Should the reader desire still further to explore the secretsof Mr. Judson’s prison-house, he is referred to the book entitled “Personal Narrative of Two Years’ Imprisonment in Burmah,” by Henry Gouger. Mr. G. views the subject, not from the stand-point of a missionary, nor of a minister, nor of an American, but from that of an enterprising English merchant, so that we are indebted to him for a strong cross-light shed upon Mr. Judson’s experiences. The reader’s attention is also directed to a sketch called “The Kathayan Slave,” from the pen of Mrs. E. C. Judson.[32]“I wrote,” says Mrs. J., “under my husband’s eye, and he read and approved it, so that it is perfectly reliable.”
Further information concerning the imprisonment at Ava and Oung-pen-la is afforded by the reminiscences which were gathered by Mrs. E. C. Judson from conversations with Mr. Judson.
“During the first seven months of Mr. Judson’s imprisonment, there was but little change. The white men all wore three pairs of fetters; but they were suffered to walk about the prison-yard, as well as they could with their ankles only a few inches apart, and always followed by keepers. They were from time to time subjected to almost innumerable annoyances, vexations, and extortions; and they were obliged to be the witnesses of wanton cruelties which they could not prevent, and of intense sufferings which they could not alleviate. For the most of the time, through Mrs. Judson’s continual exertions, and by help of occasional presents, they were allowed to spend the day in the open shed in the yard, and Mrs. Judson was even permitted to build a little bamboo shelter for her husband, where he could be, some portion of the time, by himself. Mr. Judson was exceedingly nice in his personal habits, nice even to a fault; and this herding together, even if he had been permitted to choose his associates, would have been exceedingly unpleasant to him. They were not all, belonging as they did to five different nations, educated in his notions of cleanliness, and even he was often,from necessity, offensive to himself. Sometimes he was denied the use of water, and sometimes the admission of clothing was forbidden; and the act of dressing, with the ankles made fast by fetters, proved to be no simple art. With all his efforts, and the care taken by his wife of his wardrobe, he was sometimes in a very forlorn state. His food was such as Mrs. Judson could provide. Sometimes it came regularly, and sometimes they went very hungry. Sometimes, for weeks together, they had no food but rice, savored with ngapee—a certain preparation of fish, not always palatable to foreigners. But once, when a term of unusual quiet gave her time for the softer and more homely class of loving thoughts, Mrs. Judson made a great effort to surprise her husband with something that should remind him of home. She planned and labored, until, by the aid of buffalo beef and plantains, she actually concocted a mince pie. Unfortunately, as she thought, she could not go in person to the prison that day; and the dinner was brought by smiling Moung Ing, who seemed aware that some mystery must be wrapped up in that peculiar preparation of meat and fruit, though he had never seen the well-spread boards of Plymouth and Bradford. But the pretty little artifice only added another pang to a heart whose susceptibilities were as quick and deep as, in the sight of the world, they were silent. When his wife had visited him in prison, and borne taunts and insults with and for him, they could be brave together; when she had stood up like an enchantress, winning the hearts of high and low, making savage jailers, and scarcely less savage nobles, weep; or moved, protected by her own dignity and sublimity of purpose, like a queen along the streets, his heart had throbbed with proud admiration; and he was almost able to thank God for the trials which had made a character so intrinsically noble shine forth with such peculiar brightness. But in this simple, homelike act, this little unpretending effusion of a loving heart, there was something so touching, so unlike the part she had just been acting, and yet so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed his head upon his knees, and the tears floweddown to the chains about his ankles. What a happy man he might have been had this heavy woe been spared them! And what was coming next? Finally the scene changed, and there came over him a vision of the past. He saw again the home of his boyhood. His stern, strangely revered father, his gentle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister, and pale young brother were gathered for the noonday meal, and he was once more among them. And so his fancy revelled there. Finally he lifted his head. O, the misery that surrounded him! He moved his feet, and the rattling of the heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the carefully prepared dinner into the hand of his associate, and as fast as his fetters would permit, hurried to his own little shed.“Mr. Judson was not naturally of an even temperament. Hopeful and earnest he was, beyond most men, and withal very persevering; but at this period of his life, and up to a much later time, he was subject to a desponding reaction, from which his faith in God, the ruling principle of his later years, was not now sufficiently ripe to set him entirely free. His peculiar mental conformation was eminently active; so that the passive suffering of his prison discipline was more galling than to a mind differently constituted. So long as he could contend with difficulties, he was appalled by nothing; but whatever he might have been in after-life, he was at this time better fitted todothan toendure. For some time previous to the birth of poor little Maria, he had been filled with the gloomiest forebodings; and not without cause. His wife, from the peculiar customs of this land of semi-civilization, was more alone than she would have been among the wild Indian women of an American forest; and he could do nothing for her. When the dreaded crisis was past, and a pale, puny infant of twenty days was brought to his prison, no person not thoroughly conversant with the secret springs of feeling which made his the richest heart that ever beat in human bosom, would be at all able to appreciate the scene. His first child slept beneath the waters of the Bay of Bengal, a victim to Anglo-Indian persecution, a baby-martyr, without the martyr’s conflict; the second,his ‘meek, blue-eyed Roger,’ had his bed in the jungle graveyard at Rangoon; and here came the third little wan stranger, to claim the first parental kiss from the midst of felon chains.“Mrs. Judson had long previous to this adopted the Burmese style of dress. Her rich Spanish complexion could never be mistaken for the tawny hue of the native; and her figure, of full medium height, appeared much taller and more commanding in a costume usually worn by women of inferior size. But her friend, the governor’s wife, who presented her with the dress, had recommended the measure as a concession which would be sure to conciliate the people, and win them to a kindlier treatment of her. Behold her, then—her dark curls carefully straightened, drawn back from her forehead, and a fragrant cocoa-blossom, drooping like a white plume from the knot upon the crown; her saffron vest thrown open to display the folds of crimson beneath; and a rich silken skirt, wrapped closely about her fine figure, parting at the ankle, and sloping back upon the floor. The clothing of the feet was not Burman, for the native sandal could not be worn except upon a bare foot. Behold her standing in the doorway (for she was never permitted to enter the prison), her little blue-eyed blossom wailing, as it almost always did, upon her bosom, and the chained father crawling forth to the meeting!N. Rogers PinxrAlex Cameron Sc.Ann H JudsonObtOct. 24th1826.“The following verses, of which the writer says, ‘They were composed in my mind at the time, and afterward written down,’ commemorate this meeting:Lines addressed to an Infant Daughter, twenty days old, in the condemned Prison at Ava.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,Hushed on thy mother’s breast;Let no rude sound of clanking chainsDisturb thy balmy rest.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;Blest that thou canst not knowThe pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,The keenness of their woe.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;May Heaven its blessings shed,In rich profusion, soft and sweet,On thine unconscious head!“‘Why ope thy little eyes?What would my darling see?Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?Thy father’s agony?“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,Where fettered felons lie,And wonder that thy father hereShould as a felon sigh?“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,Which stoutest hearts appal—The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,The torturing iron mall?“‘No, darling infant, no!Thou seest them not at all;Thou only mark’st the rays of lightWhich flicker on the wall.“‘Thine untaught infant eyeCan nothing clearly see;Sweet scenes of home and prison scenesAre all alike to thee.“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,And roll thy vacant eye,Reposing on thy mother’s breastIn soft security.“‘Why ope thy paly lips?What would my darling say?“My dear papa, why leave us thus?Why thus in prison stay?“‘“For poor mamma and IAll lonely live at home,And every day we watch and wait,And wish papa would come?”“‘No; all alike to theeThy mother’s grief or mirth;Nor know’st thou one of all the illsWhich mark thy mournful birth.“‘Thy lips one art alone,One loving, simple grace,By nature’s instinct have been taught;Seek, then, thy nestling-place!“‘Spread out thy little hand;Thy mother’s bosom press,And thus return, in grateful guise,Her more sincere caress.“‘Go, darling infant, go;Thine hour has passed away;The jailer’s harsh, discordant voiceForbids thy longer stay.“‘God grant that we may meetIn happier times than this,And with thine angel mother dearEnjoy domestic bliss.“‘But should the fearful clouds,Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,Conduct the threatened vengeance downOn thy poor father’s head—“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?What hand would guide my darling’s stepsAlong their dangerous way?“‘There is a God on high,The glorious King of kings;’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,Whose love she sits and sings.“‘That glorious God, so kind,Has sent His Son to saveOur ruined race from sin and death,And raise them from the grave.“‘And to that gracious GodMy darling I commend;Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,Her Father and her Friend.“‘Inspire her infant heartThe Saviour’s love to know,And guide her through this dreary world,This wilderness of woe.“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,Safe in a mother’s care.“‘And when, in future years,Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,These lines will show thee how he felt,How o’er his babe he sung.‘To Maria Eliza Butterworth Judson, born at Ava, January 26, 1825.’”
