CHAPTER XI.

VISIT TO AMERICA.

1845-1846.

While thus plodding on in his gigantic task of compiling a Burman

dictionary, Mr. Judson found it necessary to embark on a voyage to his

native land. Thirty-two years had elapsed since the memorable nineteenth

of February, 1812, when he and Mrs. Judson had stood on the deck of the

brig _Caravan_, and watched the rocky shores of New England fade out of

their sight. The young man of twenty-four had become a veteran of

fifty-seven. Again and again he had been invited by the Board to revisit

his beloved native land and recruit his wasting forces, but he had

steadily declined. More than five years before, he had received the

following urgent invitation from the Corresponding Secretary:

“BAPTIST MISSIONARY ROOMS, BOSTON, _December_ 18, 1839.

“MY DEAR BROTHER: At the meeting of the Board on the 2d instant, your

letter to Mr. Lincoln, of May 1, having been read, it was unanimously

resolved to invite you to revisit this country, with a view to the

restoration of your health. The invitation was intended to extend to

your wife and children, should you judge it advisable for them to

accompany you.

“This resolution, it gives me much pleasure to add, was adopted not

only with great cordiality, but with many expressions of the kindest

interest and sympathy, and with the universal desire that, if your

health should continue as it was at the date of your letter, you would

comply with it by the earliest opportunity. It is due not only to you,

but to us, and to the general cause of missions, that all suitable

means be employed to re-establish your health, and no considerations

of expense or obloquy, incurred by the frequent return of

missionaries, should deter you from adopting them.

“You will perceive that, in making this proposal, the Board have no

respect to the good which might result from your personal intercourse

with them, or others who are interested in missions, but which, they

trust, would be of great service to them and to the cause at large.

The _main_ object would be gained if, by a double voyage, your health

should be so far restored as to enable you to continue your labors at

the desk, and for at least a few years longer supervise the

publication of the Scriptures and such other works as your knowledge

of Burman and of the Burmese character peculiarly qualify you to

prepare.

“May the God of missions guide you by His good Spirit in all your way,

and of His great goodness restore and preserve your health and

usefulness for a long time yet to come.

“Affectionately and truly yours,

“S. PECK, For. Sec.”

Nevertheless the faithful missionary had worked patiently on, refusing

to leave his field. At last, however, a return to America became

imperative in order to preserve Mrs. Judson’s life. After the birth of

two children, Charles,[58] born December 18, 1843, and Edward, born

December 27, 1844, her health rapidly declined. She had taken several

short journeys along the coast without receiving any permanent benefit.

On one of these trips she was accompanied by her eldest child, Abby, who

was about ten years old, and also by the little invalid, Charlie. Mr.

Judson with his four boys, Adoniram, Elnathan, Henry, and the infant

Edward, were left behind at Maulmain. A glimpse of the missionary’s

home-life is afforded in a letter which Abby received on this occasion

from her absent father:

“MAULMAIN, _March_ 9, 1845.

“MY DEAR DAUGHTER: Your letters to me and your brothers, together with

the shells from Mergui, arrived this afternoon in the Burmese box,

which mamma sent by the steamer. The boys are delighted with the

shells, and Henry has picked out some for his own; and they have

agreed to give me for my share the large coral shell. They have

already written some letters to you, and mamma, and Charlie, which I

shall send by return of steamer; and perhaps they will add some more,

as this is such a favorable opportunity. It is now between eight and

nine o’clock in the evening. I have had a little meeting with Adoniram

and Elnathan, and now they are asleep. Edward has become a fat little

fellow; I am sure you would not know him again. He begins to look

pleased when he is played with. But he has not yet made any inquiries

about his absent mother and sister. Indeed, I doubt much whether he is

aware that he has any such relatives. Or if he ever exercises his mind

on such abstruse topics, perhaps he fancies that black Ah-mah is his

mother, since she nurses him, and does not know what a fair,

beautiful, fond mother he has at Mergui, who thinks of him every day.

However, when he gets larger, we will tell him all about these

matters.

“I am getting the carpenters to make a new cot for you, longer than

your old one. That I have given to Adoniram, and his to Elnathan. Both

the kittens are dead, and the old yellow cat has been missing for

several days. She was very thin, and apparently very ill, when we last

saw her. So I suppose she crept away into some secret place and lay

down and died. Alas! poor pussy!

“I pray every day that somewhere during your travels with dear mamma

you may receive a blessing from God, so that you will return a true

Christian, and set such an example before your brothers as will induce

them to try to follow your steps. Think of the dear Saviour every day,

and frequently lift up your heart in fervent prayer to God, that He

will give you His converting, sanctifying grace, and make you His own

child. Try to subdue every evil passion, and avoid all bad conduct.

_If you trust in the Saviour and try to be good, He will make you

good._ In your daily deportment and intercourse with others, remember

these two lines:

“‘Sweet in _temper_, _face_, and _word_,

To please an ever-present Lord.’

“Your affectionate father.

“Love to dear Charlie.”

But, as has already been stated, these short trips along the Tenasserim

coast[59] proved quite unavailing. Mrs. Judson’s condition was almost

desperate, and the only hope of saving this precious life lay in a

voyage to America. Her husband writes sadly to the Corresponding

Secretary:

“The hand of God is heavy upon me. The complaint to which Mrs. Judson

is subject has become so violent that it is the unanimous opinion of

all the medical men, and indeed of all our friends, that nothing but a

voyage beyond the tropics can possibly protract her life beyond the

period of a few weeks, but that such a voyage will, in all

probability, insure her recovery. All medical skill has been

exhausted. She has spent six weeks with our commissioner and his lady

in a trip down the coast, touching at Tavoy and Mergui, and returned

weaker and nearer the grave than when she set out. She is willing to

die, and I hope I am willing to see her die, if it be the Divine will;

but though my wife, it is no more than truth to say that there is

scarcely an individual foreigner now alive who speaks and writes the

Burmese tongue so acceptably as she does; and I feel that an effort

ought to be made to save her life. I have long fought against the

necessity of accompanying her; but she is now so desperately weak, and

almost helpless, that all say it would be nothing but savage

inhumanity to send her off alone. The three younger children, the

youngest but three months and a half old, we must leave behind us,

casting them, as it were, on the waters, in the hope of finding them

after many days. The three elder, Abby Ann, Adoniram, and Elnathan, we

take with us, to leave in their parents’ native land. These rendings

of parental ties are more severe, and wring out bitterer tears from

the heart’s core, than any can possibly conceive who have never felt

the wrench. But I hope I can say with truth that I love Christ above

all; and I am striving, in the strength of my weak faith, to gird up

my mind to face and welcome all His appointments. And I am much helped

to bear these trials by the advice and encouragement of all my dear

brethren and sisters of the mission.

“It is another great trial to leave my dear church and people. I never

knew till now how much I loved them, and how much they loved me.

“‘And ’tis to love, our farewells owe

All their emphasis of woe.’

“But I leave them in the hands of my dear brethren, and there are no

persons in the world to whom I should be so willing to commit so dear

a charge....

“Another great trial, not so much as it regards feeling as it regards

the anticipated result of long-protracted labor, is the interruption

which the heavy work of the Burmese dictionary, in which I have been

engaged for two or three years, must sustain; and such is the state of

my manuscripts, that if I should die before this work is completed, or

at least carried forward to a much more advanced stage, all my

previous labor would be nearly or quite lost. But I am endeavoring to

obviate this difficulty in some degree, by taking with me my two

assistants in that department, whose hearts God has graciously

inclined to leave their families and accompany me. They are both

Christians, the one a settled character, a convert of long standing,

formerly a Government writer in Rangoon; the other a nephew of the

late premier of the court of Ava, a person of noble extraction, and

though not a tried Christian, I hope a sincere one. And it is my

purpose to devote some hours every day, whether on the sea or land, to

the work mentioned. I shall be induced to persevere in this purpose

while in America, from the fact that I am unable to travel about the

country as an agent and preach in the English language. The course

that I have uniformly pursued, ever since I became a missionary, has

been rather peculiar. In order to become an acceptable and eloquent

preacher in a foreign language, I deliberately abjured my own. When I

crossed the river, I burned my ships. For thirty-two years I have

scarcely entered an English pulpit or made a speech in that language.

Whether I have pursued the wisest course, I will not contend; and how

far I have attained the object aimed at, I must leave for others to

say. But whether right or wrong, the course I have taken can not be

retraced. The burned ships can not now be reconstructed. From long

desuetude, I can scarcely put three sentences together in the English

language.[60] I must therefore beg the Board to allow me a quiet

corner, where I can pursue my work with my assistants undisturbed and

unknown.

“This request I am induced to urge from the further consideration that

my voice, though greatly recovered from the affection of the lungs,

which laid me aside from preaching nearly a year, is still so weak

that it can only fill a small room; and whenever I attempt to raise it

above the conversational tone, the weak place gives way, and I am

quite broken down again for several weeks. I hope, therefore, that no

one will try to persuade me to be guilty of such imprudence while in

America; but since there are thousands of preachers in English, and

only five or six Burmese preachers in the whole world, I may be

allowed to hoard up the remnant of my breath and lungs for the country

where they are most needed.”...

On April 26, 1845, Mr. and Mrs. Judson, with the three elder children,

Abby, Adoniram, and Elnathan, embarked on the ship _Paragon_ bound for

London. They were accompanied by two Burman assistants, as it was Mr.

Judson’s purpose to spend a portion of each day upon the Burman

dictionary. The three younger children, Henry, Charles, and Edward, as

has been said, were left behind in the tender care of the missionaries

at Maulmain. The first part of the voyage was so rough that the vessel

sprang aleak, and the captain determined to put in at the Isle of

France; and on July 5th the ship, with its precious freight, arrived at

Port Louis. Mrs. Judson had so far improved in health that the two

missionaries formed the purpose of separating, as it was thought that

Mrs. Judson would now be able to continue the voyage to America alone,

while Mr. Judson should return to his work in Maulmain. It would be hard

to find a parallel for this instance of heroic self-sacrifice. Of these

two returning missionaries, one was a poor, shattered invalid,

consenting to forego her beloved husband’s society and to take the long

westward journey in solitude; the other relinquishing the prospect of

again seeing his native land after an absence of thirty-three years, and

leaving the side of his sick wife the moment his presence seemed no

longer indispensable, that he might resume his labors among the

perishing Burmans. It was under these circumstances that Mrs. Judson

wrote the pathetic lines which shall be recited for a memorial of her

wheresoever the Gospel shall be preached in the whole world:

“We part on this green islet, love,—

Thou for the eastern main,

I for the setting sun, love,

O, when to meet again!

“My heart is sad for thee, love,

For lone thy way will be;

And oft thy tears will fall, love,

For thy children and for me.

“The music of thy daughter’s voice

Thou’lt miss for many a year;

And the merry shout of thine elder boys

Thou’lt list in vain to hear.

“When we knelt to see our Henry die,

And heard his last, faint moan,

Each wiped the tear from other’s eye;

Now each must weep alone.

“My tears fall fast for thee, love;

How can I say, Farewell!

But go; thy God be with thee, love,

Thy heart’s deep grief to quell.

“Yet my spirit clings to thine, love;

Thy soul remains with me,

And oft we’ll hold communion sweet

O’er the dark and distant sea.

“And who can paint our mutual joy,

When, all our wanderings o’er,

We both shall clasp our infants three

At home, on Burmah’s shore!

