government, the native Christians enjoyed no toleration from the
Government, and often suffered bitterly; but in Maulmain, and other
places in British Burmah, religion flourished, and converts were
multiplied. Mr. Vinton, (a new missionary,) preached with great power in
the Karen churches, and that people, says Mrs. Judson, "flocked into the
kingdom by scores." Mr. Judson was revising his translation of the
Bible--a task of five years' duration,--and preaching to the Burmese
church; while Mrs. J. instructed in the schools and translated into
Peguan such tracts as were thought most calculated to acquaint that
people with Christian doctrine. She afterwards translated into that
language the New Testament and the Life of Christ; but on the arrival of
Mr. Haswell, she gave up to him all her books and papers in this
language, and only attended to it in future so far as to assist him in
his studies.
Of the severest trial to which Mrs. Judson was called during the
remainder of her life she gives an account in the following eloquent
words: "After deliberation, accompanied with tears, and agony and
prayers, I came to the conviction that it was my duty to send away my
only child, my darling George, and yesterday he bade me a long
farewell.... Oh I shall never forget his looks, as he stood by the door,
and gazed at me for the last time. His eyes were filling with tears, and
his little face red with suppressed emotion. But he subdued his
feelings, and it was not till he had turned away, and was going down the
steps that he burst into a flood of tears. I hurried to my room; and on
my knees, with my whole heart gave him up to God; and my bursting heart
was comforted from above.... My reason and judgment tell me that the
good of my child requires that he should be sent to America; and this of
itself would support me in some little degree; but when I view it as a
_sacrifice_, made for the sake of Jesus, it becomes a delightful
privilege.... I cannot but hope he will one day return to Burmah, a
missionary of the cross, as his dear father was.... This is in some
respects the severest trial I ever met with."
It would be delightful to accompany the dear boy in his perilous journey
to the Father-land, and to transcribe the yearning and affectionate
letters of his mother, both to him, and to those to whose charge he was
entrusted--they could not but heighten our opinion of her excellence in
the maternal relation, as well as of the great sensibility of her heart;
but we are warned that our pages are swelling to too great a number.
Ours is but a sketch, an outline; those who would see the full length
portrait of our heroine, must consult the glowing canvass of her
biographer and successor, "Fanny Forrester."
Her next trial was, to see her beloved husband suffering with a severe
cough, which she feared would end in pulmonary consumption. To avert
this dreaded result, he was obliged to leave her and try a long
sea-voyage. The account of their parting, and her touching letters
during his absence would greatly enrich our little sketch, had we room
to copy them. We _must_ find a place for one short extract from the
letters.
"Your little daughter and I have been praying for you this evening....
At times the sweet hope that you will soon return, restored to perfect
health, buoys up my spirit, but perhaps you will find it necessary to go
farther, a necessity from which I cannot but shrink with doubt and
dread; or you may come back only to die with me. This last agonizing
thought crushes me down in overwhelming sorrow. I hope I do not feel
unwilling that our Heavenly Father should do as he thinks best with us;
but my heart shrinks from the prospect of living in this dark, sinful,
friendless world, without you.... But the most satisfactory view is to
look away to that blissful world, where separations are unknown. There,
my beloved Judson, we shall _surely_ meet each other; and we shall also
meet many loved ones who have gone before us to that haven of rest."
Her fears were not realized; in a few months Mr. Judson was restored to
her and the suffering mission cause in greatly improved health.
CHAPTER XV.
ILLNESS OF HER CHILDREN.--DEATH OF ONE OF THEM.--HER MISSIONARY LABORS,
AND FAMILY CARES.--HER DECLINING HEALTH.--POEM.--HER LAST ILLNESS AND
DEATH.
The seventh year of her marriage with Mr. Judson, was a year of peculiar
trial to Mrs. J. All her four children were attacked by whooping-cough
followed by one of the diseases of the climate, with which she also was
so violently afflicted that her life was for a time despaired of. She
felt sure, as she afterwards said, that her hour of release was come,
that her master was calling her; and she blessed God that she was
entirely willing to leave all, and go to him. The only hope of recovery
for any of them was a sea-voyage, and they embarked for Bengal, but
their passage was stormy, and they derived little benefit from their
stay at Serampore, where they had taken up their residence. A voyage to
the Mauritius was recommended, and the alarming situation of three of
the children, as well as Mrs. Judson's feeble state, determined them to
try it. But before they embarked, it was her melancholy lot to lay one
of her darlings in the grave, and he, the very one about whose health
she had felt the least uneasiness. He sleeps, says his mother, in the
mission burial-ground, where moulders the dust of Carey, Marshman and
Ward. Her tears at his burial flowed not only for him that was dead, but
for another who she expected would soon follow him. To avert this
calamity she hastened her voyage, which though fearfully tempestuous,
proved beneficial to the sufferers, and after a short sojourn in the
soft climate of the Isle of France, the family returned to their home in
Maulmain, restored, with the exception of one son, to sound health. This
son, who bore the name of his father, was called by the natives Pwen,
which signifies "a flower," a name adopted by his parents. After a long
illness he too was restored to health.
Mrs. Judson's labors during the latter part of her life, are recorded by
her husband; and it may well excite the wonder of those women who
consider the care of their own families a sufficient task, that she
could find time and strength for such an amount of labor. It has been
said that her translation of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is a work worth
living for. Her husband says, "It is one of the best pieces of
composition we have published." She also translated a tract written by
her husband; edited a "Chapel hymn book," and furnished for it twenty of
its best hymns; and published four volumes of Scripture Questions for
use in the Sabbath Schools. When we consider that she was the mother of
a rapidly increasing family; and the head of an establishment, which
like all in the East require constant and vigilant superintendence; and
that she was exemplary in the discharge of her maternal and domestic
duties, we are led to fancy she must have possessed some secret charm by
which she could stay the hurrying feet of time; and "hold the fleet
angel fast until he blessed her." Such a secret was her untiring zeal,
which prompted an incessant industry. The sands of time are indeed
numerous, and when each is valued as a sparkling treasure, they form a
rich hoard, laid up where neither moth nor rust corrupt; but if we let
them escape unheeded, or sit and idly watch their flow, and even shake
the glass to hasten it, they will gather into a millstone weight to sink
us in endless, unavailing regret. Though she is dead, Mrs. Judson's
works still live; and generation after generation of Burmans will
associate her name with that of her honored husband, as benefactors to
their race.
In December, 1844, the health of Mrs. Judson began to decline. Her
anxious husband, determined to leave no means untried, to save a life so
precious to the mission and so invaluable to himself and his family,
decided to quit for a while his loved labors in Burmah and accompany
his wife to America. They in May 1845 sailed, and on reaching the Isle
of France, she found herself so far restored that she could no longer
conscientiously detain her husband from his duties in India, and she
resolved to let him go back to their home there, while she with her
children, should complete the journey that still seemed necessary for
her entire restoration. One of the sweetest of her poems was occasioned
by this resolution.
"We part on this green islet, Love,
Thou for the Eastern main,
I, for the setting sun, Love--
Oh, 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 Boodh shall fall, and Burmah's sons
Shall own Messiah's sway."
But her health still sinking, her husband could not leave her, and she
was borne back to the ship. Her life ebbed away so rapidly, that he
feared he must consign her to an ocean grave. But a kind Providence
ordered it, that her death did not occur till the ship anchored at St.
Helena. Her end was as peaceful as her life had been consistent and
exemplary.
"No shade of doubt or fear, or anxiety crossed her mind." So writes her
husband: "She had a prevailing preference to depart and be with Christ.
I am longing to depart! she would say; and then the thought of her dear
native land, to which she was approaching after an absence of twenty
years, and a longing desire to see her son George, her parents, and the
friends of her youth, would draw down her ascending soul, and constrain
her to say, 'I am in a strait betwixt two; the will of the Lord be
done.'