“During the first seven months of Mr. Judson’s imprisonment, there was but little change. The white men all wore three pairs of fetters; but they were suffered to walk about the prison-yard, as well as they could with their ankles only a few inches apart, and always followed by keepers. They were from time to time subjected to almost innumerable annoyances, vexations, and extortions; and they were obliged to be the witnesses of wanton cruelties which they could not prevent, and of intense sufferings which they could not alleviate. For the most of the time, through Mrs. Judson’s continual exertions, and by help of occasional presents, they were allowed to spend the day in the open shed in the yard, and Mrs. Judson was even permitted to build a little bamboo shelter for her husband, where he could be, some portion of the time, by himself. Mr. Judson was exceedingly nice in his personal habits, nice even to a fault; and this herding together, even if he had been permitted to choose his associates, would have been exceedingly unpleasant to him. They were not all, belonging as they did to five different nations, educated in his notions of cleanliness, and even he was often,from necessity, offensive to himself. Sometimes he was denied the use of water, and sometimes the admission of clothing was forbidden; and the act of dressing, with the ankles made fast by fetters, proved to be no simple art. With all his efforts, and the care taken by his wife of his wardrobe, he was sometimes in a very forlorn state. His food was such as Mrs. Judson could provide. Sometimes it came regularly, and sometimes they went very hungry. Sometimes, for weeks together, they had no food but rice, savored with ngapee—a certain preparation of fish, not always palatable to foreigners. But once, when a term of unusual quiet gave her time for the softer and more homely class of loving thoughts, Mrs. Judson made a great effort to surprise her husband with something that should remind him of home. She planned and labored, until, by the aid of buffalo beef and plantains, she actually concocted a mince pie. Unfortunately, as she thought, she could not go in person to the prison that day; and the dinner was brought by smiling Moung Ing, who seemed aware that some mystery must be wrapped up in that peculiar preparation of meat and fruit, though he had never seen the well-spread boards of Plymouth and Bradford. But the pretty little artifice only added another pang to a heart whose susceptibilities were as quick and deep as, in the sight of the world, they were silent. When his wife had visited him in prison, and borne taunts and insults with and for him, they could be brave together; when she had stood up like an enchantress, winning the hearts of high and low, making savage jailers, and scarcely less savage nobles, weep; or moved, protected by her own dignity and sublimity of purpose, like a queen along the streets, his heart had throbbed with proud admiration; and he was almost able to thank God for the trials which had made a character so intrinsically noble shine forth with such peculiar brightness. But in this simple, homelike act, this little unpretending effusion of a loving heart, there was something so touching, so unlike the part she had just been acting, and yet so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed his head upon his knees, and the tears floweddown to the chains about his ankles. What a happy man he might have been had this heavy woe been spared them! And what was coming next? Finally the scene changed, and there came over him a vision of the past. He saw again the home of his boyhood. His stern, strangely revered father, his gentle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister, and pale young brother were gathered for the noonday meal, and he was once more among them. And so his fancy revelled there. Finally he lifted his head. O, the misery that surrounded him! He moved his feet, and the rattling of the heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the carefully prepared dinner into the hand of his associate, and as fast as his fetters would permit, hurried to his own little shed.
“Mr. Judson was not naturally of an even temperament. Hopeful and earnest he was, beyond most men, and withal very persevering; but at this period of his life, and up to a much later time, he was subject to a desponding reaction, from which his faith in God, the ruling principle of his later years, was not now sufficiently ripe to set him entirely free. His peculiar mental conformation was eminently active; so that the passive suffering of his prison discipline was more galling than to a mind differently constituted. So long as he could contend with difficulties, he was appalled by nothing; but whatever he might have been in after-life, he was at this time better fitted todothan toendure. For some time previous to the birth of poor little Maria, he had been filled with the gloomiest forebodings; and not without cause. His wife, from the peculiar customs of this land of semi-civilization, was more alone than she would have been among the wild Indian women of an American forest; and he could do nothing for her. When the dreaded crisis was past, and a pale, puny infant of twenty days was brought to his prison, no person not thoroughly conversant with the secret springs of feeling which made his the richest heart that ever beat in human bosom, would be at all able to appreciate the scene. His first child slept beneath the waters of the Bay of Bengal, a victim to Anglo-Indian persecution, a baby-martyr, without the martyr’s conflict; the second,his ‘meek, blue-eyed Roger,’ had his bed in the jungle graveyard at Rangoon; and here came the third little wan stranger, to claim the first parental kiss from the midst of felon chains.
“Mrs. Judson had long previous to this adopted the Burmese style of dress. Her rich Spanish complexion could never be mistaken for the tawny hue of the native; and her figure, of full medium height, appeared much taller and more commanding in a costume usually worn by women of inferior size. But her friend, the governor’s wife, who presented her with the dress, had recommended the measure as a concession which would be sure to conciliate the people, and win them to a kindlier treatment of her. Behold her, then—her dark curls carefully straightened, drawn back from her forehead, and a fragrant cocoa-blossom, drooping like a white plume from the knot upon the crown; her saffron vest thrown open to display the folds of crimson beneath; and a rich silken skirt, wrapped closely about her fine figure, parting at the ankle, and sloping back upon the floor. The clothing of the feet was not Burman, for the native sandal could not be worn except upon a bare foot. Behold her standing in the doorway (for she was never permitted to enter the prison), her little blue-eyed blossom wailing, as it almost always did, upon her bosom, and the chained father crawling forth to the meeting!
N. Rogers PinxrAlex Cameron Sc.Ann H JudsonObtOct. 24th1826.
N. Rogers PinxrAlex Cameron Sc.Ann H JudsonObtOct. 24th1826.
N. Rogers PinxrAlex Cameron Sc.Ann H JudsonObtOct. 24th1826.
“The following verses, of which the writer says, ‘They were composed in my mind at the time, and afterward written down,’ commemorate this meeting:
Lines addressed to an Infant Daughter, twenty days old, in the condemned Prison at Ava.
Lines addressed to an Infant Daughter, twenty days old, in the condemned Prison at Ava.