“But higher shall our raptures glow,

On yon celestial plain,

When the loved and parted here below

Meet, ne’er to part again.

“Then gird thine armor on, love,

Nor faint thou by the way.

Till Buddh shall fall, and Burmah’s sons

Shall own Messiah’s sway.”

The two native assistants were therefore sent back to Maulmain, and Mr.

Judson expected to follow them as soon as he had seen Mrs. Judson fairly

on board ship for America. But she experienced a severe relapse, which

reduced her strength lower than ever before; and Mr. Judson was soon

convinced that it would be impossible for him to leave her, and,

although he bitterly regretted the loss of his assistants, he felt

obliged, after spending three weeks in the Isle of France, to re-embark

with Mrs. Judson. They took passage with Captain Codman, of the ship

_Sophia Walker_, which was bound directly for the United States. On the

25th of July they sailed from Port Louis, and after a time Mrs. Judson

again appeared to be recovering. But the appearance proved deceptive.

There came another dreadful relapse, which soon terminated in death.

“In the cold weather off the Cape of Good Hope,” Mr. Judson writes,

“my hopes became again very sanguine. But she never really recovered

from her last prostration, and, though sometimes better, continued, on

the whole, to decline, until we neared St. Helena, when I gave up all

hope of her recovery. She lingered a few days, while the vessel was

detained in port, until the 1st instant, when, at three o’clock in the

morning, she obtained her release from further suffering, and entered,

I trust, into the joy of her Lord. She was buried in the afternoon of

the same day; and in the evening we were again at sea.”

Fuller details of this mournful event are given in the appended letter

and obituary notice written by Mr. Judson in a letter to a friend at

Port Louis:

“ON PASSAGE FROM ST. HELENA, _September_ 2, 1845.

“MY DEAR FRIEND: I shall have no opportunity of sending this till

after my arrival in the United States; so that you will probably have

heard of Mrs. Judson’s death before receiving this line. I was so

overwhelmed with my distress while at St. Helena, that it never

occurred to me to write a line to any of my friends. My dear wife

continued to decline after leaving the Isle of France. Neither the

best medical advice, nor the most careful nursing on my part, nor any

change of climate, seemed to have much salutary effect. When we

reached St. Helena I had given up all hope of her recovery. That took

place on the 26th of August. The vessel remained a few days. She

lingered along till the first, that is, yesterday, at three o’clock in

the morning, when her spirit took its final flight. The body was

carried on shore in the afternoon, and interred in the public

burial-ground, by the side of Mrs. Chater, long a missionary at

Ceylon, who died on her passage home. The funeral was attended by a

crowd of friends, though we were entire strangers in the place. We

were surprised to find several pious persons under the pastoral care

of the Rev. Mr. Bertram, an excellent, zealous missionary. They took

me and the children to their houses and their hearts, and their

consoling conversation and sympathizing prayers, in the hour of my

distress, afforded wonderful relief. Would you believe that these

pious friends and the captain of our ship defrayed all the expenses of

the funeral? They even had mourning suits made for the children, and

sent off to the ship! But I was obliged to leave them all the same

evening; and this morning, the rock of the ocean, where reposes all

that is mortal of my dear, dear wife, was out of sight. And O, how

desolate my cabin appears, and how dreary the way before me! But I

have the great consolation that she died in peace, longing to depart

and be with Christ. She had some desire, being on her passage home, to

see her parents, and relatives, and friends, after twenty years’

absence; but the love of Christ sustained her to the last. When near

dying, I congratulated her on the prospect of soon beholding the

Saviour in all His glory; and she eagerly replied, ‘What can I want

beside?’... May we who remain have grace to follow those who, through

faith, inherit the promises.”

_Obituary of Mrs. Sarah B. Judson._

“Sarah Boardman Judson was born at Alstead, in the State of New

Hampshire, November 4, 1803. She was the eldest child of Ralph and

Abiah Hall. While Sarah was but a child, her parents removed from

Alstead to Danvers, and subsequently to Salem, in the State of

Massachusetts. In the latter place she received her education, and

continued to reside until she was married to the Rev. George Dana

Boardman, July 4, 1825, with whom she embarked in the same month for

the East Indies, to join the American missionaries in Burmah. After

residing some time at Calcutta and at Maulmain, they settled at Tavoy,

April 1, 1828. During her residence in Calcutta and Tavoy she had

three children, of whom one only, George Dana Boardman, Jr., born

August 18, 1828, survives her. She lost her husband February 11, 1831,

and was married again to Adoniram Judson, of Maulmain, April 10, 1834.

At Maulmain she became the mother of eight children, of whom five

survive her. After the birth of her last child, in December, 1844, she

was attacked with chronic diarrhœa, from which she had suffered much

in the early part of her missionary life. When, in the progress of the

disease, it became evident that nothing but a long voyage and an

entire change of climate could save her life, she embarked, with her

husband and three elder children, for the United States, April 26,

1845. The voyage was at first attended with encouraging results, but

finally proved unavailing, and she departed this life on shipboard, in

the port of St. Helena, September 1, 1845.

“Like multitudes in the highly-favored land of her nativity, she was

blessed with early religious advantages, and in her youth became the

subject of serious impressions. When about sixteen years of age,

during a revival of religion in Salem, she entertained a hope,

received baptism at the hands of her pastor, the Rev. Dr. Bolles, and

became a member of his church. Her religious attainments, however,

were not of a distinguished order, and though her amiable disposition

and her deep interest in missions, especially after her acquaintance

with Mr. Boardman, gave her an elevated tone of character, she

subsequently felt that at that period she hardly deserved the name of

a sincere Christian. And it was not until she was called to part with

her eldest child, at Tavoy, in 1829, and to pass through scenes of

great danger and suffering during the Tavoy rebellion, that she was

enabled to live a life of faith on the Son of God.

“‘Sweet affliction, sweet affliction,

That brings near to Jesus’ feet.’

“In regard to her missionary qualifications and labors, I may state

that she applied herself with great assiduity to the study of the

Burmese language, in which, in conversation, prayer, and writing, she

acquired an uncommon degree of correctness, fluency, and power. She

was in the habit of conducting a prayer-meeting of the female members

of the church every week, and also another meeting for the study of

the Scriptures. Her acquaintance with, and attachment to, the Burmese

Bible were rather extraordinary. She professed to take more pleasure

and derive more profit from the perusal of that translation than from

the English, and to enjoy preaching in the native chapel more than in

any other. Her translation of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ part first,

into Burmese, is one of the best pieces of composition which we have

yet published. Her translation of Mr. Boardman’s ‘Dying Father’s

Advice’ has become one of our standard tracts; and her hymns in

Burmese, about twenty in number, are probably the best in our ‘Chapel

Hymn Book’—a work which she was appointed by the mission to edit.

Besides these works, she published four volumes of Scripture

questions, which are in constant use in our Sabbath-schools. The last

work of her life, and one which she accomplished in the midst of

overwhelming family cares, and under the pressure of declining health,

was a series of Sunday cards, each accompanied with a short hymn,

adapted to the leading subject of the card.

“Besides her acquaintance with the Burmese language, she had, in past

years, when there was no missionary in the Peguan department, acquired

a competent knowledge of that language, and translated, or

superintended the translation of the New Testament and the principal

Burmese tracts into Peguan. But when a missionary was appointed to

that department, she transferred her work to him, and gladly confined

herself to the Burmese.

“Something, also, might be said with regard to her labors in the Karen

wilderness east of Tavoy, especially during the years of her

widowhood, when she made toilsome journeys among the mountains,

sometimes amid drenching rains, and always with many privations, and

where, notwithstanding that she was wholly opposed to the principle of

females acting the part of ministers, she was frequently obliged to

conduct worship in the Karen assemblies.

“Her bereaved husband is the more desirous of bearing this testimony

to her various attainments, her labors, and her worth, from the fact

that her own unobtrusive and retiring disposition always led her to

seek the shade, as well as from the fact that she was often brought

into comparison with one whose life and character were uncommonly

interesting and brilliant. The memoir of his first beloved wife has

been long before the public. It is, therefore, most gratifying to his

feelings to be able to say, in truth, that the subject of this notice

was, in every point of natural and moral excellence, the worthy

successor of Ann H. Judson. He constantly thanks God that he has been

blessed with two of the best of wives; he deeply feels that he has not

improved these rich blessings as he ought, and it is most painful to

reflect that, from the peculiar pressure of the missionary life, he

has sometimes failed to treat those dear beings with that

consideration, attention, and kindness which their situation in a

foreign heathen land ever demanded.

“But, to show the forgiving and grateful disposition of the subject of

this brief sketch, and somewhat to elucidate her character, he would

add that, a few days before her death, he called her children to her

bedside, and said, in their hearing, ‘I wish, my love, to ask pardon

for every unkind word or deed of which I have ever been guilty. I feel

that I have, in many instances, failed of treating you with that

kindness and affection which you have ever deserved.’ ‘O,’ said she,

‘you will kill me if you talk so. It is I that should ask pardon of

you; and I only want to get well that I may have an opportunity of

making some return for all your kindness, and of showing you how much

I love you.’

“This recollection of her dying bed leads me to say a few words

relative to the closing scenes of her life. After her prostration at

the Isle of France, where we spent three weeks, there remained but

little expectation of her recovery. Her hope had long been fixed on

the Rock of Ages, and she had been in the habit of contemplating death

as neither distant nor undesirable. As it drew near, she remained

perfectly tranquil. No shade of doubt, or fear, or anxiety, ever

passed over her mind. She had a prevailing preference to depart and be

with Christ. ‘I am longing to depart,’ and ‘What can I want beside?’

quoting the language of a familiar hymn, were the expressions which

revealed the spiritual peace and joy of her mind; yet, at times, the

thought of her native land, to which she was approaching, after an

absence of twenty years, and a longing desire to see once more her son

George, her parents, and the friends of her youth, drew down her

ascending soul, and constrained her to say, ‘I am in a strait betwixt

two—let the will of God be done.’

“In regard to her children she ever manifested the most surprising

composure and resignation, so much so that I was once induced to say,

‘You seem to have forgotten the little ones we have left behind.’ ‘Can

a mother forget?’ she replied, and was unable to proceed. During her

last days she spent much time in praying for the early conversion of

her children. May her living and her dying prayers draw down the

blessing of God on their bereaved heads.

“On our passage homeward, as the strength of Mrs. Judson gradually

declined, I expected to be under the painful necessity of burying her

in the sea. But it was so ordered by divine Providence, that, when the

indications of approaching death had become strongly marked, the ship

came to anchor in the port of St. Helena. For three days she continued

to sink rapidly, though her bodily sufferings were not very severe.

Her mind became liable to wander; but a single word was sufficient to

recall and steady her recollection. On the evening of the 31st of

August she appeared to be drawing near to the end of her pilgrimage.

The children took leave of her, and retired to rest. I sat alone by

the side of her bed during the hours of the night, endeavoring to

administer relief to the distressed body and consolation to the

departing soul. At two o’clock in the morning, wishing to obtain one

more token of recognition, I roused her attention, and said, ‘Do you

still love the Saviour?’ ‘O, yes,’ she replied, ‘I ever love the Lord

Jesus Christ.’ I said again, ‘Do you still love me?’ She replied in

the affirmative, by a peculiar expression of her own. ‘Then give me

one more kiss’; and we exchanged that token of love for the last time.

