Chapter 21

“In our domestic relation, the hand of the Lord has been very heavy upon us. About a year and a half ago we lost our eldest child, a lovely daughter, two years and eight months old; four months since, we buried our youngest, a sweet little boy of eight months and a half.”

The death of the eldest child is thus pathetically described by Mrs. Boardman’s biographer:

“‘Sarah is as plump and rosy-cheeked as we could wish. Oh! how delighted you would be to see her, and hear her prattle!’ Thus wrote the mother in her happiness; and, in a little more than two weeks after, she saw her darling, speechless and motionless, in her little shroud. ‘I knew all the time,’ says the bereaved parent, ‘that she was very ill; but it did not once occur to me that she might die, till she was seized with the apoplexy, about three hours before she closed her eyes upon us forever. Oh! the agony of that moment!’ And in that agonized moment, as the shadow of eternity fell upon the spirit of the little sufferer, and a vista, which her eye could not discern, but from which her failing nature instinctively recoiled, opened before her, she looked with anxious alarm into her mother’s face, and exclaimed: ‘I frightened! mamma! I frightened!’ What a strange thing is death. The tender nursling, who, in moments of even imagined ill, had clung to the mother’s bosom, and been sheltered in her arms, now hovered over a dark, unfathomed gulf, and turned pleadingly to the same shield—but it had failed. The mother’s arm was powerless; her foot could not follow; and the trembling babe passed on alone, to find her fears allayed on an angel’s bosom.”

Little Sarah’s death was soon followed by the revolt of Tavoy, and during this brief uprising of the Burmans against their masters, Mr. Boardman had been subjected to an exposure and hardship such as his consumptive habit was illable to endure. From that time he visibly declined. To use Mrs. E. C. Judson’s words: “His cheeks were a little more hollow, and the color on them more flickering; his eyes were brighter, and seemingly more deeply set beneath the brow, and immediately below them was a faint, indistinct arc of mingled ash and purple like the shadow of a faded leaf; his lips were sometimes of a clayey pallor, and sometimes they glowed with crimson; and his fingers were long, and the hands of a partially transparent thinness.”

The newly-appointed missionary to the Karens, Mr. Mason, arrived in Tavoy June 3, 1831. “On the jetty,” he wrote, “reclining helplessly in the chair which had served the purpose of a carriage, a pale, worn-out man, with the characters of death in his countenance, waited to welcome his successor.” Mr. Boardman was preparing to take a tour into the jungle in order to baptize some recent Karen converts. His emaciated form was to be carried on a litter several days’ journey into the wilderness. Remonstrance was unavailing; for he had set his heart upon accomplishing his purpose. Besides, it was thought that the change of air might do him good. Even after setting out, he was advised to return; but his reply was: “The cause of God is of more importance than my health, and if I return now, our whole object will be defeated. I want to see the work of the Lord go on.” The closing scene of his life is thus described by Mrs. Boardman:

