“The first event of any importance which I remember is the conversion of my sister Lavinia, when I was about seven years of age. My little cot was in her room; and as she grew worse after her baptism, the young members of the church were in the habit of spending the night with her, partly in the character of watchers, partly because of a unity ofinterest and feeling. She and her visitors spent the greater part of the night in conversation and prayer, without any thought of disturbing so sound a sleeper as I seemed to be, I was a silent, sometimes tearful listener when they talked; and when they prayed I used to kneel down in my bed, and with hands clasped and heart uplifted, follow them through to the end. I can not recall my exercises with any degree of distinctness; but I remember longing to go to heaven, and be with Christ; some moments of ecstasy, and some of deep depression on account of my childish delinquencies. My sister used often to converse with me on religious subjects; and I remember on one occasion her going to the next room and saying to my mother, ‘That child’s talk is wonderful! I believe, if there is a Christian in the world, she is one.’ For a moment I felt a deep thrill of joy, and then I became alarmed lest I should have deceived them. The effect was to make me reserved and cautious.”
“The first event of any importance which I remember is the conversion of my sister Lavinia, when I was about seven years of age. My little cot was in her room; and as she grew worse after her baptism, the young members of the church were in the habit of spending the night with her, partly in the character of watchers, partly because of a unity ofinterest and feeling. She and her visitors spent the greater part of the night in conversation and prayer, without any thought of disturbing so sound a sleeper as I seemed to be, I was a silent, sometimes tearful listener when they talked; and when they prayed I used to kneel down in my bed, and with hands clasped and heart uplifted, follow them through to the end. I can not recall my exercises with any degree of distinctness; but I remember longing to go to heaven, and be with Christ; some moments of ecstasy, and some of deep depression on account of my childish delinquencies. My sister used often to converse with me on religious subjects; and I remember on one occasion her going to the next room and saying to my mother, ‘That child’s talk is wonderful! I believe, if there is a Christian in the world, she is one.’ For a moment I felt a deep thrill of joy, and then I became alarmed lest I should have deceived them. The effect was to make me reserved and cautious.”
In subsequent life she dated her conversion as occurring when she was eight years old. She used to attend all the religious services in the neighborhood. She writes:
“Indeed, I believe my solemn little face was almost ludicrously familiar to worshippers of every denomination, for I remember a Presbyterian once saying to me, as I was leaving the chapel, after having, as usual, asked prayers: ‘What! this little girl not converted yet! How do you suppose we can waste any more time in praying for you?’”
“Indeed, I believe my solemn little face was almost ludicrously familiar to worshippers of every denomination, for I remember a Presbyterian once saying to me, as I was leaving the chapel, after having, as usual, asked prayers: ‘What! this little girl not converted yet! How do you suppose we can waste any more time in praying for you?’”
Indeed, she seems from her earliest years to have been haunted by the conviction that she was, some time or other, to be a missionary to the heathen; but she was always striving to rid herself of this irksome thought. She said to a friend:
“I have felt, ever since I read the memoir of Mrs. Ann H. Judson when I was a small child, that I must become a missionary. I fear it is but a childish fancy, and am making every effort to banish it from my mind; yet the more I seek to divert my thoughts from it, the more unhappy I am.”
“I have felt, ever since I read the memoir of Mrs. Ann H. Judson when I was a small child, that I must become a missionary. I fear it is but a childish fancy, and am making every effort to banish it from my mind; yet the more I seek to divert my thoughts from it, the more unhappy I am.”
It was by a strange coincidence that this gifted woman, who had been from childhood so deeply impressed by the story of Ann Hasseltine, should meet Mr. Judson in January, 1846. It was at the house of Dr. Gillette in Philadelphia,Mr. Judson had been invited to come from Boston, and Dr. Gillette had gone there to bring him on. The journey was long and cold, and an accident caused a delay of three or four hours. Dr. Gillette saw in the hands of a friend a collection of light sketches called “Trippings,“ by Fanny Forester. He borrowed it, and handed it to Mr. Judson that he might read it, and so while away the tedious and uncomfortable hours of delay. Mr. Judson read portions of the book, and recognizing the power with which it was written, expressed a regret that a person of such intellectual gifts should devote them to the writing of light literature. “I should be glad to know her,“ he remarked. “The lady who writes so well ought to write better. It’s a pity that such fine talents should be employed on such eesubjects.”