Lines addressed to an Infant Daughter, twenty days old, in the condemned Prison at Ava.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,Hushed on thy mother’s breast;Let no rude sound of clanking chainsDisturb thy balmy rest.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;Blest that thou canst not knowThe pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,The keenness of their woe.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;May Heaven its blessings shed,In rich profusion, soft and sweet,On thine unconscious head!“‘Why ope thy little eyes?What would my darling see?Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?Thy father’s agony?“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,Where fettered felons lie,And wonder that thy father hereShould as a felon sigh?“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,Which stoutest hearts appal—The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,The torturing iron mall?“‘No, darling infant, no!Thou seest them not at all;Thou only mark’st the rays of lightWhich flicker on the wall.“‘Thine untaught infant eyeCan nothing clearly see;Sweet scenes of home and prison scenesAre all alike to thee.“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,And roll thy vacant eye,Reposing on thy mother’s breastIn soft security.“‘Why ope thy paly lips?What would my darling say?“My dear papa, why leave us thus?Why thus in prison stay?“‘“For poor mamma and IAll lonely live at home,And every day we watch and wait,And wish papa would come?”“‘No; all alike to theeThy mother’s grief or mirth;Nor know’st thou one of all the illsWhich mark thy mournful birth.“‘Thy lips one art alone,One loving, simple grace,By nature’s instinct have been taught;Seek, then, thy nestling-place!“‘Spread out thy little hand;Thy mother’s bosom press,And thus return, in grateful guise,Her more sincere caress.“‘Go, darling infant, go;Thine hour has passed away;The jailer’s harsh, discordant voiceForbids thy longer stay.“‘God grant that we may meetIn happier times than this,And with thine angel mother dearEnjoy domestic bliss.“‘But should the fearful clouds,Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,Conduct the threatened vengeance downOn thy poor father’s head—“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?What hand would guide my darling’s stepsAlong their dangerous way?“‘There is a God on high,The glorious King of kings;’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,Whose love she sits and sings.“‘That glorious God, so kind,Has sent His Son to saveOur ruined race from sin and death,And raise them from the grave.“‘And to that gracious GodMy darling I commend;Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,Her Father and her Friend.“‘Inspire her infant heartThe Saviour’s love to know,And guide her through this dreary world,This wilderness of woe.“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,Safe in a mother’s care.“‘And when, in future years,Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,These lines will show thee how he felt,How o’er his babe he sung.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,Hushed on thy mother’s breast;Let no rude sound of clanking chainsDisturb thy balmy rest.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;Blest that thou canst not knowThe pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,The keenness of their woe.“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;May Heaven its blessings shed,In rich profusion, soft and sweet,On thine unconscious head!“‘Why ope thy little eyes?What would my darling see?Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?Thy father’s agony?“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,Where fettered felons lie,And wonder that thy father hereShould as a felon sigh?“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,Which stoutest hearts appal—The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,The torturing iron mall?“‘No, darling infant, no!Thou seest them not at all;Thou only mark’st the rays of lightWhich flicker on the wall.“‘Thine untaught infant eyeCan nothing clearly see;Sweet scenes of home and prison scenesAre all alike to thee.“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,And roll thy vacant eye,Reposing on thy mother’s breastIn soft security.“‘Why ope thy paly lips?What would my darling say?“My dear papa, why leave us thus?Why thus in prison stay?“‘“For poor mamma and IAll lonely live at home,And every day we watch and wait,And wish papa would come?”“‘No; all alike to theeThy mother’s grief or mirth;Nor know’st thou one of all the illsWhich mark thy mournful birth.“‘Thy lips one art alone,One loving, simple grace,By nature’s instinct have been taught;Seek, then, thy nestling-place!“‘Spread out thy little hand;Thy mother’s bosom press,And thus return, in grateful guise,Her more sincere caress.“‘Go, darling infant, go;Thine hour has passed away;The jailer’s harsh, discordant voiceForbids thy longer stay.“‘God grant that we may meetIn happier times than this,And with thine angel mother dearEnjoy domestic bliss.“‘But should the fearful clouds,Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,Conduct the threatened vengeance downOn thy poor father’s head—“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?What hand would guide my darling’s stepsAlong their dangerous way?“‘There is a God on high,The glorious King of kings;’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,Whose love she sits and sings.“‘That glorious God, so kind,Has sent His Son to saveOur ruined race from sin and death,And raise them from the grave.“‘And to that gracious GodMy darling I commend;Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,Her Father and her Friend.“‘Inspire her infant heartThe Saviour’s love to know,And guide her through this dreary world,This wilderness of woe.“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,Safe in a mother’s care.“‘And when, in future years,Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,These lines will show thee how he felt,How o’er his babe he sung.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,Hushed on thy mother’s breast;Let no rude sound of clanking chainsDisturb thy balmy rest.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,
Hushed on thy mother’s breast;
Let no rude sound of clanking chains
Disturb thy balmy rest.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;Blest that thou canst not knowThe pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,The keenness of their woe.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;
Blest that thou canst not know
The pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,
The keenness of their woe.
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;May Heaven its blessings shed,In rich profusion, soft and sweet,On thine unconscious head!
“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;
May Heaven its blessings shed,
In rich profusion, soft and sweet,
On thine unconscious head!
“‘Why ope thy little eyes?What would my darling see?Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?Thy father’s agony?
“‘Why ope thy little eyes?
What would my darling see?
Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?
Thy father’s agony?
“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,Where fettered felons lie,And wonder that thy father hereShould as a felon sigh?
“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,
Where fettered felons lie,
And wonder that thy father here
Should as a felon sigh?
“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,Which stoutest hearts appal—The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,The torturing iron mall?
“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,
Which stoutest hearts appal—
The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,
The torturing iron mall?
“‘No, darling infant, no!Thou seest them not at all;Thou only mark’st the rays of lightWhich flicker on the wall.
“‘No, darling infant, no!
Thou seest them not at all;
Thou only mark’st the rays of light
Which flicker on the wall.
“‘Thine untaught infant eyeCan nothing clearly see;Sweet scenes of home and prison scenesAre all alike to thee.
“‘Thine untaught infant eye
Can nothing clearly see;
Sweet scenes of home and prison scenes
Are all alike to thee.
“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,And roll thy vacant eye,Reposing on thy mother’s breastIn soft security.
“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,
And roll thy vacant eye,
Reposing on thy mother’s breast
In soft security.
“‘Why ope thy paly lips?What would my darling say?“My dear papa, why leave us thus?Why thus in prison stay?
“‘Why ope thy paly lips?
What would my darling say?
“My dear papa, why leave us thus?
Why thus in prison stay?
“‘“For poor mamma and IAll lonely live at home,And every day we watch and wait,And wish papa would come?”
“‘“For poor mamma and I
All lonely live at home,
And every day we watch and wait,
And wish papa would come?”
“‘No; all alike to theeThy mother’s grief or mirth;Nor know’st thou one of all the illsWhich mark thy mournful birth.
“‘No; all alike to thee
Thy mother’s grief or mirth;
Nor know’st thou one of all the ills
Which mark thy mournful birth.
“‘Thy lips one art alone,One loving, simple grace,By nature’s instinct have been taught;Seek, then, thy nestling-place!
“‘Thy lips one art alone,
One loving, simple grace,
By nature’s instinct have been taught;
Seek, then, thy nestling-place!
“‘Spread out thy little hand;Thy mother’s bosom press,And thus return, in grateful guise,Her more sincere caress.
“‘Spread out thy little hand;
Thy mother’s bosom press,
And thus return, in grateful guise,
Her more sincere caress.
“‘Go, darling infant, go;Thine hour has passed away;The jailer’s harsh, discordant voiceForbids thy longer stay.
“‘Go, darling infant, go;
Thine hour has passed away;
The jailer’s harsh, discordant voice
Forbids thy longer stay.
“‘God grant that we may meetIn happier times than this,And with thine angel mother dearEnjoy domestic bliss.
“‘God grant that we may meet
In happier times than this,
And with thine angel mother dear
Enjoy domestic bliss.
“‘But should the fearful clouds,Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,Conduct the threatened vengeance downOn thy poor father’s head—
“‘But should the fearful clouds,
Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,
Conduct the threatened vengeance down
On thy poor father’s head—
“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?What hand would guide my darling’s stepsAlong their dangerous way?
“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?
Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?
What hand would guide my darling’s steps
Along their dangerous way?
“‘There is a God on high,The glorious King of kings;’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,Whose love she sits and sings.
“‘There is a God on high,
The glorious King of kings;
’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,
Whose love she sits and sings.
“‘That glorious God, so kind,Has sent His Son to saveOur ruined race from sin and death,And raise them from the grave.
“‘That glorious God, so kind,
Has sent His Son to save
Our ruined race from sin and death,
And raise them from the grave.
“‘And to that gracious GodMy darling I commend;Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,Her Father and her Friend.
“‘And to that gracious God
My darling I commend;
Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,
Her Father and her Friend.
“‘Inspire her infant heartThe Saviour’s love to know,And guide her through this dreary world,This wilderness of woe.
“‘Inspire her infant heart
The Saviour’s love to know,
And guide her through this dreary world,
This wilderness of woe.
“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,Safe in a mother’s care.
“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,
Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:
Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,
Safe in a mother’s care.
“‘And when, in future years,Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,These lines will show thee how he felt,How o’er his babe he sung.
“‘And when, in future years,
Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,
These lines will show thee how he felt,
How o’er his babe he sung.
‘To Maria Eliza Butterworth Judson, born at Ava, January 26, 1825.’”