"In regard to her children she ever manifested the most surprising
composure and resignation, so much so that I was once constrained to
say, you seem to have forgotten the dear 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.
"On the evening of the 31st of August, ... I sat alone by the side of
her bed, 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,--and she ceased to breathe."
"So fades the summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies the wave along the shore."
Arrangements were made to carry the body on shore. The Rev. Mr. Bertram
from the Island came on board, and was led into the state-room where lay
all that was mortal of Mrs. Judson. "Pleasant," he says, "she was even
in death. A sweet smile of love beamed on her countenance, as if
heavenly grace had stamped it there. The bereaved husband and three
weeping children fastened their eyes upon the loved remains, as if they
could have looked forever."
The coffin was borne to the shore; the boats forming a kind of
procession, their oars beating the waves at measured intervals, as a
sort of funeral knell--The earth received her dust, and her bereaved
husband continued his sad voyage towards his native land, again a
widowed mourner.
PART III.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
OF MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON.
THIRD WIFE OF
REV. ADONIRAM JUDSON, D.D.
REMARKS ON HER GENIUS.--HER EARLY
LIFE.--CONVERSION.--EMPLOYMENTS.--TALES AND POEMS.--ACQUAINTANCE WITH
DR. JUDSON.--MARRIAGE.--VOYAGE TO INDIA.--BIOGRAPHY OF MRS. S.B.
JUDSON.--POEM WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.--POEM ON THE BIRTH OF AN
INFANT.--LINES ADDRESSED TO A BEREAVED FRIEND.--LETTER TO HER
CHILDREN.--"PRAYER FOR DEAR PAPA."--POEM ADDRESSED TO HER MOTHER.--HER
ACCOUNT OF DR. JUDSON'S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.
Our labor of sketching the lives of the _three_ distinguished women who
were permitted to share the happiness and lighten the cares of one of
the most worthy and venerated of missionaries, now brings us on delicate
ground. The last wife of Dr. Judson, happily for her numerous friends
and for his and her children, survives him. Long may she be spared to
train those children in the ways of lofty piety, to gladden the wide
circle of friends and relatives now anxiously expecting her return to
her native land, and to gratify the admirers of her genius with the
graceful and eloquent effusions of her pen. Graceful and eloquent they
have always been, but of late--touched by a coal from that altar on
which she has laid her best sacrifice, _herself_--they have gained a
higher and purer flow, awakened by a holier inspiration. The world
admired the brilliancy of "Fanny Forrester." Christians _love_ the
exalted tenderness, the sanctified enthusiasm of Emily C. Judson.
Much as it would gratify us, and her friends to give an extended account
of her life, delicacy forbids us to do more than merely to sketch those
features in it, which are already the property of much of the reading
public. Our outline will necessarily be meagre, but we will enrich it by
several of her poems written in India, hitherto scarce published except
in perishable newspapers and periodicals. We might indeed make it more
interesting by incidents and anecdotes, drawn from those of her early
associates who love to dwell on the rich promise of her childhood and
youth; but by doing so, we should incur the risk of intruding on the
sacredness of the family circle; and we forbear.
She was born in Eaton, a town near the centre of the state of New York.
In her childhood, she exhibited an exuberance of imagination that
enabled her to delight her young associates with tales, which, according
to one of them, she would sit up in bed in the morning to write, and
then read aloud to them. She would, even then, write verses also, but in
this gift she was perhaps inferior to a sister, who died in early life,
and whose numerous poems were unfortunately, and to the grief of her
family, accidentally lost. At an early period she embraced religion and
was baptized by the Rev. Mr. Dean, a missionary to China, then in this
country. Her interest was awakened in the heathen, even at that time,
and she indulged in many ardent longings to go as a missionary to them.
The late Dr. Kendrick judiciously advised her to pursue the path of duty
at home, and quietly wait the leadings and openings of Providence. This
advice she followed, and as a means of improving the straitened
circumstances of her family, she left home and engaged as a teacher in a
seminary in Utica.
Desirous to increase still farther her mother's limited resources, she
determined to employ her pen; and published some short religious tales,
which, however, brought her little fame, and small pecuniary emolument.
But in 1844, by a skilful and happy letter to the conductor of the _New
York Mirror_, she so attracted the attention of the fastidious and
brilliant editor of that magazine, that he engaged her as a constant
contributor. This arrangement, though of great pecuniary advantage, was,
in a religious view, a snare to her. As a writer of light, graceful
stories of a purely worldly character, she had in this country, few
rivals, and her name, attached to a tale or a poem, became a passport to
popular favor. In a letter to her aged pastor, written a year after her
marriage, she laments her extreme worldliness at that period, which she
says, even led her to be ashamed of her former desire to be a
missionary. Yet her writings are marked by purity, and generally
inculcated nothing unfriendly either to virtue or religion. But it was
the religion of sentiment, and the virtue of the natural heart; of which
it must be confessed we find far more in fictitious tales, than in real
life. When we consider the nobleness of the motive that led her to seek
a popular path to favor and emolument--to increase the comforts of her
excellent and honored mother--our censure, were we disposed to indulge
any, is disarmed and almost changed to admiration.
During Dr. Judson's visit to America, in 1845, while riding in a public
conveyance with Mr. G., who was escorting him to his home in
Philadelphia, a story written by "Fanny Forrester," fell into the hands
of Dr. J. He read it with satisfaction, remarking that he should like to
know its author. "You will soon have that pleasure," said Mr. G., "for
she is now visiting at my house." An acquaintance then commenced between
them, which, notwithstanding the disparity in their years, soon ripened
into a warm attachment, and after a severe struggle, she broke, as she
says, the innumerable ties that bound her to the fascinating worldly
life she had adopted, and consented to become, what in her early
religious zeal she had so longed to be--a missionary.
And now the spell of worldliness was indeed broken. With mingled shame
and penitence she reviewed her spiritual declensions, and with an
humbled, self-distrusting spirit renewed her neglected covenant with the
God and guide of her youth. In Dr. Judson, to whom she was married on
the 2d of June, 1846, she found a wise and faithful friend and
counsellor, as well as a devoted husband. In his tried and experienced
piety, she gained the support and encouragement she needed in her
Christian life. Conscious that she had given to the world's service too
many of her noble gifts, she commenced a work of an exclusively
religious character and tendency, the biography of her predecessor, the
second Mrs. Judson. In one year it was completed, and in speaking of it
in a letter from India, whither she had accompanied Dr. J. immediately
after their marriage, she playfully remarked that her husband was
pleased with it, and she cared little whether any one else liked it or
not.
On her passage to India, Mrs. Judson passed in sight of that island
which must ever attract the gaze of men of every clime and nation,--the
rocky prison and tomb of the conqueror of nations, Napoleon Bonaparte.
But to her the island had more tender associations; awakened more
touching recollections. It was as the grave of Sarah Judson, that her
successor gazed long and tearfully on the Isle of St. Helena; and she
thus embodied her feelings in song.
LINES WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.
Blow softly, gales! a tender sigh
Is flung upon your wing;
Lose not the treasure as ye fly,
Bear it where love and beauty lie,
Silent and withering.
Flow gently, waves! a tear is laid
Upon your heaving breast;
Leave it within yon dark rock's shade
Or weave it in an iris braid,
To crown the Christian's rest
Bloom, ocean isle, lone ocean isle!
Thou keep'st a jewel rare;
Let rugged rock, and dark defile,
Above the slumbering stranger smile
And deck her couch with care.
Weep, ye bereaved! a dearer head,
Ne'er left the pillowing breast;
The good, the pure, the lovely fled,
When mingling with the shadowy dead,
She meekly went to rest.
Mourn, Burmah, mourn! a bow which spanned
Thy cloud has passed away;
A flower has withered on thy sand,
A pitying spirit left thy strand,
A saint has ceased to pray.
Angels rejoice, another string
Has caught the strains above.
