrs. Judson spoke for the last time. The disease
had then completed its conquest, and from that time up to the moment
of dissolution, she lay nearly motionless, and apparently quite
insensible. Yesterday morning I assisted in the last melancholy office
of putting her mortal remains in the coffin, and in the evening her
funeral was attended by all the European officers now resident here.
We have buried her near the spot where she first landed, and I have
put up a small, rude fence around the grave, to protect it from
incautious intrusions. Your little girl, Maria, is much better. Mrs.
W. has taken charge of her, and I hope she will continue to thrive
under her care.’
“Two days later, Captain Fenwick writes thus to a friend in Rangoon:
“‘I trust that you will be able to find means to inform our friend of
the dreadful loss he has suffered. Mrs. Judson had slight attacks of
fever from the 8th or 9th instant, but we had no reason to apprehend
the fatal result. I saw her on the 18th, and at that time she was free
from fever, scarcely, if at all, reduced. I was obliged to go up the
country on a sudden business, and did not hear of her danger until my
return on the 24th, on which day she breathed her last, at 8 P.M. I
shall not attempt to give you an account of the gloom which the death
of this most amiable woman has thrown over our small society. You, who
were so well acquainted with her, must feel her loss more deeply; but
we had just known her long enough to value her acquaintance as a
blessing in this remote corner. I dread the effect it will have on
poor Judson. I am sure you will take every care that this mournful
intelligence may be opened to him as carefully as possible.’
“The only other communication on this subject that has reached me, is
the following line from Sir Archibald Campbell to the envoy: ‘Poor
Judson will be dreadfully distressed at the loss of his good and
amiable wife. She died the other day at Amherst, of remittent fever,
eighteen days ill.’
“You perceive that I have no account whatever of the state of her
mind, in view of death and eternity, or of her wishes concerning her
darling babe, whom she loved most intensely. I hope to glean some
information on these points from the physician who attended her, and
the native converts who must have been occasionally present.
“I will not trouble you, my dear mother, with an account of my own
private feelings—the bitter, heart-rending anguish, which for some
days would admit of no mitigation, and the comfort which the Gospel
subsequently afforded—the Gospel of Jesus Christ, which brings life
and immortality to light. Blessed assurance—and let us apply it afresh
to our hearts,—that, while I am writing and you perusing these lines,
her spirit is resting and rejoicing in the heavenly paradise,—
“‘Where glories shine, and pleasures roll
That charm, delight, transport the soul;
And every panting wish shall be
Possessed of boundless bliss in Thee.’
And there, my dear mother, we also shall soon be, uniting and
participating in the felicities of heaven with her for whom we now
mourn. ‘Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’”
“AMHERST, _February_ 4, 1827.
“Amid the desolation that death has made, I take up my pen once more
to address the mother of my beloved Ann. I am sitting in the house she
built, in the room where she breathed her last, and at a window from
which I see the tree that stands at the head of her grave, and the top
of the ‘small rude fence’ which they have put up ‘to protect it from
incautious intrusion.’
“Mr. and Mrs. Wade are living in the house, having arrived here about
a month after Ann’s death; and Mrs. Wade has taken charge of my poor
motherless Maria. I was unable to get any accounts of the child at
Rangoon; and it was only on my arriving here, the 24th ultimo, that I
learned she was still alive. Mr. Wade met me at the landing-place, and
as I passed on to the house one and another of the native Christians
came out, and when they saw me they began to weep. At length we
reached the house; and I almost expected to see my love coming out to
meet me, as usual. But no; I saw only in the arms of Mrs. Wade a poor
little puny child, who could not recognize her weeping father, and
from whose infant mind had long been erased all recollection of the
mother who had loved her so much.
“She turned away from me in alarm, and I, obliged to seek comfort
elsewhere, found my way to the grave. But who ever obtained comfort
there? Thence I went to the house in which I left her, and looked at
the spot where we last knelt in prayer and where we exchanged the
parting kiss.
“The doctor who attended her has removed to another station, and the
only information I can obtain is such as the native Christians are
able to communicate.
“It seems that her head was much affected during her last days, and
she said but little. She sometimes complained thus: ‘The teacher is
long in coming; and the new missionaries are long in coming; I must
die alone, and leave my little one; but as it is the will of God, I
acquiesce in His will. I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid I
shall not be able to bear these pains. Tell the teacher that the
disease was most violent, and I could not write; tell him how I
suffered and died; tell him all that you see; and take care of the
house and things until he returns.’ When she was unable to notice
anything else, she would still call the child to her, and charge the
nurse to be kind to it, and indulge it in everything, until its father
shall return. The last day or two she lay almost senseless and
motionless, on one side, her head reclining on her arm, her eyes
closed; and at eight in the evening, with one exclamation of distress
in the Burman language, she ceased to breathe.