Another hour passed, life continued to recede, and she ceased to

breathe. For a moment I traced her upward flight, and thought of the

wonders which were opening to her view. I then closed her sightless

eyes, dressed her, for the last time, in the drapery of death, and

being quite exhausted with many sleepless nights, I threw myself down

and slept. On awaking in the morning, I saw the children standing and

weeping around the body of their dear mother, then, for the first

time, inattentive to their cries. In the course of the day a coffin

was procured from the shore, in which I placed all that remained of

her whom I had so much loved; and after a prayer had been offered by a

dear brother minister from the town, the Rev. Mr. Bertram, we

proceeded in boats to the shore. There we were met by the colonial

chaplain, and accompanied to the burial-ground by the adherents and

friends of Mr. Bertram, and a large concourse of the inhabitants. They

had prepared the grave in a beautiful, shady spot, contiguous to the

grave of Mrs. Chater, a missionary from Ceylon, who had died in

similar circumstances on her passage home. There I saw her safely

deposited, and in the language of prayer, which we had often presented

together at the throne of grace, I blessed God that her body had

attained the repose of the grave and her spirit the repose of

Paradise. After the funeral, the dear friends of Mr. Bertram took me

to their houses and their hearts; and their conversation and prayers

afforded me unexpected relief and consolation. But I was obliged to

hasten on board ship, and we immediately went to sea. On the following

morning no vestige of the island was discernible in the distant

horizon. For a few days, in the solitude of my cabin, with my poor

children crying around me, I could not help abandoning myself to

heart-breaking sorrow. But the promises of the Gospel came to my aid,

and faith stretched her view to the bright world of eternal life, and

anticipated a happy meeting with those beloved beings whose bodies are

mouldering at Amherst and St. Helena.

“I exceedingly regret that there is no portrait of the second, as of

the first Mrs. Judson. Her soft blue eye, her mild aspect, her lovely

face, and elegant form have never been delineated on canvas. They must

soon pass away from the memory even of her children, but they will

remain forever enshrined in her husband’s heart.

“To my friends at St. Helena I am under great obligation. I desire to

thank God for having raised up in that place a most precious religious

interest. The friends of the Redeemer rallied around an evangelical

minister immediately on his arrival, and within a few months several

souls were added to their number. Those dear, sympathizing, Christian

friends received the body of the deceased from my hands as a sacred

deposit, united with our kind captain, John Codman, Jr., of

Dorchester, in defraying all the expenses of the funeral, and promised

to take care of the grave, and see to the erection of the gravestones

which I am to forward, and on which I propose to place the following

inscription:

“‘Sacred to the memory of Sarah B. Judson, member of the American

Baptist mission to Burmah, formerly wife of the Rev. George D.

Boardman, of Tavoy, and lately wife of the Rev. Adoniram Judson, of

Maulmain, who died in this port, September 1, 1845, on her passage to

the United States, in the forty-second year of her age, and in the

twenty-first of her missionary life.

“‘She sleeps sweetly here, on this rock of the ocean,

Away from the home of her youth,

And far from the land where, with heartfelt devotion,

She scattered the bright beams of truth.’”

“Mournfully, tenderly,

Bear onward the dead,

Where the Warrior has lain,

Let the Christian be laid;

No place more befitting,

Oh, Rock of the sea!

Never such treasure

Was hidden in thee!

“Mournfully, tenderly,

Solemn and slow.—

Tears are bedewing

The path as ye go;

Kindred and strangers

Are mourners to-day;

Gently—so, gently—

Oh, bear her away.

“Mournfully, tenderly,

Gaze on that brow;

Beautiful is it

In quietude now!

One look—and then settle

The loved to her rest,

The ocean beneath her,

The turf on her breast.

“So have ye buried her—

Up!—and depart,

To life and to duty,

With undismayed heart!

Fear not; for the love

Of the stranger will keep

The casket that lies

In the Rock of the deep.

“Peace, peace to thy bosom,

Thou servant of God!

The vale thou art treading

Thou hast before trod:

Precious dust thou hast laid

By the Hopia-tree,

And treasure as precious

In the Rock of the sea.”[61]

------------------

I.

[Illustration: Fac-Simile of Mrs. Sarah B. Judson’s Handwriting.]

II.

[Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF MRS. SARAH B. JUDSON’S HANDWRITING.]

As there is no portrait in existence of Mrs. SARAH B. JUDSON, the above

fac-smile of her handwriting may interest the reader. These verses, from

Moore, were written by her on the fly-leaf of a small volume of

devotional poems, published at Philadelphia in 1828, presented by her to

her husband. Many of the poems in this little book bear the marks of Mr.

Judson’s pencil as being of peculiar interest to him. Among those marked

is the following:

＋ THE REFUGE.

Art thou oppressed or reviled?

Then act but like a simple child,

Who does not dare the point contest,

But hastens to its mother’s breast;

Bows in submission to her laws,

And leaves her to support its cause.

Thus to thy blessed Saviour flee;

Stand still! thy God shall fight for thee.

[Illustration:

FAC-SIMILE OF MR. JUDSON’S HANDWRITING.

The above inscription was written by Mr. Judson on the fly-leaf of a

volume of Burmese Hymns, compiled by Mrs. Sarah B. Judson, and

presented by him to a lady in New York.

]

------------------

The _Sophia Walker_, with Mr. Judson and his three children on board,

arrived at Boston October 15, 1845. The missionary who had been so long

absent from his native land felt considerable anxiety before going on

shore as to where he should secure suitable lodgings in the city. He

little dreamed that every home would be thrown open to him, and that

soon his progress from city to city would almost assume the proportions

of a triumphal march. He was ill prepared for such an enthusiastic

greeting. He naturally shrank from observation. He was in exceedingly

delicate health. His pulmonary difficulty prevented his speaking much

above a husky whisper. He had so long used a foreign tongue that it was

hard work for him to form sentences in English. He could address an

audience only at second-hand, whispering his words to a speaker at his

side, who would convey them to the ears of the hearers. Naturally humble

and shy, he found it exceedingly distasteful to be publicly harangued

and eulogized. On one occasion, an eye-witness[62] relates that while

the returned missionary was listening to words of eloquent praise

addressed to him in the presence of a great concourse of people, “his

head sank lower and lower until the chin seemed to touch his breast.” He

wrote to the Corresponding Secretary: “My chief object in writing is to

beg that I may be excused from attending any more such meetings until I

get a little better. I expect to be in Boston to-morrow, and shall want

two or three days for some necessary business, and propose to go to

Worcester on Friday or Saturday; and if I could spend next Sabbath alone

in some chamber, I should feel it a great privilege, both as a

refreshment to the soul and a relief to the body.”

He had come home to find that his native country was almost a strange

land. The railroad system had sprung into existence during his absence.

He entered the cars at Worcester one day, and had just taken his seat,

when a boy came along with the daily newspapers.[63] He said to Mr.

Judson, “Do you want a paper, sir?” “Yes, thank you,” the missionary

replied, and taking the paper began to read. The newsboy stood waiting

for his pay until a lady passenger, occupying the same seat with Mr.

Judson, said to him, “The boy expects to be paid for his paper.” “Why,”

replied the missionary, with the utmost surprise, “I have been

distributing papers gratuitously in Burmah so long that I had no idea

the boy was expecting any pay.”

He often disappointed public assemblies by declining to relate his own

adventures, telling instead the old story of the cross. A lady thus

describes an address which he made in the little country church in

Eaton, New York:

“After the usual sermon was over, he spoke for about fifteen minutes,

with singular simplicity, and, as I thought, with touching pathos, of

the ‘precious Saviour,’ what He has done for us, and what we owe to

Him. As he sat down, however, it was evident, even to the most

unobservant eye, that most of the listeners were disappointed. After

the exercises were over, several persons inquired of me, frankly, why

Dr. Judson had not talked of something else; why he had not told a

story, etc., etc.; while others signified their disappointment by not

alluding to his having spoken at all. On the way home, I mentioned the

subject to him.

“‘Why, what did they want?’ he inquired; ‘I presented the most

interesting subject in the world, to the best of my ability.’

“‘But they wanted something different—a story.’

“‘Well, I am sure I gave them a story—the most thrilling one that can

be conceived of.’

“‘But they had heard it before. They wanted something new of a man who

had just come from the antipodes.’

“‘Then I am glad to have it to say, that a man coming from the

antipodes had nothing better to tell than the wondrous story of Jesus’

dying love. My business is to preach the Gospel of Christ, and when I

can speak at all, I dare not trifle with my commission. When I looked

upon those people to-day, and remembered where I should next meet

them, how could I stand up and furnish food to vain curiosity—tickle

their fancies with amusing stories, however decently strung together

on a thread of religion? That is not what Christ meant by preaching

the Gospel. And then, how could I hereafter meet the fearful charge,

“I gave you one opportunity to tell them of me—you spent it in

describing your own adventures!”’”

The following reminiscence of Mr. Judson’s preaching in Plymouth has

been kindly contributed by the Rev. Dr. D. W. Faunce, now of Washington,

D. C.:

“The old church was crowded, and I was able to find a seat only in a

corner of the gallery. Shall I confess my disappointment, at first,

when a slim, worn man, with a weary voice, rose in the pulpit after

the pastor had conducted the opening exercises, and gave out his text,

‘_These are they that follow the Lamb_.’

“Trained in a religious household, where missionary names, and

especially those of Judson and Rice, were familiar words, somehow, in

my boyish fancy I had thought of him as a great orator, with a loud

voice and commanding tones, who would sweep down all before him with a

resistless eloquence. Hence my disappointment. But as he went on, in

simple language, to unfold his thought, and repeated over and over

again his one theme, _pleasing Jesus_, somehow I forgot all about

eloquence. There stole over me, a boy convert of only a few months’

standing, a great tenderness. Was this venerated man influenced in all

he had done by the simple thought of _pleasing Jesus_? Well, then,

might not I, boy as I was, strive to please Jesus also? My eyes began

to fill, and my heart was in my throat. Was there anything I could do

to please Jesus? A hundred times since, the single simple thought of

that sermon has come to me, and the memory of that summer afternoon in

the corner of the gallery, and the scene and the words have been an

inspiration. And if that is eloquence which gets its thought written

imperishably upon the heart of an auditor, then the simple, almost

childlike words of that hour were truly eloquent.”

Mr. Judson’s movements in this country were chronicled alike by the

secular and religious newspapers. His toils and sufferings had made his

name a household word among all Christians, and wherever he went, the

churches were crowded with people who desired to see and to hear

America’s pioneer missionary. On the evening of the second day after his

arrival, a meeting was held in the Bowdoin Square church, Boston. The

following words of welcome were spoken by Dr. Sharp:

“There are some feelings,” said Dr. Sharp, “which are too sacred for

public utterance. There are sentiments of respect and regard which,

when whispered to the ear, or spoken in the privacy of confidential

intercourse, are pleasant and refreshing as the breath of spring, but

which lose their fragrance in the atmosphere of a public assembly.

Were I to express my own feelings toward yourself—my admiration, my

confidence, my gratitude, my regard—I should say many things that in

this assembly would seem out of place. I may, however, without

violating Christian propriety, speak _in behalf_ of the public in the

_presence_ of the public.