“On Wednesday evening thirty-four persons were baptized. Mr. Boardman was carried to the water-side, though so weak that he could hardly breathe without the continual use of the fan and the smelling-bottle. The joyful sight was almost too much for his feeble frame. When we reached the chapel, he said he would like to sit up and take tea with us. We placed his cot near the table, and having bolstered him up, we took tea together. He asked the blessing, and did it with his right hand upraised, and in a tone that struck me to the heart. It was the same tremulous, yet urgent, and I had almost said, unearthly voice, with which my aged grandfather used to pray. We now began to notice that brightening of the mental faculties which I had heard spoken of in persons near their end.“After tea was removed, all the disciples present, about fifty in number, gathered around him, and he addressed them for a few moments in language like the following: ‘I did hope to stay with you till after Lord’s day, and administer to you once more the Lord’s supper. But God is calling me away from you. I am about to die, and shall soon be inconceivably happy in heaven. When I am gone, remember what I have taught you; and O, be careful to persevere unto the end, that when you die we may meet one another in the presence of God, never more to part. Listen to the word of the new teacher and the teacheress as you have done to mine. The teacheress will be very much distressed. Strive to lighten her burdens, and comfort her by your good conduct. Do not neglect prayer. The eternal God to whom you pray is unchangeable. Earthly teachers sicken and die, but God remains forever the same. Love Jesus Christ with all your hearts, and you will be forever safe.’ This address I gathered from the Karens, as I was absent preparing his things for the night. Having rested a few minutes, he offered a short prayer, and then, with Mr. Mason’s assistance, distributed tracts and portions of Scripture to them all. Early the next morning we left for home, accompanied by nearly all the males and some of the females, the remainder returning to their homes in the wilderness. Mr. Boardman was free from pain during the day, and there was no unfavorable change, except that his mouth grew sore. But at four o’clock in the afternoon we were overtaken by a violent shower of rain, accompanied by lightning and thunder. There was no house in sight, and we were obliged to remain in the open air, exposed to the merciless storm. We covered him with mats and blankets, and held our umbrellas over him, all to no purpose. I was obliged to stand and see the storm beating upon him, till his mattress and pillows were drenched with rain. We hastened on, and soon came to a Tavoy house. The inhabitants at first refused us admittance, and we ran for shelter into the out-houses. The shed I happened to enter proved to be the ‘house of their gods,’ and thus I committed an almost unpardonable offence. After some persuasion they admitted us into the house, or rather veranda, for they would not allow us to sleep inside, though I begged the privilege for my sick husband with tears. In ordinary cases, perhaps, they would have been hospitable; but they knew that Mr. Boardman was the teacher of a foreign religion, and that the Karens in our company had embraced that religion.“At evening worship, Mr. Boardman requested Mr. Mason to read the thirty-fourth Psalm. He seemed almost spent, and said, ‘This poor perishing dust will soon be laid in the grave; but God can employ other lumps of clay to perform His will as easily as He has this poor unworthy one.’ I told him I should like to sit up and watch by him, but he objected,and said in a tender, supplicating tone, ‘Can not we sleep together?’ The rain still continued, and his cot was wet, so that he was obliged to lie on the bamboo floor. Having found a place where our little boy could sleep without danger of falling through openings in the floor, I threw myself down, without undressing, beside my beloved husband. I spoke to him often during the night, and he said he felt well, excepting an uncomfortable feeling in his mouth and throat. This was somewhat relieved by frequent washings with cold water. Miserably wretched as his situation was, he did not complain; on the contrary, his heart seemed overflowing with gratitude. ‘O,’ said he, ‘how kind and good our Father in heaven is to me; how many are racked with pain, while I, though near the grave, am almost free from distress of body. I suffer nothing,nothingto what you, my dear Sarah, had to endure last year, when I thought I must lose you. And then I have you to move me so tenderly. I should have sunk into the grave ere this, but for your assiduous attention. And brother Mason is as kind to me as if he were my own brother. And then how many, in addition to pain of body, have anguish of soul, while my mind is sweetly stayed on God.’ On my saying, ‘I hope we shall be at home to-morrow night, where you can lie on your comfortable bed, and I can nurse you as I wish,’ he said, ‘I want nothing that the world can afford but my wife and friends; earthly conveniences and comforts are of little consequence to one so near heaven. I only want them for your sake.’ In the morning we thought him a little better, though I perceived, when I gave him his sago, that his breath was very short. He, however, took rather more nourishment than usual, and spoke about the manner of his conveyance home. We ascertained that by waiting until twelve o’clock we could go the greater part of the way by water.“At about nine o’clock his hands and feet grew cold, and the affectionate Karens rubbed them all the forenoon, excepting a few moments when he requested to be left alone. At ten o’clock he was much distressed for breath, and I thought the long-dreaded moment had arrived. I asked him if he felt as if he was going home,—‘Not just yet,’ he replied. On giving him a little wine and water he revived. Shortly after, he said, ‘You were alarmed without cause just now, dear—I know the reason of the distress I felt, but am too weak to explain it to you.’ In a few moments he said to me, ‘Since you spoke to me about George, I have prayed for him almost incessantly—more than in all my life before.’“It drew near twelve, the time for us to go to the boat. We were distressed at the thought of removing him, when evidently so near the last struggle, though we did not think it so near as it really was. But there was no alternative. The chilling frown of the iron-faced Tavoyan wasto us as if he was continually saying, ‘Be gone.’ I wanted a little broth for my expiring husband, but on asking them for a fowl they said they had none, though at that instant, on glancing my eye through an opening in the floor, I saw three or four under the house. My heart was well-nigh breaking.“We hastened to the boat, which was only a few steps from the house. The Karens carried Mr. Boardman first, and as the shore was muddy, I was obliged to wait till they could return for me. They took me immediately to him; but O, the agony of my soul when I saw the hand of death was on him! He was looking me full in the face, but his eyes were changed, not dimmed, but brightened, and the pupils so dilated that I feared he could not see me. I spoke to him—kissed him—but he made no return, though I fancied that he tried to move his lips. I pressed his hand, knowing that, if he could, he would return the pressure; but, alas! for the first time, he was insensible to my love, and forever. I had brought a glass of wine and water already mixed, and a smelling-bottle, but neither was of any avail to him now. Agreeably to a previous request, I called the faithful Karens, who loved him so much and whom he had loved unto death, to come and watch his last gentle breathings, for there was no struggle.“Never, my dear parents, did one of our poor fallen race have less to contend with in the last enemy. Little George was brought to see his dying father, but he was too young to know there was cause for grief. When Sarah died, her father said to George, ‘Poor little boy, you will not know to-morrow what you have lost to-day.’ A deep pang rent my bosom at the recollection of this, and a still deeper one succeeded when the thought struck me, that though my little boy may not know to-morrow what he has lost to-day, yet when years have rolled by, and he shall have felt the unkindness of a deceitful, selfish world,he will know.”