Rejoice, rejoice! a new-fledged wing
Around the Throne is hovering,
In sweet, glad, wondering love.
Blow, blow, ye gales! wild billows roll!
Unfurl the canvas wide!
O! where she labored lies our goal:
Weak, timid, frail, yet would my soul
Fain be to hers allied.
_Ship Faneuil Hall_, Sept. 1846.
On the birth of an infant, she expressed her first maternal feelings, in
verses of such exquisite beauty, that they can never be omitted in any
collection of the gems of poetry--least of all in any collection of
_her_ poems.
The following are the verses alluded to:
MY BIRD.
Ere last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest
And folded, oh so lovingly!
Her tiny wings upon my breast.
From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!
This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me--to me, thy hand has given.
The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine--
This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with thine.
A silent awe is in my room--
I tremble with delicious fear;
The future with its light and gloom,
Time and Eternity are here.
Doubts--hopes, in eager tumult rise;
Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:--
Room for my bird in Paradise,
And give her angel plumage there!
_Maulmain_, January, 1848.
The following touching lines show that she could skilfully employ her
ready pen in consoling those on whom had fallen the stroke of
bereavement:
LINES
_Addressed to a missionary friend in Burmah on the death of her little
boy, thirteen months old, in which allusion is made to the previous
death of his little brother._
A mound is in the graveyard,
A short and narrow bed;
No grass is growing on it,
And no marble at its head:
Ye may sit and weep beside it
Ye may kneel and kiss the sod,
But ye'll find no balm for sorrow,
In the cold and silent clod.
There is anguish in the household,
It is desolate and lone,
For a fondly cherished nursling
From the parent nest has flown;
A little form is missing;
A heart has ceased to beat;
And the chain of love lies shattered
At the desolator's feet.
Remove the empty cradle,
His clothing put away,
And all his little playthings
With your choicest treasures lay;
Strive not to check the tear drops,
That fall like summer rain,
For the sun of hope shines thro' them--
Ye shall see his face again.
Oh! think where rests your darling,--
Not in his cradle bed;
Not in the distant graveyard,
With the still and mouldering dead
But in a heavenly mansion,
Upon the Saviour's breast,
With his brother's arms about him,
He takes his sainted rest.
He has put on robes of glory
For the little robes ye wrought;
And he fingers golden harp strings
For the toys his sisters brought.
Oh, weep! but with rejoicing;
A heart gem have ye given,
And behold its glorious setting
In the diadem of Heaven.
The following letter and beautiful poems need little explanation. The
letter is addressed to some of Dr. Judson's children, who resided in
Worcester, Massachusetts, having been sent home from India to be
educated in America. His health having failed, Dr. J. had sailed for the
Isle of Bourbon for its restoration, and it was during his absence that
these effusions were penned.
Maulmain, April 11, 1850.
My very dear Children,
I have painful news to tell you--news that I am sure will make your
hearts ache; but I hope our heavenly Father will help you to bear
it. Your dear papa is very, very ill indeed; so much so that the
best judges fear that he will never be any better. He began to fail
about five months ago, and has declined so gradually that we were
not fully aware of his danger until lately; but within a few weeks
those who love him have become very much alarmed.
In January we went down to Mergui by the steamer, and when we
returned, thought he was a little better, but he soon failed again.
We spent a month at Amherst, but he received little if any benefit.
Next, the doctors pronounced our house (the one you used to live
in) unhealthy, and we moved to another. But all was of no use. Your
dear papa continued to fail, till suddenly, one evening, his
muscular strength gave way and he was prostrated on the bed, unable
to help himself. This occurred about two weeks ago. The doctor now
became alarmed, and said the only hope for him was in a long
voyage. It was very hard to think of such a thing in his reduced
state, particularly as I could not go with him; but after we had
wept and prayed over it one day and night, we concluded that it was
our duty to use the only means which God had left us, however
painful.
We immediately engaged his passage on board a French barque, bound
for the Isle of Bourbon; but before it sailed he had become so very
low that no one thought it right for him to go alone. They
therefore called a meeting of the mission and appointed Mr. Ranney.
It was a great relief to me, for he is a very kind man, and loves
your dear papa very much; and he will do everything that can be
done for his comfort. The officers of the vessel too, seemed
greatly interested for him, as did every one else. He was carried
on board a week ago yesterday, in a litter, and placed on a nice
easy cot made purposely for him. I stayed with him all day, and at
dark came home to stay with the children.
The next day found that the vessel had only dropped down a little
distance, and so I took a boat and followed. I expected this would
certainly be the last day with him, but it was not. On Friday I
went again, and though he did not appear as well as on the previous
days, I was forced to take, as I then supposed, a final leave of
him. But when morning came, I felt as though I could not live
through the day without knowing how he was. So I took a boat again,
and reached the vessel about 2 o'clock P.M. He could only
speak in whispers, but seemed very glad that I came. The natives I
had sent to fan him till he should get out of the river, came to me
and begged to have him taken on shore again: and so small was my
hope of his recovery, that my heart pleaded on their side, though I
still thought it a duty to do as the doctor had ordered. I came
away at dark, and though his lips moved to say some word of
farewell, they made no sound.
I hope that you, my dear boys, will never have cause to know what a
heavy heart I bore back to my desolate home that night. The vessel
got out to sea about 4 o'clock on Monday, and last night the
natives returned, bringing a letter from Mr. Ranney. Your precious
papa has revived again--spoke aloud--took a little tea and
toast--said there was something animating in the touch of the sea
breeze, and directed Mr. Ranney to write to me that he had a strong
belief it was the will of God to restore him again to health. I
feel somewhat encouraged, but dare not hope too much.
And now, my dear boys, it will be three, perhaps four long months
before we can hear from our beloved one again, and we shall all be
very anxious. All we can do is to commit him to the care of our
heavenly Father, and, if we never see him again in this world, pray
that we may be prepared to meet him in heaven
* * * * *
Your most affectionate mother,
Emily C. Judson
PRAYER FOR DEAR PAPA.
Poor and needy little children,
Saviour, God, we come to Thee,
For our hearts are full of sorrow,
And no other hope have we.
Out, upon the restless ocean,
There is one we dearly love,--
Fold him in thine arms of pity,
Spread thy guardian wings above.
When the winds are howling round him,
When the angry waves are high,
When black, heavy, midnight shadows,
On his trackless pathway lie,
Guide and guard him, blessed Saviour,
Bid the hurrying tempests stay;
Plant thy foot upon the waters.
Send thy smile to light his way.
When he lies, all pale, and suffering,
Stretched upon his narrow bed,
With no loving face bent o'er him,
No soft hand about his head,
O, let kind and pitying angels,
Their bright forms around him bow;
Let them kiss his heavy eyelids,
Let them fan his fevered brow.
Poor and needy little children,
Still we raise our cry to Thee
We have nestled in his bosom,
We have sported on his knee;
Dearly, dearly do we love him,
--We, who on his breast have lain--
Pity now our desolation!
Bring him back to us again!
If it please thee, Heavenly Father,
We would see him come once more,
With his olden step of vigor,
With the love-lit smile he wore;
But if we must tread Life's valley,
Orphaned, guideless, and alone,
Let us lose not, 'mid the shadows,
His dear footprints to thy Throne.
_Maulmain_, April, 1850.
SWEET MOTHER.
The wild, south-west Monsoon has risen,
With broad, gray wings of gloom,
While here, from out my dreary prison,
I look, as from a tomb--Alas!
My heart another tomb.
Upon the low-thatched roof, the rain,
With ceaseless patter, falls;
My choicest treasures bear its stain--
Mould gathers on the walls--Would Heaven
'Twere only on the walls!
Sweet Mother! I am here alone,
In sorrow and in pain;
The sunshine from my heart has flown,
It feels the driving rain--Ah, me!
The chill, and mould, and rain.