“I may say, without the semblance of flattery or adulation, the

denomination have cherished a deep, and affectionate, and grateful

interest in your labors. They have wondered at your steady and

unfaltering perseverance; they have admired your disinterested and

self-denying course; and they have tenderly sympathized with you, and

prayed for you, when they heard of your personal sufferings, your

imprisonment, and loss of personal liberty, and when they have heard

of those greater losses, to which, in the death of loved and cherished

ones, you have been subjected. And they have rejoiced with you, not,

indeed, that _all_ your work was done, but that a glorious work was

done, when, in humble prostration before the beneficent Author of

revelation, you devoutly thanked Him that you had completed the

translation of the Holy Scriptures in the Burman language. That was a

memorable day, not only in the history of your own life, but in the

history of missions.

“We can only pray, dear brother, that, after a still more extended and

critical knowledge of the Burman language, the result of patient and

laborious study and research, your life may be prolonged to revise and

amend your translation of those soul-sanctifying and soul-comforting

truths which tell with wondrous power in any language in which a

version of them is given. Your prosecution of that other great work,

to which your mind, and pen, and days are given—a Burman dictionary—at

the completion of which you may well rest from your labors, will aid

you greatly in giving your last correcting touch to the Burman

Scriptures. Our prayer will be, in submission to God’s will, that you

may live until you have sent out to the world the volumes which will

not only shed their radiant light on the Scriptures, but will quicken

and elevate the common mind of India.

“And now, dear brother, withdrawn as you have been, by an afflictive

dispensation of Providence, from your chosen and loved labors, allow

me to say, in behalf of your ministering brethren, and other brethren

and friends: We welcome you to your native land; we welcome you to the

scenes of your early and manly youth; we welcome you to our

worshipping assemblies; we welcome you to our hearts. As the

representative of the ministers and private Christians present, I give

to you this hand of cordial welcome, of sympathy, of approbation, and

of love. And I believe, could all our denomination be collected in one

vast assembly, they would request and empower some one to perform this

service for them; or, rather, each one would prefer to give this

significant token of love, and respect, and good wishes, for himself.

Were it possible, and could your strength hold out, and your hand bear

the grasp and the cordial shake of so many, I could wish that every

one who loves the Bible and missions might be his own representative,

and give to you, as I do, the hand of an honest, unchanging, and

cordial good-will.”

And at the close, Mr. Judson rose to reply, Dr. Hague standing at his

side and interpreting to the multitude these whispered utterances:

“Through the mercy of God I am permitted to stand before you here this

evening a pensioner of your bounty. I desire to thank you for all your

sympathy and aid, and I pray God’s blessing to rest upon you.... All

that has been done in Burmah has been done by the churches, through

the feeble and unworthy instrumentality of myself and my brethren....

It is one of the severest trials of my life not to be able to lift up

my voice, and give free utterance to my feelings before this

congregation; but repeated trials have assured me that I can not

safely attempt it. And I am much influenced by the circumstance that

it was a request of my wife, in her dying hour, that I would not

address public meetings on my arrival.... I will only add, that I beg

your prayers for the brethren I have left in Burmah; for the feeble

churches we have planted there; and that the good work of God’s grace

may go on until the world shall be filled with His glory.”

When he had finished, Dr. Hague continued to address the audience in an

eloquent strain until the thread of his address was strangely

interrupted. A man had pressed his way through the crowded aisles and

had ascended the pulpit. He and Mr. Judson embraced each other with

tears of joy and affection. It was Samuel Nott, Jr., the only survivor,

except Mr. Judson, of that group of seminary students who had conceived

the stupendous idea of American foreign missions. He was one of the five

who had first gone to India, but had been compelled to return to America

on account of ill health, and now, after a separation of thirty-three

years, was permitted to meet his former fellow-student under these

circumstances of thrilling interest. Mr. Nott addressed the meeting,

with much emotion, and said:

“More than thirty years ago he gave his brother the right hand of

fellowship, and when he became a Baptist it was not withdrawn. One

reflection most solemnly impressed him—of the five who went out to

India, three are dead. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the

word of our God shall stand forever. In a little while they would all

be gone, and every agency now employed pass away; but God’s word will

stand fast, and prevail over all the earth. He then referred to the

small beginning of the American Board, as well as the Baptist, their

trust in God, and the present great and glorious work which is

exhibited to us in contrast. The missionary movement in this country

originated simultaneously in different hearts; the spirit of the Most

High, and not human influence, gave it birth. He deemed it a very

trifling question whether Adoniram Judson or Samuel J. Mills was the

originator of foreign missions. Samuel Nott, Jr., certainly was not.

They were all mere boys, but with God’s blessing on their puerile

efforts, they had begun an influence which is spreading over the

world.”

In November Mr. Judson visited Providence, the seat of Brown University,

where he had been graduated about forty years before, with the highest

honors. A public meeting was held in the old First Baptist church, which

was filled to overflowing. Prayer was offered by Dr. Granger, the pastor

of the church, and Dr. Wayland made an address. Mr. Judson then said a

few words, which were interpreted to the audience by Dr. Caswell:

“The first wish of his heart was to express, in behalf of himself and

his missionary brethren, his deep sense of gratitude to the church

usually worshipping in that house, as one of the foremost of the

Baptist churches in the work of missions, and especially for their

contributions to the support of the pastor of the native church in

Rangoon. In the early part of his residence in Rangoon, a Burman

philosopher, attended by his pupils, on their way to a neighboring

pagoda, was wont to pass the place where he lived and from which he

instructed the people. On one occasion the philosopher was stopped by

the crowd gathered about him, and his eye accidentally fell upon the

first tract that was published in the Burmese language, the opening

words of which announced the existence of a _living, eternal God_.

These significant words arrested his whole attention, and he stood a

long time, as in profound thought, his whole soul absorbed with the

great truth which they taught. To himself, as well as the whole

nation, this was a new idea, and it led to a long course of study and

investigation, which finally resulted in the renunciation of the

religion of his country, and the adoption of Christianity.

“He was baptized, and commenced a course of zealous labor as a

Christian teacher. He soon became obnoxious to the Government, and was

tried and condemned to death. But before the day of execution came on,

he effected his escape, and fled from the city. Since that time he had

never seen him, nor learned any particulars of his life, but had

frequently heard of him through persons who came a long distance from

the interior in search of tracts and Bibles, having been awakened to

inquiry, and converted to the Christian faith, by his instructions.

The native pastor, to whom reference had been made, was once a pupil

of this Burman philosopher, and afterward his disciple in the better

school of Christian truth. After this interesting allusion to this

signal instance of the effect of Christian missions, Dr. Judson

observed that for more than thirty-three years he had been living in

the midst of a people of practical atheists, whose sole object of

worship was the image of a being called Gaudama, who had lived some

two thousand years ago.

“The image of this being they were taught to worship from their

earliest infancy; mothers bringing to it their little children in

their arms, and teaching them to clasp it with the affection of

infantile devotion. Through the blessing of God much good had been

done, multitudes converted, and churches formed; and nothing but the

toleration of Government seemed wanting to give the blessings of

Christianity to the whole nation. On returning to his native land

after so long an absence, he saw on all sides much to admire and love;

but he must confess that the conversion of one immortal soul on those

heathen shores awakened within him deeper emotion than all the beauty

of this glorious land. The greatest favor he could ask of his

Christian friends was, to permit him to return as soon as possible to

his home on the banks of the Salwen; those banks from which he had led

so many happy converts into the baptismal waters; those banks which

had so often resounded with the notes of a baptismal song, composed by

her whom he had so lately lost, who had now left her task of making

hymns on earth for the higher and better one of singing with angels

and ransomed spirits that ‘new song of Moses and the Lamb.’ ‘May it be

ours,’ were the last words of the speaker, ‘to meet her there at last,

and join that holy throng whom no man can number, who rest not day and

night, saying, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!’”

The missionary organization which had sustained Mr. Judson in Burmah for

so many years, opened its triennial convention in New York city on the

19th of November, 1845. The occasion was one never to be forgotten.

Services were held in the Baptist Tabernacle, and Mr. Judson was

present. Dr. Cone offered some appropriate resolutions of sympathy and

welcome, and then, taking Mr. Judson by the hand, he introduced him to

Dr. Wayland, the President of the Convention, as _Jesus Christ’s man_.

In the presence of the vast and deeply-affected concourse, Dr. Wayland

gave the veteran missionary a most impressive welcome:

“It is with no ordinary feelings, my beloved brother, that I rise to

discharge the duty imposed upon me by the resolution which you have

this moment heard. My own heart assures me that language is inadequate

to express the sentiments of your brethren on the present occasion.

“Thirty-three years since, you and a few other servants of the most

high God, relying simply upon His promises, left your native land to

carry the message of Christ to the heathen. You were the first

offering of the American churches to the Gentiles. You went forth amid

the sneers of the thoughtless, and with only the cold and reluctant

consent of many of your brethren. The general voice declared your

undertaking fanatical, and those who cowered under its rebuke drew

back from you in alarm. On the voyage your views respecting Christian

ordinances became changed, and this change gave rise to the convention

now in session before you.

“When at length you arrived in India, more formidable obstacles than

those arising from paganism were thrown in your path. The mightiest

empire that the world has ever seen, forbade every attempt to preach

Christ to the countless millions subjected to her sway, and ordered

you peremptorily from her shores. Escaping from her power, you took

refuge in the Isle of France, and at last, after many perils, arrived

at Rangoon, where, out of the reach of Christian power, you were

permitted to enter upon your labors of love.

“After years of toil you were able to preach Christ to the Burmans,

and men began to inquire after the eternal God. The intolerance of the

Government then became apparent, and you proceeded to Ava to plead the

cause of toleration before the emperor. Your second attempt was

successful, and permission was granted to preach the Gospel in the

capital itself. But how inscrutable are the ways of Providence! Your

labors had just commenced when a British army took possession of

Rangoon, and you and your fellow-laborer, the late Dr. Price, were

cast into a loathsome dungeon, and loaded with chains. For nearly two

years you suffered all that barbarian cruelty could inflict; and to

the special interposition of God alone is it to be ascribed that your

imprisonment was not terminated by a violent death. On you, more than

any other missionary of modern times, has been conferred the

distinction of suffering for Christ. Your limbs have been galled with

fetters, and you have tracked with bleeding feet the burning sands

between Ava and Oung-pen-la.

“With the apostle of the Gentiles you may say, ‘Henceforth let no man

trouble me; I bear in my body the scars of the Lord Jesus,’ Yet, even

here God did not leave you comfortless. He had provided an angel to

minister to your wants, and when her errand was accomplished, took her

to Himself, and the hopia-tree marks the spot whence her spirit

ascended. From prison and from chains, God, in His own time, delivered

you, and made your assistance of special importance in negotiating a

treaty of peace between these two nations, one of whom had driven you

from her shores, and the other had inflicted upon you every cruelty

but death.

“Since this period, the prime of your life has been spent in laboring

to bless the people who had so barbarously persecuted you. Almost all

the Christian literature in their language has proceeded from your

pen; your own hand has given to the nation the oracles of God, and

opened to the millions now living, and to those that shall come after

them to the end of time, the door of everlasting life. That mysterious

Providence which shut you out from Burmah proper has introduced you to

the Karens—a people who seem to have preserved, from remote antiquity,

the knowledge of the true God, and who were waiting to receive the

message of His Son. To them you, and those who have followed in your

footsteps, have made known the Saviour of the world, and they by

thousands have flocked to the standard of the cross.

“After years spent in unremitted toil, the providence of God has

brought you to be present with us at this important crisis. We

sympathize with you in all the sorrows of your painful voyage. May God

sustain you in your sore bereavement, and cause even this mysterious

dispensation to work out for you a far more exceeding and eternal

weight of glory.