Dr. Gillette answered that he would soon have the pleasure of meeting her, because she was at that time a guest in his own house. Upon their arrival, Mr. Judson was entertained at the residence of Mr. Robarts, and the next morning called at Dr. Gillette’s. His first meeting with Miss Chubbuck is thus described by Dr. Kendrick:
“Promptly on the next day he came over to Mr. Gillette’s. Emily (in her morning-dress) was submitting to the not very poetical process of vaccination. As soon as it was over, Dr. Judson conducted her to the sofa, saying that he wished to talk with her. She replied half playfully that she should be delighted and honored by having him talk to her. With characteristic impetuosity he immediately inquired how she could reconcile it with her conscience to employ talents so noble in a species of writing so little useful or spiritual as the sketches which he had read. Emily’s heart melted; she replied with seriousness and candor, and explained the circumstances which had drawn her into this field of authorship. Indigent parents, largely dependent on her efforts—years of laborious teaching—books published with but little profit, had driven her to still new and untried paths, in which at last success unexpectedly opened upon her. Making this employment purely secondary, and carefully avoiding everything of doubtful tendency, she could not regard her course as open to serious strictures. It was now Dr. Judson’s turn to be softened. He admitted the force of her reasons, and that even his own strict standard could not severely censure the direction given to filiallove. He opened another subject. He wished to secure a person to prepare a memoir of his recently deceased wife, and it was partly, in fact, with this purpose that he had sought Emily’s acquaintance. She entertained the proposition, and the discussion of this matter naturally threw them much together during the ensuing few days.”
“Promptly on the next day he came over to Mr. Gillette’s. Emily (in her morning-dress) was submitting to the not very poetical process of vaccination. As soon as it was over, Dr. Judson conducted her to the sofa, saying that he wished to talk with her. She replied half playfully that she should be delighted and honored by having him talk to her. With characteristic impetuosity he immediately inquired how she could reconcile it with her conscience to employ talents so noble in a species of writing so little useful or spiritual as the sketches which he had read. Emily’s heart melted; she replied with seriousness and candor, and explained the circumstances which had drawn her into this field of authorship. Indigent parents, largely dependent on her efforts—years of laborious teaching—books published with but little profit, had driven her to still new and untried paths, in which at last success unexpectedly opened upon her. Making this employment purely secondary, and carefully avoiding everything of doubtful tendency, she could not regard her course as open to serious strictures. It was now Dr. Judson’s turn to be softened. He admitted the force of her reasons, and that even his own strict standard could not severely censure the direction given to filiallove. He opened another subject. He wished to secure a person to prepare a memoir of his recently deceased wife, and it was partly, in fact, with this purpose that he had sought Emily’s acquaintance. She entertained the proposition, and the discussion of this matter naturally threw them much together during the ensuing few days.”
Alex. Cameron, Eng.rEmily C Judson
Alex. Cameron, Eng.rEmily C Judson
Alex. Cameron, Eng.rEmily C Judson
Mr. Judson and Emily Chubbuck were married in Hamilton, N. Y., on the 2d of the following June.
The marriage was pleasing neither to the literary nor to the religious world. The one thought that the brilliant Fanny Forester was throwing herself away in marrying “an old missionary“; the other feared that the moral grandeur of the missionary cause was compromised by an alliance between its venerable founder and a writer of fiction.
These conflicting opinions made, however, but a slight impression upon Mr. Judson’s mind. He was not dependent for his happiness and well-being upon the opinion of others. He had long before learned to think and to act independently, otherwise he would never have become a missionary, least of all a Baptist. He wrote to his betrothed:
“I have been so cried down at different periods of my life—especially when I became a Baptist—and lost all—all but Ann—that I suppose I am a little hardened. But I feel for you, for it is your first field. Whatever of strength or shield is mine, or I can draw down from heaven, is yours.”
“I have been so cried down at different periods of my life—especially when I became a Baptist—and lost all—all but Ann—that I suppose I am a little hardened. But I feel for you, for it is your first field. Whatever of strength or shield is mine, or I can draw down from heaven, is yours.”
But the missionary’s heart kept turning toward the field of his labors far across the sea. If his two Burmese assistants had been with him, he might have contented himself a little longer in this country, for he could then have worked more effectively on his dictionary.
The following poem (by Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston) seems to gather up and express that longing for his Burman home which impelled him to re-embark even before he had been nine months in the United States. The author of these stanzas read them to Mr. Judson while he was busy packing his boxes for the voyage, and found that they seemed exactly to voice the desire of his heart:
Judson Longing for his Burman Home.