Four laggard months have wheeled their round
Since love upon it smiled;
And everything of earth has frowned
On thy poor, stricken child--sweet friend,
Thy weary, suffering child.
I'd watched my loved one, night and day.
Scarce breathing when he slept;
And as my hopes were swept away,
I'd on his bosom wept--O God!
How had I prayed and wept!
They bore him from me to the ship,
As bearers bear the dead;
I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,
And left him on his bed--Alas!
It seemed a coffin-bed!
When from my gentle sister's tomb,
In all our grief, we came,
Rememberest thou her vacant room!
Well, his was just the same, that day.
The very, very same.
Then, mother, little Charley came--
Our beautiful fair boy,
With my own father's cherished name--
But oh, he brought no joy!--My child
Brought mourning, and no joy.
His little grave I cannot see,
Though weary months have sped
Since pitying lips bent over me,
And whispered, "He is dead!"--Alas
'Tis dreadful to be dead!
I do not mean for one like me,
--So weary, worn, and weak,--
Death's shadowy paleness seems to be
Even now, upon my cheek--his seal
On form, and brow and cheek.
But for a bright-winged bird like him,
To hush his joyous song,
And, prisoned in a coffin dim,
Join Death's pale, phantom throng--_My boy_
To join that grisly throng!
Oh, Mother, I can scarcely bear
To think of this to-day!
It was so exquisitely fair,
--That little form of clay--my heart
Still lingers by his clay.
And when for one loved far, far more,
Come thickly gathering tears;
My star of faith is clouded o'er,
I sink beneath my fears--sweet friend,
My heavy weight of fears.
Oh, should he not return to me,
Drear, drear must be life's night!
And, mother, I can almost see
Even now the gathering blight--my soul
Faints, stricken by the blight.
Oh, but to feel thy fond arms twine
Around me, once again!
It almost seems those lips of thine
Might kiss away the pain--might soothe
This dull, cold, heavy pain.
But, gentle Mother, through life's storms,
I may not lean on thee,
For helpless, cowering little forms
Cling trustingly to me--Poor babes!
To have no guide but me!
With weary foot, and broken wing,
With bleeding heart, and sore,
Thy Dove looks backward, sorrowing,
But seeks the ark no more--thy breast
Seeks never, never more.
Sweet Mother, for this wanderer pray,
That loftier faith be given;
Her broken reeds all swept away,
That she may lean on Heaven--her soul
Grow strong on Christ and Heaven.
All fearfully, all tearfully,
Alone and sorrowing.
My dim eye lifted to the sky,
Fast to the cross I cling--O Christ!
To thy dear cross I cling.
_Maulmain_, August 8th, 1850
From the sad voyage which drew forth this most touching poem Dr. Judson
never returned. He died on board the ship which was bearing him to more
healthful climes; and his body was committed to the ocean. One of the
most excellent of Mrs. Judson's productions is her account of the
closing scenes in her husband's life, contained in a letter to his
sister. Long as it is, we cannot bring ourselves to abridge it. It will
convince our readers that if the three whose lives we have
sketched, have been among the first of women, they were united to one
who knew and appreciated their excellence, and who was _worthy_ to share
their affection.
CLOSING SCENES IN THE LIFE OF DR. JUDSON.
BY HIS WIDOW.
Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful
bereavement, which though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well
know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the
account of your brother's last days on board the Aristide Marie, in a
letter written by Mr. Ranney from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the
Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few
unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversation with Mr. R. and the
Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so--that I was not permitted
to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the
pain, which I at first felt, is gradually yielding to gratitude for the
inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.
There was something exceedingly beautiful in the decline of your
brother's life--more beautiful than I can describe, though the
impression will remain with me as a sacred legacy, until I go to meet
him where suns shall never set, and life shall never end. He had been,
from my first acquaintance with him, an uncommonly spiritual Christian,
exhibiting his richest graces in the unguarded intercourse of private
life; but during his last year, it seemed as though the light of the
world on which he was entering, had been sent to brighten his upward
pathway. Every subject on which we conversed, every book we read, every
incident that occurred, whether trivial or important, had a tendency to
suggest some peculiarly spiritual train of thought, till it seemed to
me that more than ever before, "Christ was all his theme." Something of
the same nature was also noted in his preaching, to which I then had not
the privilege of listening. He was in the habit, however, of studying
his subject for the Sabbath, audibly, and in my presence, at which time
he was frequently so much affected as to weep, and some times so
overwhelmed with the vastness of his conceptions, as to be obliged to
abandon his theme and choose another. My own illness at the commencement
of the year had brought eternity very near to us, and rendered death,
the grave, and the bright heaven beyond it, familiar subjects of
conversation. Gladly would I give you, my dear sister, some idea of the
share borne by him in those memorable conversations; but it would be
impossible to convey, even to those who knew him best, the most distant
conception. I believe he has sometimes been thought eloquent, both in
conversation and in the sacred desk; but the fervid, burning eloquence,
the deep pathos, the touching tenderness, the elevation of thought, and
intense beauty of expression, which characterized those private
teachings, were not only beyond what I had ever heard before, but such
as I felt sure arrested his own attention, and surprised even himself.
About this time he began to find unusual satisfaction and enjoyment in
his private devotions; and seemed to have few objects of interest
continually rising in his mind each of which in turn became special
subjects of prayer. Among these, one of the most prominent was the
conversion of his posterity. He remarked, that he had always prayed for
his children, but that of late he had felt impressed with the duty of
praying for their children and their children's children down to the
latest generation. He also prayed most fervently, that his impressions
on this particular subject might be transferred to his sons and
daughters, and thence to their offspring, so that he should ultimately
meet a long unbroken line of descendants before the throne of God, where
all might join together in ascribing everlasting praises to their
Redeemer.
Another subject, which occupied a large share of his attention, was that
of brotherly love. You are, perhaps, aware, that like all persons of his
ardent temperament, he was subject to strong attachments and aversions,
which he sometimes had difficulty in bringing under the controlling
influence of divine grace. He remarked that he had always felt more or
less of an affectionate interest in his brethren, as brethren--and some
of them he had loved very dearly for their personal qualities; but that
he was now aware he had never placed his standard of love high enough.
He spoke of them as children of God, redeemed by the Saviour's blood,
watched over and guarded by his love, dear to his heart, honored by him
in the election, and to be honored hereafter before the assembled
universe; and he said it was not sufficient to be kind and obliging to
such, to abstain from evil speaking, and make a general mention of them
in our prayers; but our attachment to them should be of the race, ardent
and exalted character--it would be so in heaven, and we lost
immeasurably by not beginning now. "As I have loved you, so ought ye
also to love one another," was a precept continually in his mind, and he
would often murmur, as though unconsciously, "'As I have loved you'--'as
I have loved you'"--then burst out with the exclamation, "Oh, the love
of Christ! the love of Christ!"
His prayers for the mission were marked by an earnest, grateful
enthusiasm, and in speaking of missionary operations in general, his
tone was one of elevated triumph, almost of exultation--for he not only
felt an unshaken confidence in their final success but would often
exclaim, "What wonders--oh, what wonders God has already wrought!"
I remarked, that during this year his literary labor, which he had never
liked, and upon which he had entered unwillingly and from a feeling of
necessity, was growing daily more irksome to him; and he always spoke of
it as his "heavy work," his "tedious work," "that wearisome dictionary,"
&c., though this feeling led to no relaxation of effort. He longed,
however, to find some more spiritual employment, to be engaged in what
he considered more legitimate missionary labor, and drew delightful
pictures of the future, when his whole business would be but to preach
and to pray.
During all this time I had not observed any failure in physical
strength; and though his mental exercises occupied a large share of my
thoughts when alone, it never once occurred to me that this might be the
brightening of the setting sun; my only feeling was that of pleasure,
that one so near to me was becoming so pure and elevated in his
sentiments, and so lovely and Christ-like in his character. In person he
had grown somewhat stouter than when in America, his complexion had a
healthful hue compared with that of his associates generally; and though
by no means a person of uniformly firm health, he seemed to possess such
vigor and strength of constitution, that I thought his life as likely to
be extended twenty years longer, as that of any member of the mission.