“How changed is the moral aspect of the world since you first entered

upon your labors! Then no pagan nation had heard the name of Christ

from American lips; at present churches of Christ, planted by American

benevolence, are springing up in almost every heathen nation. The

shores of the Mediterranean, the islands of the sea, the thronged

cities and the wild jungles of India, are resounding with the high

praises of God, in strains first taught by American missionaries. The

nation that drove you from her shores has learned to foster the

messenger of the cross with parental solicitude. You return to your

native land, whence you were suffered to depart almost without her

blessing, and you find that the missionary enterprise has kindled a

flame that can never be quenched in the heart of the universal Church,

and that every Christian, and every philanthropist comes forward to

tender to you the homage due to the man through whose sufferings,

labors, and examples these changes have, to so great a degree, been

effected. In behalf of our brethren, in behalf of the whole Church of

Christ, we welcome you back to the land of your fathers. God grant

that your life may long be preserved, and that what you have seen may

prove to be but the beginning of blessing to our churches at home and

to the heathen abroad.”

Mr. Judson, who had been warned by his physicians against speaking in

public, could only express his thankfulness in a few simple and touching

words. Subsequently, in the course of the convention, the proposition

was made to abandon the mission in Arracan. This brought him to his

feet. “Though forbidden to speak by my medical adviser, I must say a few

words. I must protest against the abandonment of the Arracan mission.”

These opening words were audible to all present. Then his voice sunk

into a whisper as he stated the reasons why the mission should not be

given up. His closing words were: “If the convention think my services

can be dispensed with in finishing my dictionary, I will go immediately

to Arracan; or if God should spare my life to finish my dictionary, I

will go there afterward and labor there and die, and be buried there.”

It would be impossible to describe the thrilling effect upon the

audience of these broken words, uttered in a low whisper, and reproduced

by Dr. Cone. The Arracan mission was saved.

While Mr. Judson was visiting Bradford, the native town of his beloved

Ann, he learned of the death of Charlie, one of the little ones whom he

had left behind in Burmah. He conveys the sad intelligence to his sons

Adoniram and Elnathan, and adds:

“So it appeared that Charlie died twenty-six days before his mother,

and he was ready to welcome her at the gates of Paradise. They must

have had a very happy meeting. As he was her favorite child on account

of being long ill, how happy she must have been to take him in her

arms in that state where there is no more sickness or death! O that we

may all meet them and be so happy together!”

A few of the addresses which Mr. Judson delivered while in this country

have been preserved, and the reader may be interested in the appended

extracts.

_Address at a Missionary Meeting in Philadelphia._

“Be ye imitators of me, as I am of Christ, is a divine command. There

is one Being in the universe who unites in Himself all the excellences

of the human and divine nature—that being is Jesus Christ. To become

like Jesus Christ, we must be like Him, not only in spirit and

character, but in the whole course and conduct of life; and to become

like Him ought to be our whole aim. In order to this, it is necessary

to ascertain the leading characteristics of that glorious Being. It

appears from the inspired writings, that one leading characteristic of

Christ was, that ‘He went about doing good.’ To be like Him, we must

go about—not merely _stay_ and do good, but _go_ and do good. There is

another characteristic which we should consider. He led the life of a

missionary. In order, therefore, to be like Him in this particular, we

must endeavor, as far as possible, to lead the life of missionaries.

Before my arrival in Burmah, there were about seven millions of men,

women, and children, who had no knowledge of the true God, and of

salvation through Jesus Christ. They did not believe in the existence

of an eternal God. They believed that when they died they would be

changed into beasts, or be annihilated. Their only object in worship

was to obtain some mitigation of suffering. They never expected to

meet their friends again after death. Imagine yourselves, my Christian

friends, in their state without a knowledge of God. Suppose, while in

that state, you heard that in some isle of the sea were those who had

received a revelation, informing them that God had sent His own Son to

open a way to everlasting life; would you not rejoice, if some one

should come to show you that way to heaven? Would not some of you

believe? Would you not leap with joy, and kiss the feet of those who

brought you the good tidings? Would you not, under these

circumstances, desire that a messenger should come to you? ‘As ye

would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’ I should

rejoice to address the assembly at large, but my physicians have

forbidden me, and I must commit this duty to others who are to follow.

But allow me to say, that I regard the office of the missionary as a

most glorious occupation, because the _faithful_ missionary is engaged

in a work which is like that of the Lord Jesus Christ; and a

missionary who is _unfaithful_ sinks the lowest of his species in

guilt and ignominy. Happy are they who can in this respect follow

Christ. But the Lord Jesus is not now a missionary. He has retired

from this employment, and now employs Himself in sustaining His

missionaries, with the promise, ‘Lo, I am with you alway, even to the

end.’ If you can not, therefore, become a missionary, sustain by your

prayers, your influence, and your property, those who are. In these

ways Jesus Christ now sustains them. By His _prayers_, as Advocate and

Intercessor with the Father; by His _influence_, as He is vested with

all power in heaven and earth; by His _property_, by pouring out fresh

supplies of His Spirit, and opening the hearts of His children to

contribute. In order, therefore, to be like Christ, _go about_ doing

good; and if it is not in your power to give yourselves to this work,

give your prayers, your influence, and your property. So far as we are

like Christ in this world, so far shall we be like Him through

eternity. So far as we sustain this cause, which is peculiarly the

cause of God, so far shall we be happy through endless ages.”

At a meeting in Washington, D. C., he said:

“When he first visited Burmah, the idea of an eternal God was not

believed nor entertained by any of the Burmans; and nothing more than

this idea was entertained by the Karens; but now the former had in

their own language the whole Word of God; and the New Testament, and

parts of the Old, had been translated, by American missionaries, into

several other languages of the East. He spoke of our missions as

_expensive_, as requiring much for the outfit of missionaries, and for

sustaining them in that field; but sacrifices of a _pecuniary_

character were not the only or the greatest ones to be encountered.

There was the sacrifice of domestic and social comforts here enjoyed,

and the sacrifice of life. He remarked that the average life of

American missionaries to the East was only about five years. But we

must have men and money for this work; and we must all co-operate and

make sacrifices together. If men were found willing to go, the Church

at home should feel willing to send them out, and support them, that

they might give themselves wholly to their work. Dr. Judson said that

his heart was full, and it was a great privation to him that he was

not able to speak out, and unburden himself, to the satisfaction of

himself and of the audience; but this the providence of God prevented

him from doing, and he must submit.”

And at a meeting in Utica, N. Y.:

“When mingling in scenes like the present, and like that in which he

participated on the preceding evening, at which he believed some then

listening to him were present, he was led into trains of meditation

which excited the most deep and subduing emotions. At such times he

involuntarily recalled many spots memorable in his history. One of

these was the prison at Ava, to which allusion had already been made.

In that gloomy place, on one night when he was more heavily fettered

and was enduring more suffering than usual, he rose from the painful

posture in which he reclined to lean, for an interval, against the

wall. As he cast his eyes around upon the mass of wretchedness before

him, he was able, by the dim light which was always kept burning in

the prison, to observe the condition of the miserable beings among

whom he was confined. It was an appalling sight. About a hundred

condemned felons were before him, some sentenced for murder, all for

atrocious crimes. While looking on that spectacle, he felt that if

ever, by God’s mercy, he should obtain his freedom, he would endeavor

to bear without repining the ills he might be called to endure.

Another spot brought to his recollection was that where he stood to

witness the worship of the Bengalee Juggernaut—not the great

Juggernaut of Orissa—for there are several in India—but one in the

province of Bengal. The idol car moved onward. Before him, extending

as far as the eye could reach, was a vast expanse, a sea of human

heads. The whole concourse of deluded worshippers were shouting as

with one voice. Again his mind reverted to a scene that fell under his

observation, not many years since, in the Karen jungles. It was one of

the festivals of the Karens. He saw three hundred persons, prostrate

upon the earth, men, women, and children, promiscuously mingled,

covered with filth, in a state of brutal intoxication—a spectacle not

to be described to a Christian audience. Scenes like these forced

themselves upon his recollection, in view of our places of worship and

happy homes. When coming among us, and seeing the contrasted comfort,

elegance, and refinement, that make our dwellings so inviting and

their inmates so happy, the question spontaneously arose, What is the

cause of all this difference? O, it is the Gospel—the Gospel! While

surrounded with these manifold blessings, we could but very

imperfectly appreciate the sole cause of them all.

“It was to a world suffering under such wretchedness as had been

spoken of, that the Lord Jesus Christ, in compassion for mankind,

descended in the reign of the despotic and abandoned Herod. Amid such

scenes He mingled, till He expired on the cross. If His Gospel is able

to effect all that we have seen, to transform the ignorant, sensual,

and degraded heathen, and to elevate a nation to such a height of

dignity and enjoyment, and all this in a world still so full of sin,

how will its power appear in the world to which we are advancing? If

here, where sin yet reigns, so great a contrast can be wrought, how

much greater the contrast between this imperfect state and heaven,

free from every defilement!

“In Burmah, after all that has been done, there is still the same

prison at Ava, with its manacled convicts. The same Bengalee

Juggernaut is still surrounded by its countless worshippers. The same

orgies are still celebrated in the Karen jungles; and scenes

innumerable, as revolting as these, are witnessed in all heathen

lands. O, let us pray for the millions who know nothing of a God or a

Saviour, a heaven or a hell.”

Before the Boardman Missionary Society at Waterville College he spoke as

follows:

“Upon an occasion like this, dear brethren, a multitude of thoughts

crowd upon me, so that I know not where to begin or what to select.

Probably many of you have the ministry in view, and some perhaps look

forward to a missionary life. You will expect me to speak of missions

and missionary life. I have seen so much of the trials and

responsibility of missionary labors that I am unwilling to urge any

one to assume them. _The urging must come from a higher source._ One

important thought just occurs to me. You have but _one_ life to live

in which to prepare for eternity. If you had four or five lives, two

or three of them might be spent in carelessness. But you have one

only. Every action of that one life gives coloring to your eternity.

How important, then, that you spend that life so as to please the

Saviour, the blessed Saviour, who has done everything for you!

“If any of you enter the Gospel ministry in this or other lands, let

not your object be so much to ‘do your duty,’ or even to ‘save souls,’

though these should have a place in your motives, as to _please the

Lord Jesus_. Let this be your ruling motive in all that you do. Now,

do you ask, _how_ you shall please Him? How, indeed, shall we know

what will please Him but by _His commands_? Obey these commands and

you will not fail to please Him. And there is that ‘last command,’

given just before He ascended to the Father, ‘Go ye into all the

world, and preach the Gospel to every creature.’ It is not _yet_

obeyed as it should be. Fulfil that, and you will please the Saviour.

“Some one asked me, not long ago, whether _faith_ or _love_ influenced

me most in going to the heathen. I thought of it a while, and at

length concluded that there was in me but _little of either_. But in

thinking of what _did_ influence me, I remembered a time, out in the

woods back of Andover Seminary, when I was almost disheartened.

Everything looked dark. No one had gone out from this country. The way

was not open. The field was far distant, and in an unhealthy climate.

I knew not what to do. All at once that ‘last command’ seemed to come

to my heart directly from heaven. I could doubt no longer, but

determined on the spot to obey it at all hazards, for the sake of

pleasing the Lord Jesus Christ.

“Now, my dear brethren, if the Lord wants you for missionaries, He

will set that command home to your hearts. If He does so, _you neglect

it at your peril_.”