“After tea was removed, all the disciples present, about fifty in number, gathered around him, and he addressed them for a few moments in language like the following: ‘I did hope to stay with you till after Lord’s day, and administer to you once more the Lord’s supper. But God is calling me away from you. I am about to die, and shall soon be inconceivably happy in heaven. When I am gone, remember what I have taught you; and O, be careful to persevere unto the end, that when you die we may meet one another in the presence of God, never more to part. Listen to the word of the new teacher and the teacheress as you have done to mine. The teacheress will be very much distressed. Strive to lighten her burdens, and comfort her by your good conduct. Do not neglect prayer. The eternal God to whom you pray is unchangeable. Earthly teachers sicken and die, but God remains forever the same. Love Jesus Christ with all your hearts, and you will be forever safe.’ This address I gathered from the Karens, as I was absent preparing his things for the night. Having rested a few minutes, he offered a short prayer, and then, with Mr. Mason’s assistance, distributed tracts and portions of Scripture to them all. Early the next morning we left for home, accompanied by nearly all the males and some of the females, the remainder returning to their homes in the wilderness. Mr. Boardman was free from pain during the day, and there was no unfavorable change, except that his mouth grew sore. But at four o’clock in the afternoon we were overtaken by a violent shower of rain, accompanied by lightning and thunder. There was no house in sight, and we were obliged to remain in the open air, exposed to the merciless storm. We covered him with mats and blankets, and held our umbrellas over him, all to no purpose. I was obliged to stand and see the storm beating upon him, till his mattress and pillows were drenched with rain. We hastened on, and soon came to a Tavoy house. The inhabitants at first refused us admittance, and we ran for shelter into the out-houses. The shed I happened to enter proved to be the ‘house of their gods,’ and thus I committed an almost unpardonable offence. After some persuasion they admitted us into the house, or rather veranda, for they would not allow us to sleep inside, though I begged the privilege for my sick husband with tears. In ordinary cases, perhaps, they would have been hospitable; but they knew that Mr. Boardman was the teacher of a foreign religion, and that the Karens in our company had embraced that religion.