He continued his system of morning exercise, commenced when a student at
Andover, and was not satisfied with a common walk on level ground, but
always chose an up-hill path, and then frequently went bounding on his
way, with all the exuberant activity of boyhood.
He was of a singularly happy temperament, although not of that even
cast, which never rises above a certain level, and is never depressed.
Possessing acute sensibilities, suffering with those who suffered and
entering as readily into the joys of the prosperous and happy, he was
variable in his moods; but religion formed such an essential element in
his character, and his trust in Providence was so implicit and habitual,
that he was never gloomy, and seldom more than momentarily disheartened.
On the other hand, being accustomed to regard all the events of this
life, however minute or painful, as ordered in wisdom and tending to one
great and glorious end, he lived in almost constant obedience to the
apostolic injunction, "Rejoice evermore!" He often told me that although
he had endured much personal suffering, and passed through many fearful
trials in the course of his eventful life, a kind Providence had also
hedged him round with precious, peculiar blessings, so that his joys had
far outnumbered his sorrows.
Toward the close of September of last year, he said to me one evening,
"What deep cause have we for gratitude to God!--do you believe there are
any other two persons in the wide world so happy as we are?"
enumerating, in his own earnest manner, several sources of happiness, in
which our work as missionaries, and our eternal prospects, occupied a
prominent position. When he had finished his glowing picture, I
remarked (I scarcely know why, but there was a heavy cloud upon my
spirits that evening), "We are certainly very happy now, but it cannot
be so always--I am thinking of the time when one of us must stand beside
the bed, and see the other die."
"Yes," he said, "that will be a sad moment; I felt it most deeply a
little while ago, but now it would not be strange if your life were
prolonged beyond mine--though I should wish if it were possible to spare
you that pain. It is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who
goes to be with Christ. If it should only be the will of God that we
might go together, like young James and his wife. But he will order all
things well, and we can safely trust our future to his hands."
That same night we were roused from sleep by the sudden illness of one
of the children. There was an unpleasant, chilling dampness in the air,
as it came to us through the openings in the sloats above the windows,
which affected your brother very sensibly, and he soon began to shiver
so violently, that he was obliged to return to his couch, where he
remained under a warm covering until morning. In the morning he awoke
with a severe cold, accompanied by some degree of fever; but as it did
not seem very serious, and our three children were all suffering from a
similar cause, we failed to give it any especial attention. From that
time he was never well, though in writing to you before, I think I
dated the commencement of his illness, from the month of November, when
he laid aside his studies. I know that he regarded this attack as
trifling, and yet one evening he spent a long time in advising me with
regard to my future course, if I should be deprived of his guidance;
saying that it is always wise to be prepared for exigences of this
nature. After the month of November, he failed gradually, occasionally
rallying in such a manner as to deceive us all, but at each relapse
sinking lower than at the previous one, though still full of hope and
courage, and yielding ground only, inch by inch, as compelled by the
triumphant progress of disease. During some hours of every day he
suffered intense pain; but his naturally buoyant spirits and
uncomplaining disposition led him to speak so lightly of it, that I used
sometimes to fear the doctor, though a very skilful man, would be
fatally deceived.
As his health declined, his mental exercises at first seemed deepened;
and he gave still larger portions of his time to prayer, conversing with
the utmost freedom on his daily progress, and the extent of his
self-conquest. Just before our trip to Mergui, which took place in
January, he looked up from his pillow one day with sudden animation, and
said to me earnestly, "I have gained the victory at last. I love every
one of Christ's redeemed, as I believe he would have me love them--in
the same manner, though not probably to the same degree as we shall love
one another in heaven; and gladly would I prefer the meanest of his
creatures, who bears his name, before myself." This he said in allusion
to the text, "In honor preferring one another," on which he had
frequently dwelt with great emphasis. After farther similar conversation
he concluded, "And now here I lie at peace with all the world, and what
is better still, at peace with my own conscience. I know that I am a
miserable sinner in the sight of God, with no hope but in the blessed
Saviour's merits; but I cannot think of any particular fault, any
peculiarly besetting sin, which it is now my duty to correct. Can you
tell me of any?"
And truly, from this time no other word would so well express his state
of feeling, as that one of his own choosing--_peace_. He had no
particular exercises afterwards, but remained calm and serene, speaking
of himself daily as a great sinner, who had been overwhelmed with
benefits, and declaring, that he had never in all his life before, had
such delightful views of the unfathomable love and infinite
condescension of the Saviour, as were now daily opening before him. "Oh,
the love of Christ! the love of Christ!" he would suddenly exclaim,
while his eye kindled, and the tears chased each other down his cheeks,
"we cannot understand it now--but what a beautiful study for eternity!"
After our return from Mergui, the doctor advised a still farther trial
of the effects of sea air and sea-bathing, and we accordingly proceeded
to Amherst, where we remained nearly a month. This to me was the darkest
period of his illness--no medical adviser, no friend at hand, and he
daily growing weaker and weaker. He began to totter in walking, clinging
to the furniture and walls, when he thought he was unobserved (for he
was not willing to acknowledge the extent of his debility), and his wan
face was of a ghastly paleness. His sufferings too were sometimes
fearfully intense, so that in spite of his habitual self-control, his
groans would fill the house. At other times a kind of lethargy seemed to
steal over him, and he would sleep almost incessantly for twenty-four
hours, seeming annoyed if he were aroused or disturbed. Yet there were
portions of the time, when he was comparatively comfortable, and
conversed intelligently; but his mind seemed to revert to former scenes,
and he tried to amuse me with stories of his boyhood--his college
days--his imprisonment in France, and his early missionary life. He had
a great deal also to say on his favorite theme. "The love of Christ:"
but his strength was too much impaired for any continuous mental effort.
Even a short prayer made audibly, exhausted him to such a degree that
he was obliged to discontinue the practice.
At length I wrote to Maulmain, giving some expression of my anxieties
and misgivings, and our kind missionary friends, who had from the first
evinced all the tender interest and watchful sympathy of the nearest
kindred immediately sent for us--the doctor advising a sea-voyage. But
as there was no vessel in the harbor bound for a port sufficiently
distant, we thought it best, in the meantime, to remove from our old
dwelling, which had long been condemned as unhealthy, to another
mission-house, fortunately empty. This change was at first attended with
the most beneficial results, and our hopes revived so much, that we
looked forward to the approaching rainy season for entire restoration.
But it lasted only a little while, and then both of us became convinced,
that though a voyage at sea involved much that was exceedingly painful,
it yet presented the only prospect of recovery, and could not,
therefore, without a breach of duty, be neglected.
"Oh, if it were only the will of God to take me now--to let me die
here!" he repeated over and over again, in a tone of anguish, while we
where considering the subject. "I cannot, cannot go!--this is almost
more than I can bear! was there ever suffering like our suffering!" and
the like broken expressions, were continually falling from his lips.
But he soon gathered more strength of purpose; and after the decision
was fairly made, he never hesitated for a moment, rather regarding the
prospect with pleasure. I think the struggle which this resolution cost,
injured him very materially; though probably it had no share in bringing
about the final result. God, who saw the end from the beginning had
counted out his days, and they were hastening to a close. Until this
time he had been able to stand, and to walk slowly from room to room;
but as he one evening attempted to rise from his chair, he was suddenly
deprived of his small remnant of muscular strength, and would have
fallen to the floor, but for timely support.
From that moment his decline was rapid. As he lay helplessly upon his
couch, and watched the swelling of his feet, and other alarming
symptoms, he became very anxious to commence his voyage, and I felt
equally anxious to have his wishes gratified. I still hoped he might
recover--the doctor said the chances of life and death were in his
opinion equally balanced--and then he always loved the sea so dearly!