Judson Longing for his Burman Home.
Judson Longing for his Burman Home.
“A stranger in my native land!O home beyond the sea,How yearns with all its constant love,This weary heart for thee.“I left thee, when around my hearthWas gathering thickest gloom,And gentle ones have since that hourDescended to the tomb.“A flower has withered on thy breast,Thou wilt that treasure keep;And sweet her rest, whose grave is madeAway upon the deep.“I once trod lightly on the turfThat I am treading now;The flush of hope was on my cheek.And youth was on my brow—“But time hath wrought a wondrous changeIn all I loved—andme!I prize thee, native land—but more,My home beyond the sea.“O Burmah! shrouded in the pallOf error’s dreadful night!For wings—for wings once more to bearTo thy dark shores the light:“To rear upon thy templed hills.And by thy sunny streams,The standard of the Cross, where nowThe proud Pagoda gleams.“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—One only boon I crave:To finish well my work,—and restWithin a Burman grave!”
“A stranger in my native land!O home beyond the sea,How yearns with all its constant love,This weary heart for thee.“I left thee, when around my hearthWas gathering thickest gloom,And gentle ones have since that hourDescended to the tomb.“A flower has withered on thy breast,Thou wilt that treasure keep;And sweet her rest, whose grave is madeAway upon the deep.“I once trod lightly on the turfThat I am treading now;The flush of hope was on my cheek.And youth was on my brow—“But time hath wrought a wondrous changeIn all I loved—andme!I prize thee, native land—but more,My home beyond the sea.“O Burmah! shrouded in the pallOf error’s dreadful night!For wings—for wings once more to bearTo thy dark shores the light:“To rear upon thy templed hills.And by thy sunny streams,The standard of the Cross, where nowThe proud Pagoda gleams.“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—One only boon I crave:To finish well my work,—and restWithin a Burman grave!”
“A stranger in my native land!O home beyond the sea,How yearns with all its constant love,This weary heart for thee.
“A stranger in my native land!
O home beyond the sea,
How yearns with all its constant love,
This weary heart for thee.
“I left thee, when around my hearthWas gathering thickest gloom,And gentle ones have since that hourDescended to the tomb.
“I left thee, when around my hearth
Was gathering thickest gloom,
And gentle ones have since that hour
Descended to the tomb.
“A flower has withered on thy breast,Thou wilt that treasure keep;And sweet her rest, whose grave is madeAway upon the deep.
“A flower has withered on thy breast,
Thou wilt that treasure keep;
And sweet her rest, whose grave is made
Away upon the deep.
“I once trod lightly on the turfThat I am treading now;The flush of hope was on my cheek.And youth was on my brow—
“I once trod lightly on the turf
That I am treading now;
The flush of hope was on my cheek.
And youth was on my brow—
“But time hath wrought a wondrous changeIn all I loved—andme!I prize thee, native land—but more,My home beyond the sea.
“But time hath wrought a wondrous change
In all I loved—andme!
I prize thee, native land—but more,
My home beyond the sea.
“O Burmah! shrouded in the pallOf error’s dreadful night!For wings—for wings once more to bearTo thy dark shores the light:
“O Burmah! shrouded in the pall
Of error’s dreadful night!
For wings—for wings once more to bear
To thy dark shores the light:
“To rear upon thy templed hills.And by thy sunny streams,The standard of the Cross, where nowThe proud Pagoda gleams.
“To rear upon thy templed hills.
And by thy sunny streams,
The standard of the Cross, where now
The proud Pagoda gleams.
“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—One only boon I crave:To finish well my work,—and restWithin a Burman grave!”
“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—
One only boon I crave:
To finish well my work,—and rest
Within a Burman grave!”
Less than six weeks intervened between his marriage to Miss Chubbuck and his embarkation. Many tender farewells had to be spoken. He well knew that the dear ones from whom he was parting would probably never be seen again on earth. He thus wrote to his boys, Adoniram and Elnathan, whom he left with Dr. and Mrs. Newton at Worcester, and to his daughter Abby, whom he had committed to the care of his only sister at Plymouth:
“Boston,July10, 1846.“My dear Sons: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. Many a time I shall look at your likenesses, and weep over them, and pray that you may early become true Christians. Love your brother George, and your uncle and aunt Newton. Pray every morning and evening. Your new mamma sends you her best love. Forget not“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.”