The following versification of the Lord’s Prayer was composed a few weeks later. It illustrates the nature of the subjects which occupied the thoughts of the missionary during this long-protracted agony. It is comprised in fewer words than the original Greek, and contains only two more than the common translation:
“Our Father God, who art in heaven,All hallowed be Thy name;Thy kingdom come; Thy will be doneIn earth and heaven the same.“Give us, this day, our daily bread;And, as we those forgiveWho sin against us, so may weForgiving grace receive.“Into temptation lead us not;From evil set us free;The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,Ever belong to Thee.“Prison, Ava, March, 1825.”“The foreigners had spent about seven months in prison, when suddenly a change came. One day a band of men rushed into the prison-yard, and while some seized the white prisoners, and added two more pairs of fetters to the three they already wore, others began tearing down Mrs. Judson’slittle bamboo room, snatching up pillows and mattresses, and whatever other articles came within their reach. At last the prisoners, after having half the clothing torn from their persons, were thrust into the common prison, and, with a bamboo between their legs, again stretched upon the bare floor. Here were more than a hundred miserable wretches, shut from every breath of air except such as could find its way between the crevices in the boards, groaning with various tortures, and rattling their chains, as they groped in the gray light, and writhed and twisted themselves, as much as was in their power, from side to side, in the vain endeavor to obtain some ease by change of position. It was the commencement of the hot season, and the heat was not lessened by the fevered breaths of that crowd of sufferers, nor the close air purified by the exhalations which arose from their bodies. Night came, but brought with it no rest. A whisper had passed around the prison, whether through malice or accident, that the foreigners would be led out to execution at three in the morning; and the effect on the little band was not so much in accordance with natural temperament as the transforming principle of faith. Bold men were cowards, and weak men grew strong. At first Mr. Judson felt a pang of regret that he was to go at last without saying farewell to his unsuspecting wife and child. But gradually the feeling changed, and he would not have had it different if he could. She had left him in comparative comfort that day; she would come the next, and find him beyond her care. It would be a terrible shock at first; but she would be spared much anxious suffering, and he could almost fancy that she would soon learn to rejoice that he was safe in glory. As for herself, the Burmans had always treated her with some respect; she seemed to have gained immunity from personal insult, while her intrepidity had won their admiration; and he did not believe that even the rudest of them would dare to do her harm. No; fruitful in resources as she had proved herself, she would get an appointment to carry some message of peace to the English, and so place herself under their protection. It would be a blessing to her and to his child if he was removedfrom them; and he thanked God that his time was so near at hand. He felt thankful, too, that the execution was to take place in the morning. He should pass his own door on the way. There he might breathe his silent farewell, while she was spared the parting agony. He thought of Burmah, too, even then. The English would most likely be conquerors; and then there would be nothing to hinder the propagation of Christianity. He even recollected—so calm and dispassionate were his thoughts—some passages in his translation capable of a better rendering; and then he speculated on the pillow he had lost that day, weighing the probabilities of its ever falling into his wife’s hands, so that the manuscript would be recovered. And then he imagined that she did not find it, and went off into a visionary scene of its being brought to light years afterward, which he smiled at when he gave a sketch of these emotions, and did not fully describe. At length the fatal hour drew nigh. They had no means of ascertaining it precisely, but they knew that it could not be very far distant. They waited with increased solemnity. Then they prayed together, Mr. Judson’s voice for all of them, and then he, and probably each of the others, prayed separately. And still they waited, in awful expectancy. The hour passed by—they felt itmustbe passed—and there was no unusual movement in the prison. Still they expected and waited, till finally there woke a glimmering of hope, a possibility that they had been deceived. And so, hoping, and doubting, and fearing, they lingered on, till the opening of the door assured them of what they had long suspected. It was morning. Then the jailer came; and, in answer to their questions, chucked them mockingly under the chin, and told then, Oh, no; he could not spare his beloved children yet, just after—kicking the bamboo as he spoke, till all the chains rattled, and the five rows of fetters dashed together, pinching sharply the flesh that they caught between them—just after he had taken so much trouble to procure them fitting ornaments.“I ought to have stated before that the keeper, to whose share Mr. Judson’s old pillow fell on the day they were sounceremoniously thrust into the inner prison, had afterward exchanged it for a better one, wondering, no doubt, at the odd taste of the white man. When he was again robbed of his clothes and bedding, on the day he was driven away to Oung-pen-la, one of the ruffians deliberately untied the mat which was used as a cover to the precious pillow, and threw the apparently worthless roll of hard cotton away. Some hours after, Moung Ing, stumbling upon this one relic of the vanished prisoners, carried it to the house as a token; and, several months from that time, the manuscript which now makes a part of the Burmese Bible was found within, uninjured.“They remained at Oung-pen-la six months, when Mr. Judson was, for the first time, released from his irons, to be employed as translator and interpreter to the Burmans. From the first, he had been particularly careful not to take any part in political affairs; for, however the war might end, he did not wish the Burmans to receive an impression that he was in the interests of the English. He felt that it would be wrong to endanger his influence as a religious teacher by taking any step which would be likely to render him obnoxious even to a conquered people. But now he had no choice. His own wishes in the matter were not consulted, any more than they had been when he was first thrown into prison. He was probably selected for the office because there was no one who could be better trusted, although it was evident that not the slightest confidence was reposed in him. He was carried to Ava under guard, kept in prison two days, and then, without being permitted to visit his own house but a few moments, was sent to Maloun. Here he remained about six weeks, when, in consequence of the advance of the English from Prome, he was hurriedly sent back to Ava. It was late in the night when he arrived, and he was taken through the streets directly past his own door. A feeble light glimmered within, assuring him that it was not altogether deserted; but yet what might not have occurred in those six weeks! He entreated permission to enter but for five minutes; he threatened, he bribed, he appealed to theirhumanity, for he knew that even they, hard as they seemed, must have humanity somewhere; but all without success. His conductors, with some show of feeling, assured him that they had orders to take him directly to the court-house, and that they dared not disobey. He crouched down in an outbuilding until morning, when, after a slight examination, he was placed under guard in an out-of-the-way shed, which served as a temporary prison. At night of the same day, Moung Ing found him in this obscure place, where he had been all day without food. While conversing with the faithful Burman, Mr. Judson once or twice fancied there was something in his words or manner, or perhaps both, a little puzzling; but the impression was only momentary, and the very sight of this messenger from his wife relieved him of a burden of apprehension. He immediately dispatched Moung Ing to the friendly governor, for aid in his new difficulties, instructing him carefully as to his words and behavior, and, in the joy of his heart, bade him tell thetsayah-ga-dauto keep up courage one day more; it was almost certain he should be with her on the next. As soon as the messenger was gone, Mr. Judson’s thoughts immediately recurred to the singularity of his behavior, scarcely observable at the time, but now assuming much importance. His wife was doubtless well, though Moung Ing had certainly not been very explicit when inquired of; shemustbe well, for had she not sent several messages, and herself suggested the application to the governor? The child, too, was well; he had said that unhesitatingly. Why had he hesitated in the other case? Could it be, could it really be, that anything serious had befallen her, and they had concealed it from him? But no; those messages! He remembered, however (it all came to him too clearly now), how ostentatiously the good-natured Burman had paraded one of those messages whenever he asked a question; and yet, think as he would, they all resolved themselves into two—she longed to see him, and she recommended an application to the governor. The messenger had certainly behaved strangely, and he had been strangely blinded. These two simple phrases had been repeatedso often, and in such variety of style, that they had been made to appear a dozen, and to contain a world of meaning; and for the time he was fully satisfied. ‘She must be living,’ he repeated to himself; ‘there is ample proof of that.’ ‘She musthave beenliving,’ answered a withering doubt within, ‘when she gave the directions to Moung Ing.’ After that one thought, he had no disposition to sleep. The tedious night at length dragged itself away; and, though the governor sent for him as early as could reasonably be expected in the morning, a strange, vague apprehension seemed to concentrate whole ages in those few early hours. The kind old man had become his security with the Government, and set him free. With a step more fleet than for the last two years he had practiced, and in spite of the maimed ankles, which sometimes almost refused their office, he hurried along the street to his beloved home. The door stood invitingly open, and, without having been seen by any one, he entered. The first object which met his eye was a fat, half-naked Burman woman, squatting in the ashes beside a pan of coals, and holding on her knees a wan baby, so begrimed with dirt that it did not occur to the father it could be his own. He gave but one hasty look, and hurried to the next room. Across the foot of the bed, as though she had fallen there, lay a human object, that, at the first glance, was scarcely more recognizable than his child. The face was of a ghastly paleness, the features sharp, and the whole form shrunken almost to the last degree of emaciation. The glossy black curls had all been shorn from the finely-shaped head, which was now covered by a close-fitting cotton cap, of the coarsest and—unlike anything usually coming in contact with that head—not the cleanest kind. The whole room presented an appearance of the very extreme of wretchedness, more harrowing to the feelings than can be told. There lay the devoted wife, who had followed him so unweariedly from prison to prison, ever alleviating his distresses, without even common hireling attendance. He knew, by the very arrangement of the room, and by the expression of sheer animality on the face of the woman who held hischild, that the Bengalee cook had been her only nurse. The wearied sleeper was awakened by a breath that came too near her cheek. Perhaps a falling tear might have been added; for, steady as were those eyes in difficulties, dauntless in dangers, and stern when conscience frowned, they were well used to tender tears.. . . . . . . . . . . .“One evening several persons at our house were repeating anecdotes of what different men in different ages had regarded as the highest type of sensuous enjoyment; that is, enjoyment derived from outward circumstances. ‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Judson; ‘these men were not qualified to judge. I know of a much higher pleasure than that. What do you think of floating down the Irrawaddy, on a cool, moonlight evening, with your wife by your side, and your baby in your arms, free—all free? Butyoucan not understand it, either; it needs a twenty-one months’ qualification; and I can never regret my twenty-one months of misery, when I recall that one delicious thrill. I think I have had a better appreciation of what heaven may be ever since.’ And so, I have no doubt, he had.“The reception of a lady was an incident in the English camp; and Mrs. Judson’s fame had gone before her. No one better than a true-born Englishman can discern precisely the measure of attention grateful to a woman in her situation; and there were innumerable minute touches in General Campbell’s conduct which fixed her gratitude, and more still that of her husband on her account. It was not that his son was sent with the staff officers who came to escort her from the steamer; nor that unexpected honors, in military guise, waited her on the shore, where she was received by Sir Archibald in person; nor that her tent was larger and more commodious than his own, with the very agreeable addition of a veranda; but it was a certain fatherly kindness and genuine heart interest, which made her feel as though she was receiving all these favors from a friend.“An incident that occurred a few days after the landing of the prisoners is perhaps worthy of notice. General Campbellwas to give a dinner to the Burmese commissioners, and he chose to make it an affair of some pomp and magnificence. At a given order, almost as by magic, the camp was turned into a scene of festivity, with such a profusion of gold and crimson, and floating banners, as is thought most pleasing to an Oriental eye. When the dinner hour arrived, the company marched in couples, to the music of the band, toward the table, led by the general, who walked alone. As they came opposite the tent with the veranda before it, suddenly the music ceased, the whole procession stood still, and while the wondering Burmans turned their eager eyes in every direction, doubtful as to what would be the next act in the little drama, so curious to them as strangers, the general entered the tent. In a moment he reappeared with a lady on his arm—no stranger to the conscious commissioners—whom he led to the table, and seated at his own right hand. The abashed commissioners slid into their seats shrinkingly, where they sat as though transfixed by a mixture of astonishment and fear. ‘I fancy these gentlemen must be old acquaintances of yours, Mrs. Judson,’ General Campbell remarked, amused by what he began to suspect, though he did not fully understand it; ‘and, judging from their appearance, you must have treated them very ill.’ Mrs. Judson smiled. The Burmans could not understand the remark, but they evidently considered themselves the subject of it, and their faces were blank with consternation.“‘What is the matter with yonder owner of the pointed beard?’ pursued Sir Archibald; ‘he seems to be seized with an ague fit.’“‘I do not know,’ answered Mrs. Judson, fixing her eyes on the trembler, with perhaps a mischievous enjoyment of his anxiety, ‘unless his memory may be too busy. He is an old acquaintance of mine, and may probably infer danger to himself from seeing me under your protection.’“She then proceeded to relate how, when her husband was suffering from fever in the stifled air of the inner prison, with five pairs of fetters about his ankles, she had walked several miles to this man’s house to ask a favor. She had left homeearly in the morning; but was kept waiting so long that it was noonday before she proffered her request, and received a rough refusal. She was turning sorrowfully away, when his attention was attracted by the silk umbrella she carried in her hand, and he instantly seized upon it. It was in vain that she represented the danger of her walking home without it; told him she had brought no money, and could not buy anything to shelter her from the sun; and begged that, if he took that, he would at least furnish her with a paper one, to protect her from the scorching heat. He laughed, and, turning the very suffering that had wasted her into a jest, told her it was only stout people who were in danger of a sunstroke—the sun could not find such as she; and so turned her from the door.“Expressions of indignation burst from the lips of the listening officers; and, try to restrain them as they would, indignant glances did somewhat detract from that high tone of courtesy which it is an Englishman’s, and especially an English officer’s, pride, to preserve in all matters of hospitality. The poor Burman, conscience-taught, seemed to understand everything that was passing, and his features were distorted with fear; while his face, from which the perspiration oozed painfully, appeared, through his tawny skin, of a deathly paleness. It was not in a woman’s heart to do other than pity him; and Mrs. Judson remarked softly, in Burmese, that he had nothing to fear, and then repeated the remark to Sir Archibald. The conversation immediately became general, and every means was taken to reassure the timorous guests, but with little success. There sat the lady, whom all but one of them had personally treated with indignity, at the right hand of power, and her husband, just released from his chains, close beyond; and they doubtless felt conscious that if they and their lady wives were in such a position they would ask the heads of their enemies, and the request would be granted.“‘I never thought I was over and above vindictive,’ remarked Mr. Judson, when he told the story; ‘but really it was one of the richest scenes I ever beheld.’“A British officer, Major Calder Campbell, describing ‘an adventure in Ava’ in the year 1826, gives a beautiful and affecting description of Mrs. Judson. Major Campbell, then a lieutenant, when descending the Irrawaddy River in a canoe manned by Burmans, was attacked in the night, while asleep, by his faithless boatmen, and severely wounded and robbed. When waiting on the beach with much anxiety and distress for the passage of some friendly bark, a row-boat was seen approaching.“Signals of distress were made, and a skiff sent to his assistance. The following is the language of the writer:“‘We were taken on board. My eyes first rested on the thin, attenuated form of a lady—a white lady! the first white woman I had seen for more than a year! She was standing on the little deck of the row-boat, leaning on the arm of a sickly-looking gentleman with an intellectual cast of countenance, in whom I at once recognized the husband or the brother.“‘His dress and bearing pointed him out as a missionary. I have said that I had not beheld a white female for many months; and now the soothing accents of female words fell upon my ears like a household hymn of my youth.“‘My wound was tenderly dressed, my head bound up, and I was laid upon a sofa bed. With what a thankful heart did I breathe forth a blessing on these kind Samaritans! With what delight did I drink in the mild, gentle sounds of that sweet woman’s voice, as she pressed me to recruit my strength with some of that beverage “which cheers but not inebriates!” She was seated in a large sort of swinging chair, of American construction, in which her slight, emaciated, but graceful form appeared almost ethereal. Yet, with much of heaven, there were still the breathings of earthly feeling about her, for at her feet rested a babe, a little, wan baby, on which her eyes often turned with all a mother’s love; and gazing frequently upon her delicate features, with a fond yet fearful glance, was that meek missionary, her husband. Her face was pale, very pale, with that expression of deep and serious thought which speaks of the strong andvigorous mind within the frail and perishing body; her brown hair was braided over a placid and holy brow; but her hands—those small, lily hands—were quite beautiful; beautiful they were, and very wan; for ah, they told of disease—of death—death in all its transparent grace—when the sickly blood shines through the clear skin, even as the bright poison lights up the Venetian glass which it is about to shatter. That lady was Mrs. Judson, whose long captivity and severe hardships amongst the Burmese have since been detailed in her published journals.“‘I remained two days with them; two delightful days they were to me. Mrs. Judson’s powers of conversation were of the first order, and the many affecting anecdotes that she gave us of their long and cruel bondage, their struggles in the cause of religion, and their adventures during a long residence at the court of Ava, gained a heightened interest from the beautiful, energetic simplicity of her language, as well as from the certainty I felt that so fragile a flower as she in very truth was, had but a brief season to linger on earth.“’Why is it that we grieve to think of the approaching death of the young, the virtuous, the ready? Alas! it is the selfishness of human nature that would keep to itself the purest and sweetest gifts of Heaven, to encounter the blasts and the blights of a world where weseethem, rather than that they should be transplanted to a happier region,where we see them not.“‘When I left the kind Judsons, I did so with regret. When I looked my last on her mild, worn countenance, as she issued some instructions to my new set of boatmen, I felt my eyes fill with prophetic tears. They were not perceived. We parted, and we never met again; nor is it likely that the wounded subaltern was ever again thought of by those who had succored him. Mrs. Judson and her child died soon after the cessation of hostilities.’”