“At evening worship, Mr. Boardman requested Mr. Mason to read the thirty-fourth Psalm. He seemed almost spent, and said, ‘This poor perishing dust will soon be laid in the grave; but God can employ other lumps of clay to perform His will as easily as He has this poor unworthy one.’ I told him I should like to sit up and watch by him, but he objected,and said in a tender, supplicating tone, ‘Can not we sleep together?’ The rain still continued, and his cot was wet, so that he was obliged to lie on the bamboo floor. Having found a place where our little boy could sleep without danger of falling through openings in the floor, I threw myself down, without undressing, beside my beloved husband. I spoke to him often during the night, and he said he felt well, excepting an uncomfortable feeling in his mouth and throat. This was somewhat relieved by frequent washings with cold water. Miserably wretched as his situation was, he did not complain; on the contrary, his heart seemed overflowing with gratitude. ‘O,’ said he, ‘how kind and good our Father in heaven is to me; how many are racked with pain, while I, though near the grave, am almost free from distress of body. I suffer nothing,nothingto what you, my dear Sarah, had to endure last year, when I thought I must lose you. And then I have you to move me so tenderly. I should have sunk into the grave ere this, but for your assiduous attention. And brother Mason is as kind to me as if he were my own brother. And then how many, in addition to pain of body, have anguish of soul, while my mind is sweetly stayed on God.’ On my saying, ‘I hope we shall be at home to-morrow night, where you can lie on your comfortable bed, and I can nurse you as I wish,’ he said, ‘I want nothing that the world can afford but my wife and friends; earthly conveniences and comforts are of little consequence to one so near heaven. I only want them for your sake.’ In the morning we thought him a little better, though I perceived, when I gave him his sago, that his breath was very short. He, however, took rather more nourishment than usual, and spoke about the manner of his conveyance home. We ascertained that by waiting until twelve o’clock we could go the greater part of the way by water.

“At about nine o’clock his hands and feet grew cold, and the affectionate Karens rubbed them all the forenoon, excepting a few moments when he requested to be left alone. At ten o’clock he was much distressed for breath, and I thought the long-dreaded moment had arrived. I asked him if he felt as if he was going home,—‘Not just yet,’ he replied. On giving him a little wine and water he revived. Shortly after, he said, ‘You were alarmed without cause just now, dear—I know the reason of the distress I felt, but am too weak to explain it to you.’ In a few moments he said to me, ‘Since you spoke to me about George, I have prayed for him almost incessantly—more than in all my life before.’

“It drew near twelve, the time for us to go to the boat. We were distressed at the thought of removing him, when evidently so near the last struggle, though we did not think it so near as it really was. But there was no alternative. The chilling frown of the iron-faced Tavoyan wasto us as if he was continually saying, ‘Be gone.’ I wanted a little broth for my expiring husband, but on asking them for a fowl they said they had none, though at that instant, on glancing my eye through an opening in the floor, I saw three or four under the house. My heart was well-nigh breaking.

“We hastened to the boat, which was only a few steps from the house. The Karens carried Mr. Boardman first, and as the shore was muddy, I was obliged to wait till they could return for me. They took me immediately to him; but O, the agony of my soul when I saw the hand of death was on him! He was looking me full in the face, but his eyes were changed, not dimmed, but brightened, and the pupils so dilated that I feared he could not see me. I spoke to him—kissed him—but he made no return, though I fancied that he tried to move his lips. I pressed his hand, knowing that, if he could, he would return the pressure; but, alas! for the first time, he was insensible to my love, and forever. I had brought a glass of wine and water already mixed, and a smelling-bottle, but neither was of any avail to him now. Agreeably to a previous request, I called the faithful Karens, who loved him so much and whom he had loved unto death, to come and watch his last gentle breathings, for there was no struggle.

“Never, my dear parents, did one of our poor fallen race have less to contend with in the last enemy. Little George was brought to see his dying father, but he was too young to know there was cause for grief. When Sarah died, her father said to George, ‘Poor little boy, you will not know to-morrow what you have lost to-day.’ A deep pang rent my bosom at the recollection of this, and a still deeper one succeeded when the thought struck me, that though my little boy may not know to-morrow what he has lost to-day, yet when years have rolled by, and he shall have felt the unkindness of a deceitful, selfish world,he will know.”