“Boston,July10, 1846.
“My dear Sons: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. Many a time I shall look at your likenesses, and weep over them, and pray that you may early become true Christians. Love your brother George, and your uncle and aunt Newton. Pray every morning and evening. Your new mamma sends you her best love. Forget not
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.”
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.”
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.”
“Your affectionate father,
“A. Judson.”
“Boston,July10, 1846.“My dear Daughter: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I think the likenesses taken of your face very good. I shall take one with me, and shall many a time look at it, and weep over it, and pray that you may early become a Christian. The other I shall give to George, to keep a while at Worcester, and finally give to your aunt Judson when he visits Plymouth.“Love your dear aunts and cousins, with whom you live; pray every morning and evening, and may we meet again on earth, and if not, O, may we meet in heaven, and be happy together. Your new mamma sends her best love.“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.“Write me once in three months.”
“Boston,July10, 1846.
“My dear Daughter: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I think the likenesses taken of your face very good. I shall take one with me, and shall many a time look at it, and weep over it, and pray that you may early become a Christian. The other I shall give to George, to keep a while at Worcester, and finally give to your aunt Judson when he visits Plymouth.
“Love your dear aunts and cousins, with whom you live; pray every morning and evening, and may we meet again on earth, and if not, O, may we meet in heaven, and be happy together. Your new mamma sends her best love.
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.
“Your affectionate father,“A. Judson.
“Your affectionate father,
“A. Judson.
“Write me once in three months.”
To his only sister, also, the fond playmate of his childhood, the sole survivor of the dear family group that had clung to him so tenderly when, many years before, with the flush ofyouth on his cheek, he had set his face toward the rising sun, he speaks the parting word:
“Boston,July10, 1846.“Dear Sister: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I have two likenesses of Abby Ann. One I take myself, The other I hand to George, that he may take it to Worcester, and keep it with the boys, until he visits Plymouth, in about a month or six weeks, when he is to give it to you. I left Abby Ann at Bradford yesterday forenoon; gave the twenty dollars, which they will place to your credit. Take care of yourself, dear sister, and spare no expense that is necessary for your health and comfort.“Emily sends her best love. Every blessing rest upon you, until we meet in heaven.“Ever most affectionately,“A. Judson.”
“Boston,July10, 1846.
“Dear Sister: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I have two likenesses of Abby Ann. One I take myself, The other I hand to George, that he may take it to Worcester, and keep it with the boys, until he visits Plymouth, in about a month or six weeks, when he is to give it to you. I left Abby Ann at Bradford yesterday forenoon; gave the twenty dollars, which they will place to your credit. Take care of yourself, dear sister, and spare no expense that is necessary for your health and comfort.
“Emily sends her best love. Every blessing rest upon you, until we meet in heaven.
“Ever most affectionately,“A. Judson.”
“Ever most affectionately,“A. Judson.”
“Ever most affectionately,“A. Judson.”
“Ever most affectionately,
“A. Judson.”
The following is his last public utterance in America:
“My friends are aware that it is quite impossible for me, without serious injury to myself, to sustain my voice at such a height as to reach this large assembly, except for a few sentences. I have, therefore, taken the liberty of putting some thoughts on paper, which the Rev. Mr. Hague will do me the honor of reading to you.“I wish, however, in my own voice, to praise God for the deep interest in the cause of missions manifested by the friends of the Redeemer in this city and the vicinity, and to thank them for all their expressions and acts of kindness toward me during my brief sojourn among them. I regret that circumstances have prevented my spending more time in this city, and forming a more intimate acquaintance with those whom a slight acquaintance has taught me so much to love.“It is as certain as any future event can be, that I shall never again revisit the shores of my native land; that, after a few days, your beautiful city, this great and glorious country, will be forever shut from my view. No more shall I enter your places of worship; no more shall I behold yourfaces, and exchange the affectionate salutations of Christian love.“The greatest favor we can bestow on our absent friends is to bear them on our hearts at the throne of grace. I pray you, dear friends, remember me there, and my missionary associates, and our infant churches, and the poor heathen, among whom we go to live. And though we do meet no more on earth, I trust that our next meeting will be in that blessed world where ‘the loved and the parted here below meet ne’er to part again.’”
“My friends are aware that it is quite impossible for me, without serious injury to myself, to sustain my voice at such a height as to reach this large assembly, except for a few sentences. I have, therefore, taken the liberty of putting some thoughts on paper, which the Rev. Mr. Hague will do me the honor of reading to you.