“Our Father God, who art in heaven,All hallowed be Thy name;Thy kingdom come; Thy will be doneIn earth and heaven the same.“Give us, this day, our daily bread;And, as we those forgiveWho sin against us, so may weForgiving grace receive.“Into temptation lead us not;From evil set us free;The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,Ever belong to Thee.
“Our Father God, who art in heaven,All hallowed be Thy name;Thy kingdom come; Thy will be doneIn earth and heaven the same.“Give us, this day, our daily bread;And, as we those forgiveWho sin against us, so may weForgiving grace receive.“Into temptation lead us not;From evil set us free;The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,Ever belong to Thee.
“Our Father God, who art in heaven,All hallowed be Thy name;Thy kingdom come; Thy will be doneIn earth and heaven the same.
“Our Father God, who art in heaven,
All hallowed be Thy name;
Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done
In earth and heaven the same.
“Give us, this day, our daily bread;And, as we those forgiveWho sin against us, so may weForgiving grace receive.
“Give us, this day, our daily bread;
And, as we those forgive
Who sin against us, so may we
Forgiving grace receive.
“Into temptation lead us not;From evil set us free;The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,Ever belong to Thee.
“Into temptation lead us not;
From evil set us free;
The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,
Ever belong to Thee.
“Prison, Ava, March, 1825.”
“The foreigners had spent about seven months in prison, when suddenly a change came. One day a band of men rushed into the prison-yard, and while some seized the white prisoners, and added two more pairs of fetters to the three they already wore, others began tearing down Mrs. Judson’slittle bamboo room, snatching up pillows and mattresses, and whatever other articles came within their reach. At last the prisoners, after having half the clothing torn from their persons, were thrust into the common prison, and, with a bamboo between their legs, again stretched upon the bare floor. Here were more than a hundred miserable wretches, shut from every breath of air except such as could find its way between the crevices in the boards, groaning with various tortures, and rattling their chains, as they groped in the gray light, and writhed and twisted themselves, as much as was in their power, from side to side, in the vain endeavor to obtain some ease by change of position. It was the commencement of the hot season, and the heat was not lessened by the fevered breaths of that crowd of sufferers, nor the close air purified by the exhalations which arose from their bodies. Night came, but brought with it no rest. A whisper had passed around the prison, whether through malice or accident, that the foreigners would be led out to execution at three in the morning; and the effect on the little band was not so much in accordance with natural temperament as the transforming principle of faith. Bold men were cowards, and weak men grew strong. At first Mr. Judson felt a pang of regret that he was to go at last without saying farewell to his unsuspecting wife and child. But gradually the feeling changed, and he would not have had it different if he could. She had left him in comparative comfort that day; she would come the next, and find him beyond her care. It would be a terrible shock at first; but she would be spared much anxious suffering, and he could almost fancy that she would soon learn to rejoice that he was safe in glory. As for herself, the Burmans had always treated her with some respect; she seemed to have gained immunity from personal insult, while her intrepidity had won their admiration; and he did not believe that even the rudest of them would dare to do her harm. No; fruitful in resources as she had proved herself, she would get an appointment to carry some message of peace to the English, and so place herself under their protection. It would be a blessing to her and to his child if he was removedfrom them; and he thanked God that his time was so near at hand. He felt thankful, too, that the execution was to take place in the morning. He should pass his own door on the way. There he might breathe his silent farewell, while she was spared the parting agony. He thought of Burmah, too, even then. The English would most likely be conquerors; and then there would be nothing to hinder the propagation of Christianity. He even recollected—so calm and dispassionate were his thoughts—some passages in his translation capable of a better rendering; and then he speculated on the pillow he had lost that day, weighing the probabilities of its ever falling into his wife’s hands, so that the manuscript would be recovered. And then he imagined that she did not find it, and went off into a visionary scene of its being brought to light years afterward, which he smiled at when he gave a sketch of these emotions, and did not fully describe. At length the fatal hour drew nigh. They had no means of ascertaining it precisely, but they knew that it could not be very far distant. They waited with increased solemnity. Then they prayed together, Mr. Judson’s voice for all of them, and then he, and probably each of the others, prayed separately. And still they waited, in awful expectancy. The hour passed by—they felt itmustbe passed—and there was no unusual movement in the prison. Still they expected and waited, till finally there woke a glimmering of hope, a possibility that they had been deceived. And so, hoping, and doubting, and fearing, they lingered on, till the opening of the door assured them of what they had long suspected. It was morning. Then the jailer came; and, in answer to their questions, chucked them mockingly under the chin, and told then, Oh, no; he could not spare his beloved children yet, just after—kicking the bamboo as he spoke, till all the chains rattled, and the five rows of fetters dashed together, pinching sharply the flesh that they caught between them—just after he had taken so much trouble to procure them fitting ornaments.
“I ought to have stated before that the keeper, to whose share Mr. Judson’s old pillow fell on the day they were sounceremoniously thrust into the inner prison, had afterward exchanged it for a better one, wondering, no doubt, at the odd taste of the white man. When he was again robbed of his clothes and bedding, on the day he was driven away to Oung-pen-la, one of the ruffians deliberately untied the mat which was used as a cover to the precious pillow, and threw the apparently worthless roll of hard cotton away. Some hours after, Moung Ing, stumbling upon this one relic of the vanished prisoners, carried it to the house as a token; and, several months from that time, the manuscript which now makes a part of the Burmese Bible was found within, uninjured.