And thus to the students at Hamilton, N. Y.:

“Brethren, look to Jesus. This sight will fill you with the greatest

consolation and delight. Look to Him on the cross; so great is His

love that, if He had a thousand lives, He would lay them all down for

your redemption. Look to Him on the throne; His blessed countenance

fills all heaven with delight and felicity. Look to Him in affliction;

He will strengthen you. Look to Him in temptation; He will succor you.

Look to Him in death; He will sustain you. Look to Him in the

judgment; He will save you.”

But Mr. Judson did not belong exclusively to any one city or section of

the country. Not only in New England and in the Northern States was his

name revered. His memory was most warmly cherished by Southern hearts.

The eminent Dr. Jeter, in a meeting held at Richmond, Va., on the 8th of

February, 1846, welcomed Mr. Judson in an eloquent and affectionate

address, the closing words of which are appended:

“But I must close my remarks. Brother Judson, we are acquainted with

your history. We have marked your labors, have sympathized in your

various sufferings, have shed many a tear at the foot of the

‘hopia-tree’; have gone, in fancy, on mournful pilgrimage to the rocky

Island of St. Helena; have rejoiced in your successes and the

successes of your devoted associates, and have long and fervently

wished to see your face in the flesh. This privilege we now enjoy.

Welcome, thrice welcome are you, my brother, to our city, our

churches, our bosoms. I speak as the representative of Southern

Baptists. We love you for the truth’s sake, and for your labors in the

cause of Christ. We honor you as the father of American missions.

“One thought pains us. To-morrow morning you will leave us. We shall

see your face no more. You will soon return to Burmah, the land of

your adoption. There you will continue your toils, and there,

probably, be buried. But this separation is not without its solace.

Thank God, it is as near from Burmah to heaven as from Richmond, or

any other point on the globe. Angels, oft commissioned to convey to

heaven the departing spirits of pious Burmans and Karens, have learned

the way to that dark land. When dismissed from your toils and

sufferings, they will be in readiness to perform the same service for

you. God grant that we may all meet in that bright world. There sin

shall no more annoy us, separations no more pain us, and every power

will find full and sweet employ in the service of Christ.

“And now, my brother, I give my hand in token of our affection to you,

and of your cordial reception among us.”

Mr. Judson’s reply attested his capacity for taking a broad and catholic

view of the religious situation at a time when the country was agitated

by disturbing sectional jealousies:

“I congratulate the Southern and Southwestern churches,” he said, “on

the formation of the Southern Baptist Convention for Foreign Missions.

I congratulate the citizens of Richmond that the Board of that

Convention is located here. Such an organization should have been

formed several years ago. Besides other circumstances, the extent of

the country called for a separate organization. I have read with much

pleasure the proceedings of the Convention at Augusta, Ga., and

commend the dignified and courteous tone of the address sent forth by

that body. I am only an humble missionary of the heathen, and do not

aspire to be a teacher of Christians in this enlightened country; but

if I may be indulged a remark, I would say, that if hereafter the more

violent spirits of the North should persist in the use of irritating

language, I hope they will be met, on the part of the South, with

dignified silence.”

It was his desire to go further South, but his frail health imperatively

forbade him, and so after visiting Baltimore, where he was welcomed at a

most enthusiastic missionary meeting, he turned northward again.

While on this tour through the country, everywhere kindling missionary

enthusiasm, he met, during a visit in Philadelphia, a young lady, Miss

Emily Chubbuck, who, under the _nom de plume_ of Fanny Forester, had

achieved a wide literary reputation. The acquaintance culminated in

marriage. This lady, who was to take the place at his side left

successively vacant by Ann Hasseltine and Sarah Boardman, had been

disciplined in the hard school of poverty. She was born August 22, 1817,

at Eaton, a little town in Central New York, and near a stream which,

with its fringe of alders, murmurs here and there in her prose and

poetry under the name of Alderbrook. Her parents, Charles Chubbuck and

Lavinia Richards, had moved to Eaton from New Hampshire. Her childhood

days were spent in a little house which can still be seen on the road

from Eaton to West Eaton, perched against a hill so close beneath the

road that, as she says, one would feel half disposed “to step from the

road where you stood to the tip of the chimney.”[64] Her parents were

very poor, and she thus describes a winter she passed when she was about

thirteen years old:

“We suffered a great deal from cold this winter, though we had plenty

of plain food. Indeed, we _never_ were reduced to hunger. But the

house was large and unfinished, and the snow sometimes drifted into it

in heaps. We were unable to repair it, and the owner was unwilling.

Father was absent nearly all the time, distributing newspapers; and

the severity of the winter so affected his health that he could do but

little when he was at home. Mother, Harriet, and I were frequently

compelled to go out into the fields, and dig broken wood out of the

snow, to keep ourselves from freezing. Catherine and I went to the

district school as much as we could.”

Again she wrote:

“_November, 1830._ Father’s attempt at farming proved, as might have

been expected, an entire failure, and for want of a better place he

determined to remove to the village. He took a little old house on the

outskirts, the poorest shelter we ever had, with only two rooms on the

floor, and a loft, to which we ascended by means of a ladder. We were

not discouraged, however, but managed to make the house a little

genteel as well as tidy. Harriet and I used a turn-up bedstead,

surrounded by pretty chintz curtains, and we made a parlor and

dining-room of the room by day. Harriet had a knack at twisting

ribbons and fitting dresses, and she took in sewing; Catherine and

Wallace went to school; and I got constant employment of a little

Scotch weaver and thread-maker at twisting thread. Benjamin returned

to his old place, and Walker was still in the printing-office.”

Her little hands very early learned to contribute to the support of the

family. When eleven years old she earned a dollar and twenty-five cents

a week splicing rolls in a woolen factory. She says of this period: “My

principal recollections are of noise and filth, bleeding hands and

aching feet, and a very sad heart.” Little did the residents of Eaton

then dream that this little factory-girl was afterward to become such an

honor to their humble village. Subsequently, when she first applied for

the position of teacher in the district school, a young farmer who was

acting trustee replied, “Why, the scholars will be bigger than their

teacher.” But the little schoolmistress made her teaching a success, and

before she was twenty years of age had contributed to the village

newspaper poems of great literary merit. About this time she attracted

the attention of the Misses Sheldon, who were conducting a well-known

ladies’ school at Utica. They offered her gratuitous instruction for a

single term, and subsequently proposed to complete her education without

present charge. This afforded her an excellent opportunity for

self-improvement. Her health, however, had been shattered by the

hardship and labors of her earlier years, and it was through great

weakness and suffering that she pressed toward higher literary

excellence. She was continually spurred on by her desire to secure a

home for her aged parents. It was for this purpose that she wrote those

charming stories in which grace and strength of style are combined with

the purest moral tone. It was under such circumstances as these that she

sent to the press the stories for children, entitled “The Great Secret,”

“Effie Maurice,” “Charles Linn,” “Allen Lucas,” “John Frink,” and also

the fascinating tales for older readers, which were afterward gathered

together, under the name of “Alderbrook.” Her biographer[65] relates the

following incident:

“As Miss Sheldon was at one time passing near midnight through the

halls, a light streaming from Emily’s apartment attracted her

attention, and, softly opening the door, she stole in upon her vigils.

Emily sat in her night-dress, her papers lying outspread before her,

grasping with both hands her throbbing temples, and pale as a marble

statue. Miss S. went to her, whispered words of sympathy, and gently

chided her for robbing her system of its needed repose. Emily’s heart

was already full, and now the fountain of feeling overflowed in

uncontrollable weeping. ‘Oh, Miss Sheldon,’ she exclaimed, ‘I _must_

write, I _must_ write; I must do what I can to aid my poor parents.’”

While making a visit in New York during the month of June, 1847, Miss

Chubbuck wrote a letter to the _Evening Mirror_, which at that time was

an exceedingly popular magazine, edited by George P. Morris and N. P.

Willis. In a graceful and sportive vein she offered her literary

services to this periodical:

“You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this spring. _Such_

beautiful things! Well, you know (no, you don’t know that, but you can

guess) what a delightful thing it would be to appear in one of those

charming, head-adorning, complexion-softening, hard-feature-subduing

neapolitans; with a little gossamer veil dropping daintily on the

shoulder of one of those exquisite _balzarines_, to be seen any day at

Stewart’s and elsewhere. Well, you know (this you _must_ know) that

shop-keepers have the impertinence to demand a trifling exchange for

these things even of a lady; and also that some people have a

remarkably small purse, and a remarkably small portion of the yellow

‘root’ in that. And now, to bring the matter home, _I_ am one of that

class. I have the most beautiful little purse in the world, but it is

only kept for show; I even find myself under the necessity of

counterfeiting—that is, filling the void with tissue paper in lieu of

bank-notes, preparatory to a shopping expedition.

“Well, now to the point. As Bel and I snuggled down on the sofa this

morning to read the _New Mirror_ (by the way, Cousin Bel is never

obliged to put tissue paper in her purse), it struck us that you would

be a friend in need, and give good counsel in this emergency. Bel,

however, insisted on my not telling what I wanted the money for. She

even thought that I had better intimate orphanage, extreme suffering

from the bursting of some speculative bubble, illness, etc., etc.; but

did not I know you better? Have I read the _New Mirror_ so much (to

say nothing of the graceful things coined ‘under a bridge,’ and a

thousand other pages flung from the inner heart), and not learned who

has an eye for everything pretty? Not so stupid, Cousin Bel; no, no!

“However, this is not quite the point, after all; but here it is. I

have a pen—not a gold one, I don’t think I could write with one, but a

nice, little, feather-tipped pen, that rests in the curve of my finger

as contentedly as in its former pillow of down. (Shocking! how that

line did run down hill! and this almost as crooked! dear me!) Then I

have little messengers racing ‘like mad’ through the galleries of my

head; spinning long yarns, and weaving fabrics rich and soft as the

balzarine which I so much covet, until I shut my eyes and stop my ears

and whisk away, with the ‘wonderful lamp’ safely hidden in my own

brown braids. Then I have Dr. Johnson’s dictionary—capital London

edition, etc., etc.; and after I use up all the words in that, I will

supply myself with Webster’s wondrous quarto, appendix and all. Thus

prepared, think you not I should be able to put something in the shops

of the literary caterers? something that, for once in my life, would

give me a real errand into Broadway? May be you of the _New Mirror_

PAY for acceptable articles—may be not. _Comprenez-vous?_

“O, I _do_ hope that beautiful balzarine like Bel’s will not be gone

before another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the next

_Mirror_; but pray, my dear Editor, let it be done very cautiously,

for Bel would pout all day if she should know what I had written. Till

Saturday,

“Your anxiously-waiting friend,

“FANNY FORESTER.”

This letter attracted the attention of Mr. Willis, and drew from him a

characteristic reply:

“Well, we give in! On _condition_ that you are under twenty-five, and

that you will wear a rose (recognizably) in your bodice the first time

you appear in Broadway with the hat and balzarine, we will pay the

bills. Write us thereafter a sketch of Bel and yourself, as cleverly

done as this letter, and you may ‘snuggle down’ on the sofa, and

consider us paid, and the public charmed with you.”