There was something exhilarating to him in the motion of a vessel, and
he spoke with animation of getting free from the almost suffocating
atmosphere incident to the hot season, and drinking in the fresh sea
breezes He talked but little more, however, than was necessary to
indicate his wants, his bodily sufferings being too great to allow of
conversation; but several times he looked up to me with a bright smile,
and exclaimed as heretofore, "Oh, the love of Christ! the love of
Christ!"
I found it difficult to ascertain, from expressions casually dropped,
from time to time, his real opinion with regard to his recovery; but I
thought there was some reason to doubt whether he was fully aware of his
critical situation. I did not suppose he had any preparation to make at
this late hour, and I felt sure that if he should be called ever so
unexpectedly, he would not enter the presence of his Maker with a
ruffled spirit; but I could not bear to have him go away, without
knowing how doubtful it was whether our next meeting would not be in
eternity; and perhaps too, in my own distress, I might still have looked
for words of encouragement and sympathy, to a source which had never
before failed.
It was late in the night, and I had been performing some little
sick-room offices, when suddenly he looked up to me, and exclaimed,
"This will never do! You are killing yourself for me, and I will not
permit it You must have some one to relieve you. If I had not been made
selfish by suffering, I should have insisted upon it long ago."
He spoke so like himself--with the earnestness of health, and in a tone
to which my ear had of late been a stranger, that for a moment I felt
almost bewildered with sudden hope. He received my reply to what he had
said, with a half-pitying, half-gratified smile, but in the meantime his
expression had changed--the marks of excessive debility were again
apparent, and I could not forbear adding, "It is only a little while,
you know."
"Only a little while," he repeated mournfully; "this separation is a
bitter thing, but it does not distress me now as it did--I am too weak."
"You have no reason to be distressed," I answered, "with such glorious
prospects before you. You have often told me it is the one left alone
who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ." He gave me a
rapid, questioning glance, then assumed for several moments an attitude
of deep thought. Finally, he slowly unclosed his eyes, and fixing them
on me, said in a calm, earnest tone, "I do not believe I am going to
die. I think I know why this illness has been sent upon me--I needed
it--I feel that it has done me good--and it is my impression, that I
shall now recover, and be a better and more useful man."
"Then it is your wish to recover?" I inquired. "If it should be the will
of God, yes. I should like to complete the dictionary, on which I have
bestowed so much labor, now that it is so nearly done; for though it
has not been a work that pleased my taste, or quite satisfied my
feelings, I have never underrated its importance. Then after that come
all the plans we have formed. Oh, I feel as though only just beginning
to be prepared for usefulness."
"It is the opinion of most of the mission," I remarked, "that you will
not recover." "I know it is," he replied; "and I suppose they think me
an old man, and imagine that it is nothing for one like me to resign a
life so full of trials. But I am not old--at least in that sense--you
know I am not. Oh! no man ever left this world with more inviting
prospects, with brighter hopes or warmer feelings--warmer feelings"--he
repeated, and burst into tears. His face was perfectly placid, even
while the tears broke away from the closed lids, and rolled, one after
another, down to the pillow. There was no trace of agitation or pain in
his manner of weeping, but it was evidently the result of acute
sensibilities, combined with great physical weakness. To some
suggestions which I ventured to make, he replied, "It is not that--I
know all that, and feel it in my inmost heart. Lying here on my bed,
when I could not talk, I have had such views of the loving condescension
of Christ, and the glories of heaven, as I believe are seldom granted to
mortal man. It is not because I shrink from death, that I wish to live;
neither is it because the ties that bind me here though some of them
are very sweet, bear any comparison with the drawings I at times feel
towards heaven; but a few years would not be missed from my eternity of
bliss, and I can well afford to spare them, both for your sake and for
the sake of the poor Burmans. I am not tired of my work, neither am I
tired of the world; yet when Christ calls me home. I shall go with the
gladness of a boy bounding away from his school. Perhaps I feel
something like the young bride, when she contemplates resigning the
pleasant associations of her childhood, for a yet dearer home--though
only a very little like her--for _there is no doubt resting on my
future_." "Then death would not take you by surprise," I remarked, "if
it should come even before you could get on board ship." "Oh, no," he
said, "death will never take me by surprise--do not be afraid of that--I
feel _so strong in Christ_. He has not led me so tenderly thus far, to
forsake me at the very gate of heaven. No, no; I am willing to live a
few years longer, if it should be so ordered; and if otherwise, I am
willing and glad to die now. I leave myself entirely in the hands of
God, to be disposed of according to his holy will."
The next day some one mentioned in his presence, that the native
Christians were greatly opposed to the voyage, and that many other
persons had a similar feeling with regard to it I thought he seemed
troubled; and after the visitor had withdrawn, I inquired if he still
felt as when he conversed with me the night previous. He replied, "Oh
yes; that was no evanescent feeling. It has been with me, to a greater
or less extent, for years, and will be with me, I trust, to the end. I
am ready to go _to-day_--if it should be the will of God, this very
hour; but I am not _anxious_ to die--at least when I am not beside
myself with pain."
"Then why are you so desirous to go to sea? I should think it would be a
matter of indifference to you." "No," he answered quietly, "my judgment
tells me it would be wrong not to go--the doctor says _criminal_. I
shall certainly die here--if I go away, I may possibly recover. There is
no question with regard to duty in such a case; and I do not like to see
any hesitation, even though it springs from affection."
He several times spoke of a burial at sea, and always as though the
prospect were agreeable. It brought, he said, a sense of freedom and
expansion and seemed far pleasanter than the confined, dark, narrow
grave, to which he had committed so many that he loved. And he added,
that although his burial-place was a matter of no real importance, yet
he believed it was not in human nature to be altogether without a
choice.
I have already given you an account of the embarkation, of my visits to
him while the vessel remained in the river, and of our last sad, silent
parting; and Mr. Ranney has finished the picture. You will find in this
closing part, some dark shadows, that will give you pain; but you must
remember that his present felicity is enhanced by those very sufferings,
and we should regret nothing that serves to brighten his crown in glory.
I ought also to add, that I have gained pleasanter impressions in
conversation with Mr. R. than from his written account; but it would be
difficult to convey them to you; and, as he whom they concern was
accustomed to say of similar things, "you will learn it all in heaven."
During the last hour of your sainted brother's life, Mr. Ranney bent
over him and held his hand; while poor Pinapah stood at a little
distance weeping bitterly. The table had been spread in the cuddy, as
usual, and the officers did not know what was passing in the cabin, till
summoned to dinner. Then they gathered about the door, and watched the
closing scene with solemn reverence. Now--thanks to a merciful God! his
pains had left him, not a momentary spasm disturbed his placid face, nor
did the contraction of a muscle denote the least degree of suffering;
the agony of death was passed, and his wearied spirit was turning to its
rest in the bosom of his Saviour. From time to time, he pressed the hand
in which his own was resting, his clasp losing in force at each
successive pressure; while his shortened breath (though there was no
struggle, no gasping, as if it came and went with difficulty) gradually
grew softer and fainter, until it died upon the air--and he was gone.
Mr. Ranney closed the eyes, and composed the passive limbs,--the ship's
officers stole softly from the door, and the neglected meal was left
upon the board untasted.
They lowered him to his ocean-grave without a prayer; for his freed
spirit had soared above the reach of earthly intercession, and to the
foreigners who stood around, it would have been a senseless form. And
there they left him in his unquiet sepulchre; but it matters little, for
we know that while the unconscious clay is "drifting on the shifting
currents of the restless main," nothing can disturb the hallowed rest of
the immortal spirit. Neither could he have a more fitting monument, than
the blue waves which visit every coast; for his warm sympathies went
forth to the ends of the earth, and included the whole family of man. It
is all as God would have it, and our duty is but to bend meekly to his
will, and wait, in faith and patience, till we also shall be summoned
home.