“They remained at Oung-pen-la six months, when Mr. Judson was, for the first time, released from his irons, to be employed as translator and interpreter to the Burmans. From the first, he had been particularly careful not to take any part in political affairs; for, however the war might end, he did not wish the Burmans to receive an impression that he was in the interests of the English. He felt that it would be wrong to endanger his influence as a religious teacher by taking any step which would be likely to render him obnoxious even to a conquered people. But now he had no choice. His own wishes in the matter were not consulted, any more than they had been when he was first thrown into prison. He was probably selected for the office because there was no one who could be better trusted, although it was evident that not the slightest confidence was reposed in him. He was carried to Ava under guard, kept in prison two days, and then, without being permitted to visit his own house but a few moments, was sent to Maloun. Here he remained about six weeks, when, in consequence of the advance of the English from Prome, he was hurriedly sent back to Ava. It was late in the night when he arrived, and he was taken through the streets directly past his own door. A feeble light glimmered within, assuring him that it was not altogether deserted; but yet what might not have occurred in those six weeks! He entreated permission to enter but for five minutes; he threatened, he bribed, he appealed to theirhumanity, for he knew that even they, hard as they seemed, must have humanity somewhere; but all without success. His conductors, with some show of feeling, assured him that they had orders to take him directly to the court-house, and that they dared not disobey. He crouched down in an outbuilding until morning, when, after a slight examination, he was placed under guard in an out-of-the-way shed, which served as a temporary prison. At night of the same day, Moung Ing found him in this obscure place, where he had been all day without food. While conversing with the faithful Burman, Mr. Judson once or twice fancied there was something in his words or manner, or perhaps both, a little puzzling; but the impression was only momentary, and the very sight of this messenger from his wife relieved him of a burden of apprehension. He immediately dispatched Moung Ing to the friendly governor, for aid in his new difficulties, instructing him carefully as to his words and behavior, and, in the joy of his heart, bade him tell thetsayah-ga-dauto keep up courage one day more; it was almost certain he should be with her on the next. As soon as the messenger was gone, Mr. Judson’s thoughts immediately recurred to the singularity of his behavior, scarcely observable at the time, but now assuming much importance. His wife was doubtless well, though Moung Ing had certainly not been very explicit when inquired of; shemustbe well, for had she not sent several messages, and herself suggested the application to the governor? The child, too, was well; he had said that unhesitatingly. Why had he hesitated in the other case? Could it be, could it really be, that anything serious had befallen her, and they had concealed it from him? But no; those messages! He remembered, however (it all came to him too clearly now), how ostentatiously the good-natured Burman had paraded one of those messages whenever he asked a question; and yet, think as he would, they all resolved themselves into two—she longed to see him, and she recommended an application to the governor. The messenger had certainly behaved strangely, and he had been strangely blinded. These two simple phrases had been repeatedso often, and in such variety of style, that they had been made to appear a dozen, and to contain a world of meaning; and for the time he was fully satisfied. ‘She must be living,’ he repeated to himself; ‘there is ample proof of that.’ ‘She musthave beenliving,’ answered a withering doubt within, ‘when she gave the directions to Moung Ing.’ After that one thought, he had no disposition to sleep. The tedious night at length dragged itself away; and, though the governor sent for him as early as could reasonably be expected in the morning, a strange, vague apprehension seemed to concentrate whole ages in those few early hours. The kind old man had become his security with the Government, and set him free. With a step more fleet than for the last two years he had practiced, and in spite of the maimed ankles, which sometimes almost refused their office, he hurried along the street to his beloved home. The door stood invitingly open, and, without having been seen by any one, he entered. The first object which met his eye was a fat, half-naked Burman woman, squatting in the ashes beside a pan of coals, and holding on her knees a wan baby, so begrimed with dirt that it did not occur to the father it could be his own. He gave but one hasty look, and hurried to the next room. Across the foot of the bed, as though she had fallen there, lay a human object, that, at the first glance, was scarcely more recognizable than his child. The face was of a ghastly paleness, the features sharp, and the whole form shrunken almost to the last degree of emaciation. The glossy black curls had all been shorn from the finely-shaped head, which was now covered by a close-fitting cotton cap, of the coarsest and—unlike anything usually coming in contact with that head—not the cleanest kind. The whole room presented an appearance of the very extreme of wretchedness, more harrowing to the feelings than can be told. There lay the devoted wife, who had followed him so unweariedly from prison to prison, ever alleviating his distresses, without even common hireling attendance. He knew, by the very arrangement of the room, and by the expression of sheer animality on the face of the woman who held hischild, that the Bengalee cook had been her only nurse. The wearied sleeper was awakened by a breath that came too near her cheek. Perhaps a falling tear might have been added; for, steady as were those eyes in difficulties, dauntless in dangers, and stern when conscience frowned, they were well used to tender tears.
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“One evening several persons at our house were repeating anecdotes of what different men in different ages had regarded as the highest type of sensuous enjoyment; that is, enjoyment derived from outward circumstances. ‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Judson; ‘these men were not qualified to judge. I know of a much higher pleasure than that. What do you think of floating down the Irrawaddy, on a cool, moonlight evening, with your wife by your side, and your baby in your arms, free—all free? Butyoucan not understand it, either; it needs a twenty-one months’ qualification; and I can never regret my twenty-one months of misery, when I recall that one delicious thrill. I think I have had a better appreciation of what heaven may be ever since.’ And so, I have no doubt, he had.
“The reception of a lady was an incident in the English camp; and Mrs. Judson’s fame had gone before her. No one better than a true-born Englishman can discern precisely the measure of attention grateful to a woman in her situation; and there were innumerable minute touches in General Campbell’s conduct which fixed her gratitude, and more still that of her husband on her account. It was not that his son was sent with the staff officers who came to escort her from the steamer; nor that unexpected honors, in military guise, waited her on the shore, where she was received by Sir Archibald in person; nor that her tent was larger and more commodious than his own, with the very agreeable addition of a veranda; but it was a certain fatherly kindness and genuine heart interest, which made her feel as though she was receiving all these favors from a friend.
“An incident that occurred a few days after the landing of the prisoners is perhaps worthy of notice. General Campbellwas to give a dinner to the Burmese commissioners, and he chose to make it an affair of some pomp and magnificence. At a given order, almost as by magic, the camp was turned into a scene of festivity, with such a profusion of gold and crimson, and floating banners, as is thought most pleasing to an Oriental eye. When the dinner hour arrived, the company marched in couples, to the music of the band, toward the table, led by the general, who walked alone. As they came opposite the tent with the veranda before it, suddenly the music ceased, the whole procession stood still, and while the wondering Burmans turned their eager eyes in every direction, doubtful as to what would be the next act in the little drama, so curious to them as strangers, the general entered the tent. In a moment he reappeared with a lady on his arm—no stranger to the conscious commissioners—whom he led to the table, and seated at his own right hand. The abashed commissioners slid into their seats shrinkingly, where they sat as though transfixed by a mixture of astonishment and fear. ‘I fancy these gentlemen must be old acquaintances of yours, Mrs. Judson,’ General Campbell remarked, amused by what he began to suspect, though he did not fully understand it; ‘and, judging from their appearance, you must have treated them very ill.’ Mrs. Judson smiled. The Burmans could not understand the remark, but they evidently considered themselves the subject of it, and their faces were blank with consternation.
“‘What is the matter with yonder owner of the pointed beard?’ pursued Sir Archibald; ‘he seems to be seized with an ague fit.’
“‘I do not know,’ answered Mrs. Judson, fixing her eyes on the trembler, with perhaps a mischievous enjoyment of his anxiety, ‘unless his memory may be too busy. He is an old acquaintance of mine, and may probably infer danger to himself from seeing me under your protection.’
“She then proceeded to relate how, when her husband was suffering from fever in the stifled air of the inner prison, with five pairs of fetters about his ankles, she had walked several miles to this man’s house to ask a favor. She had left homeearly in the morning; but was kept waiting so long that it was noonday before she proffered her request, and received a rough refusal. She was turning sorrowfully away, when his attention was attracted by the silk umbrella she carried in her hand, and he instantly seized upon it. It was in vain that she represented the danger of her walking home without it; told him she had brought no money, and could not buy anything to shelter her from the sun; and begged that, if he took that, he would at least furnish her with a paper one, to protect her from the scorching heat. He laughed, and, turning the very suffering that had wasted her into a jest, told her it was only stout people who were in danger of a sunstroke—the sun could not find such as she; and so turned her from the door.
“Expressions of indignation burst from the lips of the listening officers; and, try to restrain them as they would, indignant glances did somewhat detract from that high tone of courtesy which it is an Englishman’s, and especially an English officer’s, pride, to preserve in all matters of hospitality. The poor Burman, conscience-taught, seemed to understand everything that was passing, and his features were distorted with fear; while his face, from which the perspiration oozed painfully, appeared, through his tawny skin, of a deathly paleness. It was not in a woman’s heart to do other than pity him; and Mrs. Judson remarked softly, in Burmese, that he had nothing to fear, and then repeated the remark to Sir Archibald. The conversation immediately became general, and every means was taken to reassure the timorous guests, but with little success. There sat the lady, whom all but one of them had personally treated with indignity, at the right hand of power, and her husband, just released from his chains, close beyond; and they doubtless felt conscious that if they and their lady wives were in such a position they would ask the heads of their enemies, and the request would be granted.
“‘I never thought I was over and above vindictive,’ remarked Mr. Judson, when he told the story; ‘but really it was one of the richest scenes I ever beheld.’
“A British officer, Major Calder Campbell, describing ‘an adventure in Ava’ in the year 1826, gives a beautiful and affecting description of Mrs. Judson. Major Campbell, then a lieutenant, when descending the Irrawaddy River in a canoe manned by Burmans, was attacked in the night, while asleep, by his faithless boatmen, and severely wounded and robbed. When waiting on the beach with much anxiety and distress for the passage of some friendly bark, a row-boat was seen approaching.
“Signals of distress were made, and a skiff sent to his assistance. The following is the language of the writer:
“‘We were taken on board. My eyes first rested on the thin, attenuated form of a lady—a white lady! the first white woman I had seen for more than a year! She was standing on the little deck of the row-boat, leaning on the arm of a sickly-looking gentleman with an intellectual cast of countenance, in whom I at once recognized the husband or the brother.
“‘His dress and bearing pointed him out as a missionary. I have said that I had not beheld a white female for many months; and now the soothing accents of female words fell upon my ears like a household hymn of my youth.