Mr. Willis at once introduced her through his columns to the American

public, and, though they never saw each other but once, he became from

this time on her life-long literary adviser and friend. And so, after

the long struggle with poverty and ill-health, this woman, by dint of an

imperious will and an unmistakable genius, began to take her place among

the foremost literary characters of America. We quote from her

biographer, Dr. Kendrick, who is well qualified by his intellectual

acumen and fine poetic nature to judge of the quality of her mind:

“Those who now turn over the stories of Alderbrook will, I think, be

at no loss to explain the popularity which they attained. They will

find in them a truth to nature—a freshness and raciness of thought and

diction—a freedom from the hackneyed conventionalisms of ordinary

story-telling, a descriptive and dramatic power, which lend to them an

unfailing charm. The language is ever plain and simple. They never

affect ‘big’ words, nor deck themselves out in fripperies of

expression. If there are occasional conceits of thought—and such are

almost inevitable in a young woman’s first converse with the

public—the style is almost wholly free from them. It delights in that

plain Anglo-Saxon that comes freighted with home associations to every

heart; and yet this simple style, under her delicate handling, has all

the grace of ornament.

“Another source of the popularity of her sketches is found in the

spirit and vivacity of her descriptions—showing a clear and close eye

for the observation of nature—and in the lifelike truthfulness of her

character-drawing. Her personages are not mere pegs on which to hang a

story—a train of external incidents: they are themselves the story.

They are not mere labelled embodiments of the virtues and vices of the

Decalogue, but actual men and women, brought by a few simple but

effective touches livingly before the eye, and, even in her lightest

sketches, sharply individualized. Thus the interest of her stories is

emphatically a human interest. It is not what the actors _do_, but

what they _are_, that rivets our attention, and chains us to her

fascinating pages. As might be inferred from this, she possesses

extraordinary dramatic power. The _dramatis personæ_ live and breathe

and move through the story. The author transports herself into the

scene; identifies herself with her characters; and instead of

conducting her narration by cold, second-hand details, makes it gush

warmly and livingly from the lips of the speakers. Not unfrequently

nearly the whole story is unfolded by dialogue, natural, racy, and

spirited, and that which in its mere outward details would be but a

trivial incident, under this warm, dramatic handling, and imbedded in

human passion, is impregnated with life and interest. Equally happy,

too, is Emily in the conduct of her narrative—in the management of the

plot—in so seizing upon the hinging-points, the _nodes_ and crises of

the story, and so coloring, and grouping, and contrasting them, as to

give them their utmost effect. With the instinctive eye of genius, she

separates the incidental from the essential, and strikes to the inmost

core of her subject.

“And finally—and here perhaps was pre-eminently the secret of Emily’s

power—she was drawing from her own life, ‘coloring from her own

heart.’ With every stroke of her pen she daguerreotyped herself upon

the page before her. The trials of her youth—her own harsh

experiences—quivered through her bright and glittering fancies, and

compelled many a tear from hearts unknowing of the cause. She was

unconsciously obeying the dictum of the great Master; she moved others

because she had first been moved herself. The tear that trembled in

their eye answered to that which had first glistened in her own. The

emotion that swelled their bosoms was responsive to that which had

throbbed in her own breast. True to herself, she was true to the

universal elements of humanity.

“And yet she was far from being the mere recorder; she dealt not in

the mere statistics of experience. Her power of fancy was equal to her

power of feeling. The germ of her conception sprung from the actual,

but it developed itself in the realm of the ideal. When fancy supplied

the groundwork, her feelings insensibly blended themselves with it,

giving it genuineness and vitality. When she started from experience,

fancy instantly stood as its servitor, ready to invest the creation

with her bright and glittering hues. Thus her heart and

life-experiences were so transfigured and idealized that she did not

obtrude herself indelicately or painfully before the public. ‘Grace

Linden,’ ‘Lilias Fane,’ ‘Dora,’ ‘Nora Maylie,’ ‘Ida Ravelin,’ even,

were all born in he depths of her own nature, all embodied a certain

portion of her spiritual essence; yet all were so wrought and moulded,

so blended with imaginative elements, that she for whom they really

stood ‘passed in music out of sight.’ So amidst the deeper emotions of

later life her power of imagination kept pace with her power of

passionate emotion. ‘My Bird,’ ‘Watching,’ ‘My Angel Guide,’ are

beautifully idealized, and it is only perhaps in ‘Sweet Mother’ that

the bleeding, agonizing heart of the stricken wife and daughter comes

nakedly before the public. And with all this, there breathes through

all her pages a tenderness and delicacy of sentiment which impart to

them a nameless charm.

“In this slight analysis I am not claiming for ‘Fanny Forester’s’

sketches the highest order of genius. They are a woman’s production,

and are thoroughly womanly. They aspire to no heights of masculine

eloquence, no depths of philosophical teaching. They deal with the

heart, the fancy, and the imagination. Nor in mere vigor and grasp of

intellect is she, perhaps, to be classed with Joanna Bailie, Mrs.

Browning, and Miss Bronté; although looking at _all_ which she did, I

am satisfied that she approaches much nearer to them in intellectual

vigor than they do to her in womanly delicacy and softness. It is one

of her high excellences that she never compromises her womanhood; and

yet to her who could write the ‘Madness of the Missionary Enterprise,’

and render such contributions as she did to the memoir of her husband,

is to be assigned no mean rank among the intellects of the world. Mr.

Willis, Dr. Griswold, and Mr. H. B. Wallace, than whom our country has

produced no more competent literary critics, estimated her genius as

of a very high order, and regarded her true sphere as that not of

popularity, but of fame.”

But, besides her intellectual gifts, Miss Chubbuck had an intensely

religious nature. She was the child of pious parents, and was subject to

very early religious impressions. She writes:

“The first event of any importance which I remember is the conversion

of my sister Lavinia, when I was about seven years of age. My little

cot was in her room; and as she grew worse after her baptism, the

young members of the church were in the habit of spending the night

with her, partly in the character of watchers, partly because of a

unity of interest and feeling. She and her visitors spent the greater

part of the night in conversation and prayer, without any thought of

disturbing so sound a sleeper as I seemed to be, I was a silent,

sometimes tearful listener when they talked; and when they prayed I

used to kneel down in my bed, and with hands clasped and heart

uplifted, follow them through to the end. I can not recall my

exercises with any degree of distinctness; but I remember longing to

go to heaven, and be with Christ; some moments of ecstasy, and some of

deep depression on account of my childish delinquencies. My sister

used often to converse with me on religious subjects; and I remember

on one occasion her going to the next room and saying to my mother,

‘That child’s talk is wonderful! I believe, if there is a Christian in

the world, she is one.’ For a moment I felt a deep thrill of joy, and

then I became alarmed lest I should have deceived them. The effect was

to make me reserved and cautious.”

In subsequent life she dated her conversion as occurring when she was

eight years old. She used to attend all the religious services in the

neighborhood. She writes:

“Indeed, I believe my solemn little face was almost ludicrously

familiar to worshippers of every denomination, for I remember a

Presbyterian once saying to me, as I was leaving the chapel, after

having, as usual, asked prayers: ‘What! this little girl not converted

yet! How do you suppose we can waste any more time in praying for

you?’”

Indeed, she seems from her earliest years to have been haunted by the

conviction that she was, some time or other, to be a missionary to the

heathen; but she was always striving to rid herself of this irksome

thought. She said to a friend:

“I have felt, ever since I read the memoir of Mrs. Ann H. Judson when

I was a small child, that I must become a missionary. I fear it is but

a childish fancy, and am making every effort to banish it from my

mind; yet the more I seek to divert my thoughts from it, the more

unhappy I am.”

It was by a strange coincidence that this gifted woman, who had been

from childhood so deeply impressed by the story of Ann Hasseltine,

should meet Mr. Judson in January, 1846. It was at the house of Dr.

Gillette in Philadelphia, Mr. Judson had been invited to come from

Boston, and Dr. Gillette had gone there to bring him on. The journey was

long and cold, and an accident caused a delay of three or four hours.

Dr. Gillette saw in the hands of a friend a collection of light sketches

called “Trippings,“ by Fanny Forester. He borrowed it, and handed it to

Mr. Judson that he might read it, and so while away the tedious and

uncomfortable hours of delay. Mr. Judson read portions of the book, and

recognizing the power with which it was written, expressed a regret that

a person of such intellectual gifts should devote them to the writing of

light literature. “I should be glad to know her,“ he remarked. “The lady

who writes so well ought to write better. It’s a pity that such fine

talents should be employed on such eesubjects.”

Dr. Gillette answered that he would soon have the pleasure of meeting

her, because she was at that time a guest in his own house. Upon their

arrival, Mr. Judson was entertained at the residence of Mr. Robarts, and

the next morning called at Dr. Gillette’s. His first meeting with Miss

Chubbuck is thus described by Dr. Kendrick:

“Promptly on the next day he came over to Mr. Gillette’s. Emily (in

her morning-dress) was submitting to the not very poetical process of

vaccination. As soon as it was over, Dr. Judson conducted her to the

sofa, saying that he wished to talk with her. She replied half

playfully that she should be delighted and honored by having him talk

to her. With characteristic impetuosity he immediately inquired how

she could reconcile it with her conscience to employ talents so noble

in a species of writing so little useful or spiritual as the sketches

which he had read. Emily’s heart melted; she replied with seriousness

and candor, and explained the circumstances which had drawn her into

this field of authorship. Indigent parents, largely dependent on her

efforts—years of laborious teaching—books published with but little

profit, had driven her to still new and untried paths, in which at

last success unexpectedly opened upon her. Making this employment

purely secondary, and carefully avoiding everything of doubtful

tendency, she could not regard her course as open to serious

strictures. It was now Dr. Judson’s turn to be softened. He admitted

the force of her reasons, and that even his own strict standard could

not severely censure the direction given to filial love. He opened

another subject. He wished to secure a person to prepare a memoir of

his recently deceased wife, and it was partly, in fact, with this

purpose that he had sought Emily’s acquaintance. She entertained the

proposition, and the discussion of this matter naturally threw them

much together during the ensuing few days.”

[Illustration:

_Alex. Cameron, Eng.^r_

Emily C Judson

]

Mr. Judson and Emily Chubbuck were married in Hamilton, N. Y., on the 2d

of the following June.

The marriage was pleasing neither to the literary nor to the religious

world. The one thought that the brilliant Fanny Forester was throwing

herself away in marrying “an old missionary“; the other feared that the

moral grandeur of the missionary cause was compromised by an alliance

between its venerable founder and a writer of fiction.

These conflicting opinions made, however, but a slight impression upon

Mr. Judson’s mind. He was not dependent for his happiness and well-being

upon the opinion of others. He had long before learned to think and to

act independently, otherwise he would never have become a missionary,

least of all a Baptist. He wrote to his betrothed:

“I have been so cried down at different periods of my life—especially

when I became a Baptist—and lost all—all but Ann—that I suppose I am a

little hardened. But I feel for you, for it is your first field.

Whatever of strength or shield is mine, or I can draw down from

heaven, is yours.”

But the missionary’s heart kept turning toward the field of his labors

far across the sea. If his two Burmese assistants had been with him, he

might have contented himself a little longer in this country, for he

could then have worked more effectively on his dictionary.

The following poem (by Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston) seems to gather up

and express that longing for his Burman home which impelled him to

re-embark even before he had been nine months in the United States. The

author of these stanzas read them to Mr. Judson while he was busy

packing his boxes for the voyage, and found that they seemed exactly to

voice the desire of his heart:

_Judson Longing for his Burman Home._

“A stranger in my native land!

O home beyond the sea,

How yearns with all its constant love,

This weary heart for thee.

“I left thee, when around my hearth

Was gathering thickest gloom,

And gentle ones have since that hour

Descended to the tomb.