“_February 7._ I have been on a visit to the physician who attended
her in her illness. He has the character of a kind, attentive, and
skillful practitioner; and his communications to me have been rather
consoling. I am now convinced that everything possible was done, and
that, had I been present myself, I could not have essentially
contributed to avert the fatal termination of the disease. The doctor
was with her twice a day, and frequently spent the greater part of the
night by her side. He says that, from the first attack of the fever,
she was persuaded she could not recover; but that her mind was
uniformly tranquil and happy in the prospect of death. She only
expressed occasional regret at leaving her child and the native
Christian schools before her husband, or another missionary family,
could arrive. The last two days she was free from pain. On her
attention being roused by reiterated questions, she replied, ‘I feel
quite well, only very weak.’ These were her last words.
“The doctor is decidedly of opinion that the fatal termination of the
fever is not to be ascribed to the localities of the new settlement,
but chiefly to the weakness of her constitution, occasioned by the
severe privations and long-protracted sufferings she endured at Ava.
O, with what meekness, and patience, and magnanimity, and Christian
fortitude she bore those sufferings! And can I wish they had been
less? Can I sacrilegiously wish to rob her crown of a single gem? Much
she saw and suffered of the evil of this evil world, and eminently was
she qualified to relish and enjoy the pure and holy rest into which
she has entered. True, she has been taken from a sphere in which she
was singularly qualified, by her natural disposition, her winning
manners, her devoted zeal, and her perfect acquaintance with the
language, to be extensively serviceable to the cause of Christ; true,
she has been torn from her husband’s bleeding heart and from her
darling babe; but infinite wisdom and love have presided, as ever, in
this most afflicting dispensation. Faith decides that it is all right,
and the decision of faith eternity will soon confirm.
“I have only time to add—for I am writing in great haste, with very
short notice of the present opportunity of sending to Bengal—that poor
little Maria, though very feeble, is, I hope, recovering from her long
illness. She began indeed to recover while under the care of the lady
who kindly took charge of her at her mother’s death; but when, after
Mr. Wade’s arrival, she was brought back to this house, she seemed to
think that she had returned to her former home, and had found in Mrs.
Wade her own mother. And certainly the most tender, affectionate care
is not wanting to confirm her in this idea.”
Mr. Judson returned to Amherst January 24, 1827. The native Christians
greeted him with the voice of lamentation, for his presence reminded
them of the great loss they had sustained in the death of Mrs. Judson.
His hearth was desolate. His motherless babe had been tenderly cared for
by Mrs. Wade. Mr. and Mrs. Wade had arrived from Calcutta about two
months before, and with them Mr. Judson made his temporary home. Two
months later Mr. and Mrs. Boardman arrived, so that the missionary force
was increased to five. The little native church of four members was,
however, reduced by the departure of Moung Ing. This poor fisherman, who
had been Mrs. Judson’s faithful companion at Ava, had, of his own
accord, conceived the purpose of undertaking a missionary excursion to
his late fishing-grounds, Tavoy and Mergui, towns south of Amherst,
situated on the Tenasserim coast. He was henceforth to be a fisher of
men.
Mr. Boardman, in speaking of his first meeting with Mr. Judson, said,
“He looks as if worn out with sufferings and sorrows.” He did not,
however, neglect his missionary work. He met the Burmans for public
worship on Sunday, and each day at family worship new inquirers stole in
and were taught the religion of Christ. He was also busily employed in
revising the New Testament in several points which were not
satisfactorily settled when the translation was made; for his besetting
sin was, as he himself described it, “a lust for finishing.” He
completed two catechisms for the use of Burman schools, the one
astronomical, the other geographical, while his sorrowful heart sought
comfort in commencing a translation of the Book of Psalms.
Little Maria was the solace of his studies. But she, too, was taken from
him. “On April 24, 1827,” he writes, “my little daughter Maria breathed
her last, aged two years and three months, and her emancipated spirit
fled, I trust, to the arms of her fond mother.”
Mr. Boardman, who had only just arrived from Calcutta, constructed a
coffin, and made all the preparations for the funeral. At nine o’clock
the next day little Maria was placed by her mother’s side beneath the
hopia-tree. “After leaving the grave,” Mr. Boardman writes, “we had a
delightful conversation on the kindness and tender mercies of our
heavenly Father. Brother Judson seemed carried above his grief.”
And so at the age of thirty-nine he found himself alone in the world,
bereft of his wife and two children.
To Mrs. Hasseltine he wrote:
“AMHERST, _April_ 26, 1827.
“My little Maria lies by the side of her fond mother. The complaint to
which she was subject several months proved incurable. She had the
best medical advice; and the kind care of Mrs. Wade could not have
been, in any respect, exceeded by that of her own mother. But all our
efforts, and prayers, and tears could not propitiate the cruel
disease; the work of death went forward, and after the usual process,
excruciating to a parent’s heart, she ceased to breathe on the 24th
instant, at 3 o’clock P.M., aged two years and three months. We then
closed her faded eyes, and bound up her discolored lips, where the
dark touch of death first appeared, and folded her little hands on her
cold breast. The next morning we made her last bed in the small
enclosure that surrounds her mother’s lonely grave. Together they rest
in hope, under the hope-tree (_hopiá_), which stands at the head of
the graves; and together, I trust, their spirits are rejoicing after a
short separation of precisely six months.
“And I am left alone in the wide world. My own dear family I have
buried; one in Rangoon, and two in Amherst. What remains for me but to
hold myself in readiness to follow the dear departed to that blessed
world,
“‘Where my best friends, my kindred dwell,
Where God, my Saviour, reigns.’”