“‘My wound was tenderly dressed, my head bound up, and I was laid upon a sofa bed. With what a thankful heart did I breathe forth a blessing on these kind Samaritans! With what delight did I drink in the mild, gentle sounds of that sweet woman’s voice, as she pressed me to recruit my strength with some of that beverage “which cheers but not inebriates!” She was seated in a large sort of swinging chair, of American construction, in which her slight, emaciated, but graceful form appeared almost ethereal. Yet, with much of heaven, there were still the breathings of earthly feeling about her, for at her feet rested a babe, a little, wan baby, on which her eyes often turned with all a mother’s love; and gazing frequently upon her delicate features, with a fond yet fearful glance, was that meek missionary, her husband. Her face was pale, very pale, with that expression of deep and serious thought which speaks of the strong andvigorous mind within the frail and perishing body; her brown hair was braided over a placid and holy brow; but her hands—those small, lily hands—were quite beautiful; beautiful they were, and very wan; for ah, they told of disease—of death—death in all its transparent grace—when the sickly blood shines through the clear skin, even as the bright poison lights up the Venetian glass which it is about to shatter. That lady was Mrs. Judson, whose long captivity and severe hardships amongst the Burmese have since been detailed in her published journals.
“‘I remained two days with them; two delightful days they were to me. Mrs. Judson’s powers of conversation were of the first order, and the many affecting anecdotes that she gave us of their long and cruel bondage, their struggles in the cause of religion, and their adventures during a long residence at the court of Ava, gained a heightened interest from the beautiful, energetic simplicity of her language, as well as from the certainty I felt that so fragile a flower as she in very truth was, had but a brief season to linger on earth.
“’Why is it that we grieve to think of the approaching death of the young, the virtuous, the ready? Alas! it is the selfishness of human nature that would keep to itself the purest and sweetest gifts of Heaven, to encounter the blasts and the blights of a world where weseethem, rather than that they should be transplanted to a happier region,where we see them not.
“‘When I left the kind Judsons, I did so with regret. When I looked my last on her mild, worn countenance, as she issued some instructions to my new set of boatmen, I felt my eyes fill with prophetic tears. They were not perceived. We parted, and we never met again; nor is it likely that the wounded subaltern was ever again thought of by those who had succored him. Mrs. Judson and her child died soon after the cessation of hostilities.’”
28. Gouger’s “Narrative of Imprisonment in Burmah.”
28. Gouger’s “Narrative of Imprisonment in Burmah.”
29. Mr. Gouger, a fellow-prisoner with Mr. Judson, thus describes this pathetic meeting: “It so happened, that at the moment of their interview outside the wicket-door, I had to hobble to the spot to receive my daily bundle of provisions, and the heart-rending scene which I there beheld was one that it is impossible to forget. Poor Judson was fastidiously neat and cleanly in his person and apparel, just the man to depict the metamorphosis he had undergone in these two wretched days in its strongest contrast. When Mrs. Judson had parted from him he was in the enjoyment of these personal comforts, whereas now none but an artist could describe his appearance. Two nights of restless torture of body and anxiety of mind had imparted to his countenance a haggard and death-like expression, while it would be hardly decent to advert in more than general terms to his begrimed and impure exterior. No wonder his wretched wife, shocked at the change, hid her face in her hands, overwhelmed with grief, hardly daring to trust herself to look upon him. Perhaps the part I myself sustained in the picture may have helped to rivet it on my memory, for though more than thirty-five years have since passed away, it reverts to me with all the freshness of a scene of yesterday.”
29. Mr. Gouger, a fellow-prisoner with Mr. Judson, thus describes this pathetic meeting: “It so happened, that at the moment of their interview outside the wicket-door, I had to hobble to the spot to receive my daily bundle of provisions, and the heart-rending scene which I there beheld was one that it is impossible to forget. Poor Judson was fastidiously neat and cleanly in his person and apparel, just the man to depict the metamorphosis he had undergone in these two wretched days in its strongest contrast. When Mrs. Judson had parted from him he was in the enjoyment of these personal comforts, whereas now none but an artist could describe his appearance. Two nights of restless torture of body and anxiety of mind had imparted to his countenance a haggard and death-like expression, while it would be hardly decent to advert in more than general terms to his begrimed and impure exterior. No wonder his wretched wife, shocked at the change, hid her face in her hands, overwhelmed with grief, hardly daring to trust herself to look upon him. Perhaps the part I myself sustained in the picture may have helped to rivet it on my memory, for though more than thirty-five years have since passed away, it reverts to me with all the freshness of a scene of yesterday.”
30. Maria Elizabeth Butterworth Judson, who was born in Ava, January 26, 1825.
30. Maria Elizabeth Butterworth Judson, who was born in Ava, January 26, 1825.
31. The miseries of the first night in the jail at Oung-pen-la are thus described by Mr. Gouger: “When it became dark we were motioned inside and submitted our feet to the stocks as expected. We had gone tobed(I can not restrain a smile while I write the word, the bare plank being our resting-place) with stomachs uncomfortably light, and with minds anything but placid. The jail-guard was stationed below us in a little apartment resembling a veranda, formed by a continuation of the roof, on a plan which the builders called a ‘lean to.’ As all became still we began to compose our thoughts as well as we could, in the hope of obtaining a little sleep, when, to our astonishment, we felt the stocks gradually and slowly moving upward, as if by magic, for there was no one in the room to put them in motion. At first we were so taken by surprise, that we did not know what to make of it. Was it going up to the roof? Was it some new species of torture? Its movement was majestically slow, and gave us a little time to think before it reached the height at which it rested, when a very short time discovered the trick. It was certainly very creditable to the ingenuity of the rogues, and was, no doubt, looked upon by them as a prodigy of mechanical contrivance—as I could hear them outside enjoying the fun. There was a kind of crank outside which had escaped our notice, so contrived as to raise or depress the stocks, at the will of the operator. When he had worked them to a sufficient height, he fixed them, and left us depending, in the fashion of a bamboo at the Let-ma-yoon. And now began, what I before hinted at, the attack of mosquitoes, which swarmed in from the stagnant water of the rice-field, settling unresisted on our bare feet. We could not reach to drive them off, and a rich repast they no doubt enjoyed on our flayed soles. At last it became insupportable and we lustily bawled out for pity from our guard below. I must do them the credit to believe they knew not the extent of the torture they were inflicting, as before midnight they mitigated it by lowering the stocks, when we could hold the enemy at bay.”
31. The miseries of the first night in the jail at Oung-pen-la are thus described by Mr. Gouger: “When it became dark we were motioned inside and submitted our feet to the stocks as expected. We had gone tobed(I can not restrain a smile while I write the word, the bare plank being our resting-place) with stomachs uncomfortably light, and with minds anything but placid. The jail-guard was stationed below us in a little apartment resembling a veranda, formed by a continuation of the roof, on a plan which the builders called a ‘lean to.’ As all became still we began to compose our thoughts as well as we could, in the hope of obtaining a little sleep, when, to our astonishment, we felt the stocks gradually and slowly moving upward, as if by magic, for there was no one in the room to put them in motion. At first we were so taken by surprise, that we did not know what to make of it. Was it going up to the roof? Was it some new species of torture? Its movement was majestically slow, and gave us a little time to think before it reached the height at which it rested, when a very short time discovered the trick. It was certainly very creditable to the ingenuity of the rogues, and was, no doubt, looked upon by them as a prodigy of mechanical contrivance—as I could hear them outside enjoying the fun. There was a kind of crank outside which had escaped our notice, so contrived as to raise or depress the stocks, at the will of the operator. When he had worked them to a sufficient height, he fixed them, and left us depending, in the fashion of a bamboo at the Let-ma-yoon. And now began, what I before hinted at, the attack of mosquitoes, which swarmed in from the stagnant water of the rice-field, settling unresisted on our bare feet. We could not reach to drive them off, and a rich repast they no doubt enjoyed on our flayed soles. At last it became insupportable and we lustily bawled out for pity from our guard below. I must do them the credit to believe they knew not the extent of the torture they were inflicting, as before midnight they mitigated it by lowering the stocks, when we could hold the enemy at bay.”
32. SeeAppendix E.
32. SeeAppendix E.