“I wish, however, in my own voice, to praise God for the deep interest in the cause of missions manifested by the friends of the Redeemer in this city and the vicinity, and to thank them for all their expressions and acts of kindness toward me during my brief sojourn among them. I regret that circumstances have prevented my spending more time in this city, and forming a more intimate acquaintance with those whom a slight acquaintance has taught me so much to love.
“It is as certain as any future event can be, that I shall never again revisit the shores of my native land; that, after a few days, your beautiful city, this great and glorious country, will be forever shut from my view. No more shall I enter your places of worship; no more shall I behold yourfaces, and exchange the affectionate salutations of Christian love.
“The greatest favor we can bestow on our absent friends is to bear them on our hearts at the throne of grace. I pray you, dear friends, remember me there, and my missionary associates, and our infant churches, and the poor heathen, among whom we go to live. And though we do meet no more on earth, I trust that our next meeting will be in that blessed world where ‘the loved and the parted here below meet ne’er to part again.’”
Address.
Address.
Address.
“There are periods in the lives of men who experience much change of scene and variety of adventure, when they seem to themselves to be subject to some supernatural illusion, or wild, magical dream; when they are ready, amid the whirl of conflicting recollection, to doubt their own personal identity, and, like steersmen in a storm, feel that they must keep a steady eye to the compass and a strong arm at the wheel. The scene spread out before me seems, on retrospection, to be identified with the past, and at the same time to be reaching forward and foreshadowing the future. At one moment the lapse of thirty-four years is annihilated; the scenes of 1812 are again present; and this assembly—how like that which commended me to God on first leaving my native shores for the distant East! But, as I look around, where are the well-known faces of Spring, and Worcester, and Dwight? Where are Lyman, and Huntington, and Griffin? And where are those leaders of the baptized ranks who stretched out their arms across the water, and received me into their communion? Where are Baldwin and Bolles? Where Holcombe, and Rogers, and Staughton? I see them not. I have been to their temples of worship, but their voices have passed away. And where are my early missionary associates, Newell, and Hall, and Rice, and Richards, and Mills? But why inquire for those so ancient? Where are the succeeding laborers in the missionary field for many years, and the intervening generation who sustained themissions? And where are those who moved amid the dark scenes of Rangoon, and Ava, and Tavoy? Where those gentle, yet firm spirits, which tenanted forms—delicate in structure, but careless of the storm—now broken, and scattered, and strewn, like the leaves of autumn, under the shadow of overhanging trees, and on remote islands of the sea?“No, these are not the scenes of 1812; nor is this the assembly that convened in the Tabernacle of a neighboring city. Many years have elapsed; many venerated, many beloved ones have passed away to be seen no more. ‘They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.’ And with what words shall I address those who have taken their places, the successors of the venerated and the beloved, the generation of 1812?“In that year American Christians pledged themselves to the work of evangelizing the world. They had but little to rest on, except the command and promise of God. The attempts then made by British Christians had not been attended with so much success as to establish the practicability, or vindicate the wisdom of the missionary enterprise. For many years the work advanced but slowly. One denomination after another embarked in the undertaking; and now American missionaries are seen in almost every clime. Many languages have been acquired; many translations of the Bible have been made; the Gospel has been extensively preached; and churches have been established containing thousands of sincere, intelligent converts. The obligation, therefore, on the present generation, to redeem the pledge given by their fathers, is greatly enhanced. And it is an animating consideration, that, with the enhancement of the obligation, the encouragement to persevere in the work, and to make still greater efforts, is increasing from year to year. Judging from the past, what may we rationally expect during the lapse of another thirty or forty years? Look forward with the eye of faith. See the missionary spirit universally diffused, and in active operation throughout this country; every church sustaining, not only its own minister, but, through some general organization, its own missionary in aforeign land. See the Bible faithfully translated into all languages; the rays of the lamp of heaven transmitted through every medium, and illuminating all lands. See the Sabbath spreading its holy calm over the face of the earth, the churches of Zion assembling, and the praises of Jesus resounding from shore to shore; and, though the great majority may still remain, as now in this Christian country, without hope and without God in the world, yet the barriers in the way of the descent and operations of the Holy Spirit removed, so that revivals of religion become more constant and more powerful.“The world is yet in its infancy; the gracious designs of God are yet hardly developed. Glorious things are spoken of Zion, the city of our God. She is yet to triumph, and become the joy and glory of the whole earth. Blessed be God that we live in these latter times—the latter times of the reign of darkness and imposture. Great is our privilege, precious our opportunity, to co-operate with the Saviour in the blessed work of enlarging and establishing His kingdom throughout the world. Most precious the opportunity of becoming wise, in turning many to righteousness, and of shining, at last, as the brightness of the firmament, and as the stars, forever and ever.“Let us not, then, regret the loss of those who have gone before us, and are waiting to welcome us home, nor shrink from the summons that must call us thither. Let us only resolve to follow them who, through faith and patience, inherit the promises. Let us so employ the remnant of life, and so pass away, that our successors will say of us, as we of our predecessors, ‘Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.’”