“A flower has withered on thy breast,

Thou wilt that treasure keep;

And sweet her rest, whose grave is made

Away upon the deep.

“I once trod lightly on the turf

That I am treading now;

The flush of hope was on my cheek.

And youth was on my brow—

“But time hath wrought a wondrous change

In all I loved—and _me_!

I prize thee, native land—but more,

My home beyond the sea.

“O Burmah! shrouded in the pall

Of error’s dreadful night!

For wings—for wings once more to bear

To thy dark shores the light:

“To rear upon thy templed hills.

And by thy sunny streams,

The standard of the Cross, where now

The proud Pagoda gleams.

“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—

One only boon I crave:

To finish well my work,—and rest

Within a Burman grave!”

Less than six weeks intervened between his marriage to Miss Chubbuck and

his embarkation. Many tender farewells had to be spoken. He well knew

that the dear ones from whom he was parting would probably never be seen

again on earth. He thus wrote to his boys, Adoniram and Elnathan, whom

he left with Dr. and Mrs. Newton at Worcester, and to his daughter Abby,

whom he had committed to the care of his only sister at Plymouth:

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“MY DEAR SONS: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. Many a time I

shall look at your likenesses, and weep over them, and pray that you

may early become true Christians. Love your brother George, and your

uncle and aunt Newton. Pray every morning and evening. Your new mamma

sends you her best love. Forget not

“Your affectionate father,

“A. JUDSON.”

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“MY DEAR DAUGHTER: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I think

the likenesses taken of your face very good. I shall take one with me,

and shall many a time look at it, and weep over it, and pray that you

may early become a Christian. The other I shall give to George, to

keep a while at Worcester, and finally give to your aunt Judson when

he visits Plymouth.

“Love your dear aunts and cousins, with whom you live; pray every

morning and evening, and may we meet again on earth, and if not, O,

may we meet in heaven, and be happy together. Your new mamma sends her

best love.

“Your affectionate father,

“A. JUDSON.

“Write me once in three months.”

To his only sister, also, the fond playmate of his childhood, the sole

survivor of the dear family group that had clung to him so tenderly

when, many years before, with the flush of youth on his cheek, he had

set his face toward the rising sun, he speaks the parting word:

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“DEAR SISTER: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I have two

likenesses of Abby Ann. One I take myself, The other I hand to George,

that he may take it to Worcester, and keep it with the boys, until he

visits Plymouth, in about a month or six weeks, when he is to give it

to you. I left Abby Ann at Bradford yesterday forenoon; gave the

twenty dollars, which they will place to your credit. Take care of

yourself, dear sister, and spare no expense that is necessary for your

health and comfort.

“Emily sends her best love. Every blessing rest upon you, until we

meet in heaven.

“Ever most affectionately,

“A. JUDSON.”

The following is his last public utterance in America:

“My friends are aware that it is quite impossible for me, without

serious injury to myself, to sustain my voice at such a height as to

reach this large assembly, except for a few sentences. I have,

therefore, taken the liberty of putting some thoughts on paper, which

the Rev. Mr. Hague will do me the honor of reading to you.

“I wish, however, in my own voice, to praise God for the deep interest

in the cause of missions manifested by the friends of the Redeemer in

this city and the vicinity, and to thank them for all their

expressions and acts of kindness toward me during my brief sojourn

among them. I regret that circumstances have prevented my spending

more time in this city, and forming a more intimate acquaintance with

those whom a slight acquaintance has taught me so much to love.

“It is as certain as any future event can be, that I shall never again

revisit the shores of my native land; that, after a few days, your

beautiful city, this great and glorious country, will be forever shut

from my view. No more shall I enter your places of worship; no more

shall I behold your faces, and exchange the affectionate salutations

of Christian love.

“The greatest favor we can bestow on our absent friends is to bear

them on our hearts at the throne of grace. I pray you, dear friends,

remember me there, and my missionary associates, and our infant

churches, and the poor heathen, among whom we go to live. And though

we do meet no more on earth, I trust that our next meeting will be in

that blessed world where ‘the loved and the parted here below meet

ne’er to part again.’”

_Address._

“There are periods in the lives of men who experience much change of

scene and variety of adventure, when they seem to themselves to be

subject to some supernatural illusion, or wild, magical dream; when

they are ready, amid the whirl of conflicting recollection, to doubt

their own personal identity, and, like steersmen in a storm, feel that

they must keep a steady eye to the compass and a strong arm at the

wheel. The scene spread out before me seems, on retrospection, to be

identified with the past, and at the same time to be reaching forward

and foreshadowing the future. At one moment the lapse of thirty-four

years is annihilated; the scenes of 1812 are again present; and this

assembly—how like that which commended me to God on first leaving my

native shores for the distant East! But, as I look around, where are

the well-known faces of Spring, and Worcester, and Dwight? Where are

Lyman, and Huntington, and Griffin? And where are those leaders of the

baptized ranks who stretched out their arms across the water, and

received me into their communion? Where are Baldwin and Bolles? Where

Holcombe, and Rogers, and Staughton? I see them not. I have been to

their temples of worship, but their voices have passed away. And where

are my early missionary associates, Newell, and Hall, and Rice, and

Richards, and Mills? But why inquire for those so ancient? Where are

the succeeding laborers in the missionary field for many years, and

the intervening generation who sustained the missions? And where are

those who moved amid the dark scenes of Rangoon, and Ava, and Tavoy?

Where those gentle, yet firm spirits, which tenanted forms—delicate in

structure, but careless of the storm—now broken, and scattered, and

strewn, like the leaves of autumn, under the shadow of overhanging

trees, and on remote islands of the sea?

“No, these are not the scenes of 1812; nor is this the assembly that

convened in the Tabernacle of a neighboring city. Many years have

elapsed; many venerated, many beloved ones have passed away to be seen

no more. ‘They rest from their labors, and their works do follow

them.’ And with what words shall I address those who have taken their

places, the successors of the venerated and the beloved, the

generation of 1812?

“In that year American Christians pledged themselves to the work of

evangelizing the world. They had but little to rest on, except the

command and promise of God. The attempts then made by British

Christians had not been attended with so much success as to establish

the practicability, or vindicate the wisdom of the missionary

enterprise. For many years the work advanced but slowly. One

denomination after another embarked in the undertaking; and now

American missionaries are seen in almost every clime. Many languages

have been acquired; many translations of the Bible have been made; the

Gospel has been extensively preached; and churches have been

established containing thousands of sincere, intelligent converts. The

obligation, therefore, on the present generation, to redeem the pledge

given by their fathers, is greatly enhanced. And it is an animating

consideration, that, with the enhancement of the obligation, the

encouragement to persevere in the work, and to make still greater

efforts, is increasing from year to year. Judging from the past, what

may we rationally expect during the lapse of another thirty or forty

years? Look forward with the eye of faith. See the missionary spirit

universally diffused, and in active operation throughout this country;

every church sustaining, not only its own minister, but, through some

general organization, its own missionary in a foreign land. See the

Bible faithfully translated into all languages; the rays of the lamp

of heaven transmitted through every medium, and illuminating all

lands. See the Sabbath spreading its holy calm over the face of the

earth, the churches of Zion assembling, and the praises of Jesus

resounding from shore to shore; and, though the great majority may

still remain, as now in this Christian country, without hope and

without God in the world, yet the barriers in the way of the descent

and operations of the Holy Spirit removed, so that revivals of

religion become more constant and more powerful.

“The world is yet in its infancy; the gracious designs of God are yet

hardly developed. Glorious things are spoken of Zion, the city of our

God. She is yet to triumph, and become the joy and glory of the whole

earth. Blessed be God that we live in these latter times—the latter

times of the reign of darkness and imposture. Great is our privilege,

precious our opportunity, to co-operate with the Saviour in the

blessed work of enlarging and establishing His kingdom throughout the

world. Most precious the opportunity of becoming wise, in turning many

to righteousness, and of shining, at last, as the brightness of the

firmament, and as the stars, forever and ever.

“Let us not, then, regret the loss of those who have gone before us,

and are waiting to welcome us home, nor shrink from the summons that

must call us thither. Let us only resolve to follow them who, through

faith and patience, inherit the promises. Let us so employ the remnant

of life, and so pass away, that our successors will say of us, as we

of our predecessors, ‘Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. They

rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.’”

At Boston, July 11, 1846, Mr. and Mrs. Judson, in company with the

newly-appointed missionaries, Miss Lillybridge, the Beechers, and the

Harrises, embarked on the _Faneuil Hall_, Captain Hallett, bound for

Maulmain. Many friends mingled in that farewell scene. He was leaving

behind him fragrant memories. In many a household his prayers are

cherished as a “precious benediction.” He had been entertained in the

house of his friend, Gardner Colby, of Boston, and at the family altar

he thus prayed for the family of his host: “May they, and their

children, and their children’s children, in every generation to the end

of time, follow each other in uninterrupted succession through the gates

of glory,”[66] a prayer that has borne fruitage from that time until

now. The Colbys came to the ship to bid him good-bye, and the Lincolns,

and the Gillettes, and Mrs. Judson’s bosom friend, Miss Anna Maria

Anable, with, among others, and dearer than all the rest, a slender

youth of eighteen, the child of her who had been laid at rest at St.

Helena, George Dana Boardman. But how, even at that hour, Mrs. Judson’s

thoughts must have wandered again and again to the humble roof at

Hamilton, beneath which her aged parents were commending their departing

daughter to the heavenly Father’s merciful care!

_To my Father._

“A welcome for thy child, father,

A welcome give to-day;

Although she may not come to thee

As when she went away;

Though never in her olden nest

Is she to fold her wing,

And live again the days when first

She learned to fly and sing.

“Oh, happy were those days, father,

When gathering round thy knee,

Seven sons and daughters called thee sire—

We come again but three;

The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones,

And sterner things than death

Have left a shadow on thy brow,

A sigh upon thy breath.

“And one—one of the three, father,

Now comes to thee to claim

Thy blessing on another lot,

Upon another name.

Where tropic suns forever burn,

Far over land and wave,

The child, whom thou hast loved, would make

Her hearthstone and her grave.

“Thou’lt never wait again, father,

Thy daughter’s coming tread;

She ne’er will see thy face on earth—

So count her with thy dead;

But in the land of life and love,

Not sorrowing as now,

She’ll come to thee, and come, perchance,

With jewels on her brow.

“_Perchance_;—I do not know, father,

If any part be given

My erring hand, among the guides

Who point the way to heaven;

But it would be a joy untold

Some erring foot to stay;

Remember this, when, gathering round,

Ye for the exile pray.

“Let nothing here be changed, father,

I would remember all,

Where every ray of sunshine rests,

And where the shadows fall.

And now I go; with faltering foot

I pass the threshold o’er.

And gaze, through tears, on that dear roof,

My shelter nevermore.”

-----

Footnote 58:

Died in infancy.

Footnote 59:

See Map II.

Footnote 60:

In public speech.

Footnote 61:

By H. S. Washburn, Boston.

Footnote 62:

Mr. Thomas Nickerson, of Newton Centre.

Footnote 63:

I am indebted for this reminiscence to Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston.

Footnote 64:

The road has since been changed and now passes below the house.

Footnote 65:

The reader is referred to Dr. Kendrick’s Memoir of Mrs. E. C. Judson.

Footnote 66:

See the graceful sketch of “The Life and Character of Gardner Colby,”

by his son, the Rev. Henry F. Colby.