The time had now come when the little mission established at Amherst,
with such doleful omens, was to be broken up. Amherst was being rapidly
eclipsed by the town of Maulmain, situated on the coast about
twenty-five miles farther north, at the very mouth of the Salwen.
Maulmain was also a new town, the settlers building their houses right
in a thick jungle. But within a year of the first settlement, while the
number of houses in Amherst amounted to two hundred and thirty, and the
population to twelve hundred, the population of Maulmain had rapidly
swelled to twenty thousand. The reason for this growth was an
unfortunate misunderstanding between the Civil Commissioner, Mr.
Crawfurd, and the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Archibald Campbell.
The latter made Maulmain instead of Amherst the headquarters of his
army. He regarded Maulmain as a more strategical position. The harbor,
too, of Amherst, though spacious, and capable of accommodating ships of
large burden, was difficult of access, and, being farther out from the
mouth of the Salwen than Maulmain, was dangerous during the southwest
monsoon. The presence of the commander-in-chief and of his army at
Maulmain, naturally attracted emigration thither, and it soon became
apparent that this town instead of Amherst was to be the metropolis of
the ceded provinces of Tenasserim. Accordingly it seemed best to
transfer the mission to Maulmain. On May 28, 1827, Mr. and Mrs. Boardman
removed thither from Amherst, and took possession of a frail bamboo
mission-house, situated about a mile south of the cantonments of the
English army. The site for the mission had been presented by Sir
Archibald Campbell. “It was a lonely spot, and the thick jungle close at
hand was the haunt of wild beasts whose howls sounded dismally on their
ears in the nighttime.”
On the 10th of August Mr. Judson left Amherst, and the little enclosure,
the hope-tree, and the graves which contained the mouldering remains of
all that were dearest to him on earth. He joined the Boardmans at
Maulmain, and on the 14th of November was followed by Mr. and Mrs. Wade,
and the native Christians, together with thirteen native school
children. Mah-men-la, however, the first female convert among the
Burmans, had already been laid to rest by the side of her _white mamma_.
The following pathetic description of her death is from Mr. Judson’s
journal:
“She was taken ill before I left Amherst. When her case became
dangerous, she was removed to the mission-house, after which she
indulged but little hope of recovery. She therefore made her will, and
gave up every worldly care. In her will she bequeathed fifty rupees to
her brother, the husband of Mah Doke, one hundred and fifty to the
missionaries, and the remainder (two hundred, perhaps,) to her two
adopted boys. She has left the boys in our charge, most earnestly
desiring and praying that they may be brought up in the Christian
religion. No one influenced her to give us any part of her little
property, nor had we the least idea that she intended to do so until
she desired Moung Shwa-ba to write an article to that effect.
“When her will was written, she said, ‘Now I have done with all
worldly things.’ Since that, she has enjoyed great peace of mind. She
does not express a doubt that her name is written in heaven, and that
she is hastening to a blissful immortality. She suffers considerable
pain with much patience, and, in order to fortify her mind, often
compares her sufferings to those of her divine Master. She is not
inclined to converse much; but how delighted _you_ would be to hear
her, now and then, talk of entering heaven, and _of meeting Mrs.
Judson_, and other pious friends! The other day, after having dwelt
for some time on the delightful subject, and mentioned the names of
all the friends she should rejoice to meet, not omitting _dear little
Maria_, she stopped short and exclaimed, ‘But first of all, I shall
hasten to where my Saviour sits, and fall down, and worship and adore
Him, for His great love in sending the teachers to show me the way to
heaven.’ She says that she feels a choice in her mind to die now
rather than to be restored to health, but desires that the will of God
may be done. She was much gratified with your letter to-day, and more
reconciled to the idea of not seeing you again on earth. I feel it a
pleasure to do anything for her, she is so grateful and affectionate.”
Sorrows do not come as single spies, but by battalions. Six months
intervened between the deaths of Mrs. Judson and little Maria, and
within three months of the burial of the latter, even before leaving
Amherst, Mr. Judson heard of the death of his venerable father, who
departed this life at Scituate, Massachusetts, November 26, 1826, in the
seventy-fifth year of his age. Mr. Judson writes these words of comfort
to the beloved ones in the distant homestead at Plymouth:
“MAULMAIN, _December_ 13, 1827.
“MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER: Yours of the 5th February last reached me
a few days ago, and gave me the particulars of that solemn event which
has laid the venerable head of our family in the silent dust. ‘Death,
like an over-flowing stream, sweeps us away’ into the ocean of
eternity. You have heard, from my letters of December 7, ’26, and May
3, ’27, of the ravages which death has made in my own dear family. I
am left alone in this wide wilderness, to wait all the days of my
appointed time, till my own change come. I pray earnestly that you may
both enjoy much of the divine presence, in your solitary, bereaved
circumstances, and that both you and I may be preparing, under the
repeated strokes of our heavenly Father’s hand, to follow the dear
departed ones, and enter upon the high enjoyment of everlasting life.”
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Footnote 33:
See Map II.