Death of Boardman.[45]

“Pale with sickness, weak and worn,Is the Christian hero borneOver hill, and brook, and fen,By his band of swart, wild men,Dainty odors floating backFrom their blossom-crushing track.“Through the jungle, vast and dim,Swells out Nature’s matin hymn:Bulbuls ’mid the berries red,Showers of mellow music shed;Thrushes ’neath their crimson hoodsChant their loves along the woods;“And the heron, as he springsUp, with startled rush of wings,Joins the gorgeous peacock’s scream;While the gushing of the streamGives sweet cadence to the hymn,Swelling through the jungle dim.“So they bear him on his way,Till the sunless sky is gray;Then within some lonezayatGentle fingers spread the mat;And a watcher, sad and wan,Bends above him till the dawn.“Up and on! The tangled brakeHides the deadly water-snake;And the tiger, from his lairHalf up-springing, snuffs the air,Doubtful gazing where they pass,Trailing through the long wet grass.“Day has faded—rosy dawnBlushed again o’er wood and lawn;Day has deepened—level beamsLight the brook in changeful gleams,Breaking in a golden floodRound strange groupings in the wood.“There, where mountains wild and highRange their peaks along the sky,Lo! they pause. A crimson glowBurns upon that cheek of snow;And within the eyes’ soft blueQuiver tears like drops of dew.“Upward, from the wooded dell,High the joyous greetings swell,Peal on peal; then circling round,Turbaned heads salute the ground,While upon the dewy airFloats a faint, soft voice in prayer.“With the fever on his cheek,Breathing forth his teachings meek,Long the Gospel-bearer lies,Till the stars have climbed the skies,And the young moon’s slender rimHides behind the mountain grim.“’Twas for this sweet boon he came,Crushing back Death’s eager claim;Yet a few more lambs to fold,Ere he mingles with the mold—Lambs with torn and crimsoned fleece,Wildered in this wilderness.“Once again the golden dayDrops her veil of silver gray;And that dark-eyed mountain bandPrint with bare, brown feet the sand,Or the crystal wave turn back,Rippling from their watery track.“Meekly down the river’s bedSire and son alike are led,Parting the baptismal flood,As of old in Judah’s wood;While throughout the sylvan glenRings the stern, deep-voiced Amen.“With the love-light in his eyes,Mute the dying teacher lies.It is finished. Bear him back!Haste along the jungle track!See the lid uplifting now—See the glory on his brow.“It is finished. Wood and glenSigh their mournful, meek Amen.’Mid that circle, sorrow spanned,Clasping close an icy hand,Lo! the midnight watcher wan,Waiting yet another dawn.”

“Pale with sickness, weak and worn,Is the Christian hero borneOver hill, and brook, and fen,By his band of swart, wild men,Dainty odors floating backFrom their blossom-crushing track.

“Pale with sickness, weak and worn,

Is the Christian hero borne

Over hill, and brook, and fen,

By his band of swart, wild men,

Dainty odors floating back

From their blossom-crushing track.

“Through the jungle, vast and dim,Swells out Nature’s matin hymn:Bulbuls ’mid the berries red,Showers of mellow music shed;Thrushes ’neath their crimson hoodsChant their loves along the woods;

“Through the jungle, vast and dim,

Swells out Nature’s matin hymn:

Bulbuls ’mid the berries red,

Showers of mellow music shed;

Thrushes ’neath their crimson hoods

Chant their loves along the woods;

“And the heron, as he springsUp, with startled rush of wings,Joins the gorgeous peacock’s scream;While the gushing of the streamGives sweet cadence to the hymn,Swelling through the jungle dim.

“And the heron, as he springs

Up, with startled rush of wings,

Joins the gorgeous peacock’s scream;

While the gushing of the stream

Gives sweet cadence to the hymn,

Swelling through the jungle dim.

“So they bear him on his way,Till the sunless sky is gray;Then within some lonezayatGentle fingers spread the mat;And a watcher, sad and wan,Bends above him till the dawn.

“So they bear him on his way,

Till the sunless sky is gray;

Then within some lonezayat

Gentle fingers spread the mat;

And a watcher, sad and wan,

Bends above him till the dawn.

“Up and on! The tangled brakeHides the deadly water-snake;And the tiger, from his lairHalf up-springing, snuffs the air,Doubtful gazing where they pass,Trailing through the long wet grass.