CHAPTER II.
CONCLUSION.
* * * * "Last scene of all
To close this sad, eventful history."
Scarcely four years ago,--in sickness and loneliness, and sad
suspense,--in her Burman home, from which had departed (alas, forever!)
its light and head--Emily C. Judson penned the foregoing beautiful
letter. Read again its closing sentence,[11] and note how short a time
she has "waited in faith and patience;" how _soon_ she has been
"summoned home." For _her_, it would be wrong for us to mourn. She has
rejoined that circle, which she loved so well on earth, in a land where
"Sickness and sorrow, pain and death
Are felt and _feared_ no more."
But to her aged parents--to the little flock to whom she was as the
tenderest mother--to the literary world, which enjoyed the ripe fruits
of her genius--to the Christian world, of which she was a shining
ornament and glory, her loss is irreparable. In her own inimitable
words, we may exclaim:
"Weep, ye bereaved! a dearer head
Ne'er left the pillowing breast;
The good, the pure, the lovely fled,
When mingling with the shadowy dead
She meekly went to rest.
"Angels, rejoice! another string
Has caught the strains above,
Rejoice, rejoice! a new-fledged wing
Around the throne is hovering,
In sweet, glad, wondering love."
But though one of the sweet fountains that well up here and there in our
desert world, and surround themselves with greenness, and beauty, and
life, has been exhaled to heaven, still it is refreshing to know that
its streams, which made glad so many hearts, have not perished, for they
were of "living water, springing up" into immortality. The writer is
lost to us; her writings remain. By them "she being dead yet speaketh,"
and through them, whensoever we will, she may talk with us.
Mrs. Judson's final malady was consumption, but for several years her
health had been feeble. One who saw her just before she left America
says: "Looking upon her, we saw at once that it was a spirit which had
already outworn its frame--a slight, pale, delicate, and transparent
creature, every thought and feeling shining through, and every word and
movement tremulous with fragility. * * * We said farewell with no
thought that she would ever return."
From her voyage across the ocean she suffered less than was apprehended,
and for a time she found the climate of India rather congenial than
otherwise to her constitution. Her short residence at Rangoon, whither
her husband removed with his family soon after reaching Burmah, was
indeed a period of great suffering, and would have given a shock to a
much hardier constitution. Her narrative of their sufferings there,
contained in the life of her husband, by Dr. Wayland, excites our wonder
that she survived them. But after their removal to Maulmain, she was
restored to comparative health.
A letter from her husband, written in the latter part of 1848, when her
little Emily Frances, her "bird," was one year old, gives a glowing
picture of their happiness and their labors. He playfully says: "Even
'the young romance writer' had made a little book, (Scripture
questions,) and she manages to conduct a Bible class, and native female
prayer-meetings, so that I hope she will yet come to some good."
But a letter written to Miss Anable, Philadelphia, in the spring of
1849, is in a different strain: "A dark cloud is gathering round me. A
crushing weight is upon me. I cannot resist the dreadful conviction
that dear Emily is in a settled and rapid decline." After speaking of
the many means he had unsuccessfully employed for her restoration, he
says "The symptoms are such that I have scarcely any hope left. * * * If
a change to any place promised the least relief, I would go anywhere.
But we are here in the healthiest part of India, in the dry, warm
season, and she suffers so much at sea that a voyage could hardly be
recommended for itself. My only hope is, the doctor declares her lungs
are not seriously affected. * * * When at Tavoy, she made up her mind
that she must die soon, and that is now her prevailing expectation; but
she contemplates the event with composure and resignation. * * * Though
she feels that in her circumstances, prolonged life is exceedingly
desirable, she is quite willing to leave all at the Savior's call.
Praise be to God for his love to her." Some days later he adds: "Emily
is better. * * * But though the deadly-pressure is removed from my
heart, I do not venture to indulge any sanguine hopes after what I have
seen. * * * Do remember us in your prayers."
The doctor's predictions proved correct; Mrs. Judson partially recovered
from this attack, although in August her husband writes: "Emily's health
is very delicate--her hold on life very precarious."
Alas! his own hold on life was more precarious still. In the following
spring, the heart that had beat for her so fondly and truly was
consigned to its "unquiet sepulchre;" "the blue waves which visit every
coast" his only and "fitting monument;" while the object of his tender
solicitude was compelled to endure four months the agony of suspense as
to _his_ fate, terminated by the sad certainty of his death.[12]
After the death of her husband, Mrs. Judson expressed a strong desire to
remain in Burmah and devote herself to the cause which was so dear to
her husband's and her own heart. But her health, always delicate, was so
unfavorably affected by that climate that her physicians were of opinion
another rainy season would terminate her life. A numerous family of
children, several of whom were in this country, needed her maternal care
and guidance; and for their sakes, as well as for her own, she left
Burmah in the winter following her husband's death, and arrived in this
country in October, 1851, after an absence of five years and three
months. She found in the beautiful village of Hamilton a sequestered and
lovely home for herself and her family, which consisted of her aged
parents, the five children of Sarah B. Judson, and her own "bird," Emily
Frances. The cares of her family, and literary labors, here divided her
time until the prostration of her health by her last sickness, since
which period she has "set her house in order,"[13] and calmly awaited
the summons of death. Peacefully and sweetly did the summons come, and
on the first of June she fell asleep in Jesus. With a sister poet she
might have said--
"I'm passing through the eternal gates,
Ere June's sweet roses blow."
She had often spoken of this rich and glorious month as her "time to
die," and repeated Bryant's hymn,--
"'Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break."
Nature had no more ardent lover than she; and it is pleasant to think
that her dust is returning to dust in a lovely village church-yard,
under the "pure air of heaven, and amid the luxuriance of flowers."
Pleasant also is it to read that a vast concourse of sincere admirers
and loving friends, and among them all her children, eagerly testified
their respect to her, by attending her remains to their burial. To her
glorified spirit such manifestations may indeed be of little moment. Yet
even her glorified spirit may feel a new thrill of pleasure in
beholding, from its serene sphere, the love that prompted them, and
sought in the choice of her last resting-place to give even to the
unconscious dead one more proof of affection.
In so imperfect a sketch as ours, a delineation of the character of Mrs.
Judson will not be attempted. We would not, if we could, anticipate her
memoir, which, it is said, will soon be published. From documents open
to the public, we shall merely glean such notices of her life and
character as shall induce in our readers a desire to know those details
of her personal history which will doubtless be found in her biography.
From what we can learn, we infer that the prominent traits in her
character were strong affections, energy, and disinterestedness. Of a
slight and delicate frame and constitution, and a sensibility almost
amounting to sensitiveness, she at an early age engaged in duties and
made sacrifices scarcely expected from the robust and vigorous. And her
exertions had for their end mainly to benefit those she loved. Whether
she taught in the district school, or in the higher seminary, or wrote
Sunday-school books, or contributed to literary periodicals, her
affection for her mother, and desire to lighten her burdens, seem to
have stimulated her exertions and called forth her powers. In her early
religious experience, the same disinterestedness manifested itself; for
no sooner did she feel the renewing power of faith in her own heart,
than she longed to impart even to the distant heathen the same precious
blessing.[14] Unselfish affection is also, we think, a strongly marked
trait in her married life. Not long after their arrival in Burmah, Mr.
Judson writes: "Emily loves the children as if they were her own." And
again, nearly two years later: "We are a deliciously happy family;" and
again, "Emily has taken to my two boys as if they were her own; so that
we are a very happy family; not a happier, I am sure, on the broad
earth."