“There are periods in the lives of men who experience much change of scene and variety of adventure, when they seem to themselves to be subject to some supernatural illusion, or wild, magical dream; when they are ready, amid the whirl of conflicting recollection, to doubt their own personal identity, and, like steersmen in a storm, feel that they must keep a steady eye to the compass and a strong arm at the wheel. The scene spread out before me seems, on retrospection, to be identified with the past, and at the same time to be reaching forward and foreshadowing the future. At one moment the lapse of thirty-four years is annihilated; the scenes of 1812 are again present; and this assembly—how like that which commended me to God on first leaving my native shores for the distant East! But, as I look around, where are the well-known faces of Spring, and Worcester, and Dwight? Where are Lyman, and Huntington, and Griffin? And where are those leaders of the baptized ranks who stretched out their arms across the water, and received me into their communion? Where are Baldwin and Bolles? Where Holcombe, and Rogers, and Staughton? I see them not. I have been to their temples of worship, but their voices have passed away. And where are my early missionary associates, Newell, and Hall, and Rice, and Richards, and Mills? But why inquire for those so ancient? Where are the succeeding laborers in the missionary field for many years, and the intervening generation who sustained themissions? And where are those who moved amid the dark scenes of Rangoon, and Ava, and Tavoy? Where those gentle, yet firm spirits, which tenanted forms—delicate in structure, but careless of the storm—now broken, and scattered, and strewn, like the leaves of autumn, under the shadow of overhanging trees, and on remote islands of the sea?
“No, these are not the scenes of 1812; nor is this the assembly that convened in the Tabernacle of a neighboring city. Many years have elapsed; many venerated, many beloved ones have passed away to be seen no more. ‘They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.’ And with what words shall I address those who have taken their places, the successors of the venerated and the beloved, the generation of 1812?
“In that year American Christians pledged themselves to the work of evangelizing the world. They had but little to rest on, except the command and promise of God. The attempts then made by British Christians had not been attended with so much success as to establish the practicability, or vindicate the wisdom of the missionary enterprise. For many years the work advanced but slowly. One denomination after another embarked in the undertaking; and now American missionaries are seen in almost every clime. Many languages have been acquired; many translations of the Bible have been made; the Gospel has been extensively preached; and churches have been established containing thousands of sincere, intelligent converts. The obligation, therefore, on the present generation, to redeem the pledge given by their fathers, is greatly enhanced. And it is an animating consideration, that, with the enhancement of the obligation, the encouragement to persevere in the work, and to make still greater efforts, is increasing from year to year. Judging from the past, what may we rationally expect during the lapse of another thirty or forty years? Look forward with the eye of faith. See the missionary spirit universally diffused, and in active operation throughout this country; every church sustaining, not only its own minister, but, through some general organization, its own missionary in aforeign land. See the Bible faithfully translated into all languages; the rays of the lamp of heaven transmitted through every medium, and illuminating all lands. See the Sabbath spreading its holy calm over the face of the earth, the churches of Zion assembling, and the praises of Jesus resounding from shore to shore; and, though the great majority may still remain, as now in this Christian country, without hope and without God in the world, yet the barriers in the way of the descent and operations of the Holy Spirit removed, so that revivals of religion become more constant and more powerful.
“The world is yet in its infancy; the gracious designs of God are yet hardly developed. Glorious things are spoken of Zion, the city of our God. She is yet to triumph, and become the joy and glory of the whole earth. Blessed be God that we live in these latter times—the latter times of the reign of darkness and imposture. Great is our privilege, precious our opportunity, to co-operate with the Saviour in the blessed work of enlarging and establishing His kingdom throughout the world. Most precious the opportunity of becoming wise, in turning many to righteousness, and of shining, at last, as the brightness of the firmament, and as the stars, forever and ever.