“Up and on! The tangled brake

Hides the deadly water-snake;

And the tiger, from his lair

Half up-springing, snuffs the air,

Doubtful gazing where they pass,

Trailing through the long wet grass.

“Day has faded—rosy dawnBlushed again o’er wood and lawn;Day has deepened—level beamsLight the brook in changeful gleams,Breaking in a golden floodRound strange groupings in the wood.

“Day has faded—rosy dawn

Blushed again o’er wood and lawn;

Day has deepened—level beams

Light the brook in changeful gleams,

Breaking in a golden flood

Round strange groupings in the wood.

“There, where mountains wild and highRange their peaks along the sky,Lo! they pause. A crimson glowBurns upon that cheek of snow;And within the eyes’ soft blueQuiver tears like drops of dew.

“There, where mountains wild and high

Range their peaks along the sky,

Lo! they pause. A crimson glow

Burns upon that cheek of snow;

And within the eyes’ soft blue

Quiver tears like drops of dew.

“Upward, from the wooded dell,High the joyous greetings swell,Peal on peal; then circling round,Turbaned heads salute the ground,While upon the dewy airFloats a faint, soft voice in prayer.

“Upward, from the wooded dell,

High the joyous greetings swell,

Peal on peal; then circling round,

Turbaned heads salute the ground,

While upon the dewy air

Floats a faint, soft voice in prayer.

“With the fever on his cheek,Breathing forth his teachings meek,Long the Gospel-bearer lies,Till the stars have climbed the skies,And the young moon’s slender rimHides behind the mountain grim.

“With the fever on his cheek,

Breathing forth his teachings meek,

Long the Gospel-bearer lies,

Till the stars have climbed the skies,

And the young moon’s slender rim

Hides behind the mountain grim.

“’Twas for this sweet boon he came,Crushing back Death’s eager claim;Yet a few more lambs to fold,Ere he mingles with the mold—Lambs with torn and crimsoned fleece,Wildered in this wilderness.

“’Twas for this sweet boon he came,

Crushing back Death’s eager claim;

Yet a few more lambs to fold,

Ere he mingles with the mold—

Lambs with torn and crimsoned fleece,

Wildered in this wilderness.

“Once again the golden dayDrops her veil of silver gray;And that dark-eyed mountain bandPrint with bare, brown feet the sand,Or the crystal wave turn back,Rippling from their watery track.

“Once again the golden day

Drops her veil of silver gray;

And that dark-eyed mountain band

Print with bare, brown feet the sand,

Or the crystal wave turn back,

Rippling from their watery track.

“Meekly down the river’s bedSire and son alike are led,Parting the baptismal flood,As of old in Judah’s wood;While throughout the sylvan glenRings the stern, deep-voiced Amen.

“Meekly down the river’s bed

Sire and son alike are led,

Parting the baptismal flood,

As of old in Judah’s wood;

While throughout the sylvan glen

Rings the stern, deep-voiced Amen.

“With the love-light in his eyes,Mute the dying teacher lies.It is finished. Bear him back!Haste along the jungle track!See the lid uplifting now—See the glory on his brow.

“With the love-light in his eyes,

Mute the dying teacher lies.

It is finished. Bear him back!

Haste along the jungle track!

See the lid uplifting now—

See the glory on his brow.

“It is finished. Wood and glenSigh their mournful, meek Amen.’Mid that circle, sorrow spanned,Clasping close an icy hand,Lo! the midnight watcher wan,Waiting yet another dawn.”

“It is finished. Wood and glen

Sigh their mournful, meek Amen.

’Mid that circle, sorrow spanned,

Clasping close an icy hand,

Lo! the midnight watcher wan,

Waiting yet another dawn.”