Another proof of the same trait, was her loving and sympathetic
appreciation of a peculiar trait in her husband, which, had her
disposition been less noble, might have caused her some annoyance. Of
this trait Dr. Wayland thus speaks: "There was a feature in Dr. Judson's
affection as a husband, which was, I think, peculiar. He was, as it is
well known, married three times, and no man was ever more tenderly
attached to each of his wives. The present affection, however, seemed in
no respect to lessen his affection for those for whom he mourned. He
ever spoke of those who had gone before, with undiminished interest. In
one of his letters to his daughter, after saying he did not believe
there existed on earth so happy a family as his, he soon after adds: 'My
tears fall frequently for her who lies in her lone bed at St. Helena.'
It was at his suggestion that Mrs. Emily Judson wrote the life of her
predecessor. He frequently refers with delight to the time when he, and
all those whom he so much loved, shall meet in Paradise, no more to
part, but to spend an eternity together in the presence of Christ. Those
that were once loved were loved to the end; but this did not prevent the
bestowment of an equal amount of affection on a successor." To quote
the words of another, speaking of Mrs. Mary Ware, who, placed in similar
circumstances to Mrs. Judson, showed the same noble superiority to a
common weakness of her sex: "She had no sympathy and little respect for
that narrow view which insists that the departed and the living cannot
share the same pure love of the same true heart. With regard to a former
wife--'she was the nearest and dearest to him'--she would say, 'how then
can I do otherwise than love and cherish her memory?' And _her_ children
she received as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first
moment like her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction."
Since writing the above, we have seen a poem, entitled "Love's Last
Wish," addressed to her husband, by Mrs. Judson when she thought herself
near death, which expresses so beautifully the sentiment we have here
attributed to her, that, did our limits permit, we would copy the whole.
We can only give an extract.
"Thou say'st I'm fading day by day,
And in thy face I read thy fears;
It would be hard to pass away
So soon, and leave thee to thy tears.
I hoped to linger by thy side,
Until thy homeward call was given,
Then silent to my pillow glide,
And wake upon thy breast in heaven.
* * * * *
"I do not ask to be forgot;
I've read thy heart in every line,
And know that there one sacred spot,
Whate'er betide, will still be mine,
For death but lays its mystic spell
Upon affection's earthliness,--
I know that, though thou lov'st me well,
_Thou lov'st thy sainted none the less_.
* * * * *
And when at last we meet above,
Where marriage vows are never spoken,
_We all shall form one chain of love_,
Whose spirit-links can ne'er be broken."
Of Mrs. Judson's happiness in her married and missionary life, we feel
bound to say a few words, because the tone of some articles, written
since her death, would lead to the impression that, so far from having
had any enjoyment as a wife, a mother, and a missionary, she had
sacrificed not only all her literary aspirations, but her whole earthly
happiness to her desire to benefit the heathen. Thus one widely
circulated article speaks of her mission-life as a "slow martyrdom of
sacrifices and sorrows;" * * * as "filled with bitterness,"--speaks,
too, of the agony wrung out of her heart by suspense in regard to her
husband's fate, expressed in that exquisite piece to her mother, (page
334,) as "one hour of the _years she suffered_ in Burmah." That the
life of any faithful missionary is one of exile, toil, and privation, we
are not disposed to deny. The world knows it too well; and seeing that
such toils are uncheered by the acquisition of fame or wealth--the only
reward it can appreciate--the world considers the life of the missionary
a living death, endured like martyrdom, only for the sake of its crown
in the life to come. But not in this light was their life considered by
the noble three whose history we have sketched in this volume, nor by
Dr. Judson. The elevated sources of happiness opened even in this world
to those who literally obey the command to forsake all for Christ, cast
far into the shade all merely selfish enjoyment; while the pure domestic
affections, and the bliss resulting from them, are as much the portion
of the missionary, as of his favored brethren at home. Who can read the
letters of Dr. Judson, in Dr. Wayland's memoir of him, or the exquisite
letters of his widow found in this volume, without the conviction that
the latter years of her life, privileged as they were with the high
companionship of one so gifted and so dear as was her husband, and in
the midst of social and domestic duties that brought their own exceeding
great reward, were, of all her years, the richest and the happiest!
But her own idea of the comparative happiness of her _two lives_, may be
best gathered from her poetry, for it is a characteristic and charm of
her verse that it is the pouring forth of her deepest feelings at the
moment when they swayed her soul with strongest influence. We extract a
few verses from a poem written at Rangoon, during that period of great
physical suffering to which we have alluded, but of which Dr. Judson
writes: "My sojourn in Rangoon, though tedious and trying in some
respects, I regard as one of the greenest spots, one of the brightest
oases, in the diversified wilderness of my life. If this world is so
happy, what must heaven be?"
TO MY HUSBAND.
"Tis May, but no sweet violet springs
In these strange woods and dells;
The dear home-lily never swings
Her little pearly bells;
But search my heart and thou wilt see
What wealth of flowers it owes to thee.
The robin's voice is never heard
From palm and banyan trees;
And strange to me each gorgeous bird,
Whose pinion fans the breeze;
But love's white wing bends softly here,
Love's thrilling music fills my ear.
* * * * *
The pure, the beautiful, the good,
Ne'er gather in this place;
None but the vicious and the rude,
The dark of mind and face;
But _all the wealth of thy vast soul_
Is pressed into my brimming bowl.
* * * * *
Here closely nestled by thy side,
Thy arm around me thrown,
I ask no more. _In mirth and pride_
_I've stood--oh so alone_!
Now, what is all this world to me,
Since I have found my world in thee?
Oh if we are so happy here,
Amid our toils and pains,
With thronging cares and dangers near
And marr'd by earthly stains,
How great must be the compass given
Our souls, to _bear_ the bliss of heaven!"
As to the sacrifice of her literary taste and reputation, this is so far
from the fact, that we may assert without fear of contradiction, that
the world never knew her best excellence as a writer, till it was
startled, as it were, by her deathless utterances, wafted by east winds
from her Indian home. Her memoir of her predecessor, and her appeals for
Burmah, have thrilled thousands of hearts that knew nothing of her
"Alderbrook;" and her "Bird," has, perhaps, awakened in many a mother's
heart its first deep appreciation of the holy responsibilities of
maternity. The Christian world gained much, the literary world lost
nothing, when Fanny Forester became a missionary.
But her harp is idle now, and its loosened strings will wait long for a
hand to tune and draw from them such soul-moving cadences as we have
been wont to hear. In purer air she sweeps a nobler lyre; and
methinks her song may well be, "Blessed are the dead that die in the
Lord; even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and
their works do follow them."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 11: Page 356.]
[Footnote 12: See her touching allusion to that suspense in the
thirteenth and fourteenth verses of her poem, "Sweet Mother," page 336.]
[Footnote 13: These are no idle words, for, says the New York Recorder,
"Her love for the missionary enterprise found expression in an act, by
which she, being dead, will long speak through the living heralds of the
cross. By her will, as we learn from an authentic source, after
providing for the comfortable maintenance of her aged parents and the
support and education of her daughter and the other children of Dr.
Judson, with a small portion to each as they reach maturity, and a few
bequests to personal friends, whatever may remain of her property is
given to the cause for which she wished to live, in the same spirit that
her venerated husband so consistently exemplified. She was solicitous
that the children left in her guardianship should lack no good that a
Christian parent could desire beyond this, and the fulfillment of filial
duty, her single aim was the furtherance of His kingdom to whom her
heart was supremely loyal and her life unreservedly devoted."
It is interesting to learn, from the same authority, that the youngest
of Mrs. S.B. Judson's five children, a boy of eight years, has been
adopted by Professor Dodge, of Madison University; and her own daughter,
by Miss Anable, of Philadelphia, one of the warmest friends of Mrs. E.C.
Judson. The other children are pursuing their education under different
guardians.]
[Footnote 14: See page 323.]
Transcriber's Notes:
The illustration tags at the beginning are for illustrations that were
near the beginning of the book in the original, but the transcriber
does not know exactly where.
On page 77, the circumflex in "Shooda-gôn" is a macron in the original.
On page 363, it is unclear where the quote ends in Footnote 13.