When Mrs. Boardman with her son George, about two years and a half old, were thus suddenly left in all the perplexity and desolation of widowhood and fatherlessness, she received from Mr. Judson the following words of tenderest consolation and counsel:

To Mrs. Boardman.“Rangoon,March4, 1831.“My dear Sister: You are now drinking the bitter cup whose dregs I am somewhat acquainted with. And though, for some time, you have been aware of its approach, I venture to say that it is far bitterer than you expected. It is common for persons in your situation to refuse all consolation, to cling to the dead, and to fear that they shall too soon forget the dear object of their affections. But don’t be concerned. I can assure you that months and months of heartrending anguish are before you, whether you will or not. I can only advise you to take the cup with both hands, and sit down quietly to the bitter repast which God has appointed for your sanctification. As to your beloved, youknowthat all his tears are wiped away, and that the diadem which encircles his brow outshines the sun. Little Sarah and the other have again found their father, not the frail, sinful mortal that they left on earth, but an immortal saint, a magnificent, majestic king. What more can you desire for them? While, therefore, your tears flow, let a due proportion be tears of joy. Yet take the bitter cup with both hands, and sit down to your repast. You will soon learn a secret, that there is sweetness at the bottom. You will find it the sweetest cup that you ever tasted in all your life. You will find heaven coming near to you, and familiarity with your husband’s voice will be a connecting link, drawing you almost within the sphere of celestial music.“I think, from, what I know of your mind, that you will not desert the post, but remain to carry on the work which he gloriously began. The Karens of Tavoy regard you as their spiritual mother; and the dying prayers of your beloved are waiting to be answered in blessings on your instructions.“As to little Georgie, who has now no earthly father to care for him, you can not, of course, part with him at present. But if you should wish to send him home, I pledge myself to use what little influence I have in procuring for him all those advantages of education which your fondest wishes can desire. Or if you should be prematurely taken away, and should condescend, on your dying bed, to commit him to me, by the briefest line or verbal message, I hereby pledge my fidelity to receive and treat him as my own son, to send him home in the best time and way, to provide for his education, and to watch over him as long as I live. More than this I can not do, and less would be unworthy of the merits of his parents.”

To Mrs. Boardman.

“Rangoon,March4, 1831.

“My dear Sister: You are now drinking the bitter cup whose dregs I am somewhat acquainted with. And though, for some time, you have been aware of its approach, I venture to say that it is far bitterer than you expected. It is common for persons in your situation to refuse all consolation, to cling to the dead, and to fear that they shall too soon forget the dear object of their affections. But don’t be concerned. I can assure you that months and months of heartrending anguish are before you, whether you will or not. I can only advise you to take the cup with both hands, and sit down quietly to the bitter repast which God has appointed for your sanctification. As to your beloved, youknowthat all his tears are wiped away, and that the diadem which encircles his brow outshines the sun. Little Sarah and the other have again found their father, not the frail, sinful mortal that they left on earth, but an immortal saint, a magnificent, majestic king. What more can you desire for them? While, therefore, your tears flow, let a due proportion be tears of joy. Yet take the bitter cup with both hands, and sit down to your repast. You will soon learn a secret, that there is sweetness at the bottom. You will find it the sweetest cup that you ever tasted in all your life. You will find heaven coming near to you, and familiarity with your husband’s voice will be a connecting link, drawing you almost within the sphere of celestial music.

“I think, from, what I know of your mind, that you will not desert the post, but remain to carry on the work which he gloriously began. The Karens of Tavoy regard you as their spiritual mother; and the dying prayers of your beloved are waiting to be answered in blessings on your instructions.

“As to little Georgie, who has now no earthly father to care for him, you can not, of course, part with him at present. But if you should wish to send him home, I pledge myself to use what little influence I have in procuring for him all those advantages of education which your fondest wishes can desire. Or if you should be prematurely taken away, and should condescend, on your dying bed, to commit him to me, by the briefest line or verbal message, I hereby pledge my fidelity to receive and treat him as my own son, to send him home in the best time and way, to provide for his education, and to watch over him as long as I live. More than this I can not do, and less would be unworthy of the merits of his parents.”

34.SeeAppendix C.

35. About $2,600.

36. About $1,000.

37. SeeMap II.

38. “The other, Abby,” Mrs. E. C. Judson says in one of her private letters, “died young—a most happy, rejoicing death.”

39. By Mrs. E. C. Judson.

40. SeeMap II.

41. See page 35.

42. Two-page tracts of Scripture extracts.

43. The two-page tracts mentioned above.

44. By Miss Emma Roberts, author of “Scenes and Characteristics of Hindostan.”

45. By Mrs. E. C. Judson.

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