“Let us not, then, regret the loss of those who have gone before us, and are waiting to welcome us home, nor shrink from the summons that must call us thither. Let us only resolve to follow them who, through faith and patience, inherit the promises. Let us so employ the remnant of life, and so pass away, that our successors will say of us, as we of our predecessors, ‘Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.’”
At Boston, July 11, 1846, Mr. and Mrs. Judson, in company with the newly-appointed missionaries, Miss Lillybridge, the Beechers, and the Harrises, embarked on theFaneuil Hall, Captain Hallett, bound for Maulmain. Many friends mingled in that farewell scene. He was leaving behind himfragrant memories. In many a household his prayers are cherished as a “precious benediction.” He had been entertained in the house of his friend, Gardner Colby, of Boston, and at the family altar he thus prayed for the family of his host: “May they, and their children, and their children’s children, in every generation to the end of time, follow each other in uninterrupted succession through the gates of glory,”[66]a prayer that has borne fruitage from that time until now. The Colbys came to the ship to bid him good-bye, and the Lincolns, and the Gillettes, and Mrs. Judson’s bosom friend, Miss Anna Maria Anable, with, among others, and dearer than all the rest, a slender youth of eighteen, the child of her who had been laid at rest at St. Helena, George Dana Boardman. But how, even at that hour, Mrs. Judson’s thoughts must have wandered again and again to the humble roof at Hamilton, beneath which her aged parents were commending their departing daughter to the heavenly Father’s merciful care!
To my Father.
To my Father.
To my Father.
“A welcome for thy child, father,A welcome give to-day;Although she may not come to theeAs when she went away;Though never in her olden nestIs she to fold her wing,And live again the days when firstShe learned to fly and sing.“Oh, happy were those days, father,When gathering round thy knee,Seven sons and daughters called thee sire—We come again but three;The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones,And sterner things than deathHave left a shadow on thy brow,A sigh upon thy breath.“And one—one of the three, father,Now comes to thee to claimThy blessing on another lot,Upon another name.Where tropic suns forever burn,Far over land and wave,The child, whom thou hast loved, would makeHer hearthstone and her grave.“Thou’lt never wait again, father,Thy daughter’s coming tread;She ne’er will see thy face on earth—So count her with thy dead;But in the land of life and love,Not sorrowing as now,She’ll come to thee, and come, perchance,With jewels on her brow.“Perchance;—I do not know, father,If any part be givenMy erring hand, among the guidesWho point the way to heaven;But it would be a joy untoldSome erring foot to stay;Remember this, when, gathering round,Ye for the exile pray.“Let nothing here be changed, father,I would remember all,Where every ray of sunshine rests,And where the shadows fall.And now I go; with faltering footI pass the threshold o’er.And gaze, through tears, on that dear roof,My shelter nevermore.”
“A welcome for thy child, father,A welcome give to-day;Although she may not come to theeAs when she went away;Though never in her olden nestIs she to fold her wing,And live again the days when firstShe learned to fly and sing.“Oh, happy were those days, father,When gathering round thy knee,Seven sons and daughters called thee sire—We come again but three;The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones,And sterner things than deathHave left a shadow on thy brow,A sigh upon thy breath.“And one—one of the three, father,Now comes to thee to claimThy blessing on another lot,Upon another name.Where tropic suns forever burn,Far over land and wave,The child, whom thou hast loved, would makeHer hearthstone and her grave.“Thou’lt never wait again, father,Thy daughter’s coming tread;She ne’er will see thy face on earth—So count her with thy dead;But in the land of life and love,Not sorrowing as now,She’ll come to thee, and come, perchance,With jewels on her brow.“Perchance;—I do not know, father,If any part be givenMy erring hand, among the guidesWho point the way to heaven;But it would be a joy untoldSome erring foot to stay;Remember this, when, gathering round,Ye for the exile pray.“Let nothing here be changed, father,I would remember all,Where every ray of sunshine rests,And where the shadows fall.And now I go; with faltering footI pass the threshold o’er.And gaze, through tears, on that dear roof,My shelter nevermore.”
“A welcome for thy child, father,A welcome give to-day;Although she may not come to theeAs when she went away;Though never in her olden nestIs she to fold her wing,And live again the days when firstShe learned to fly and sing.
“A welcome for thy child, father,
A welcome give to-day;
Although she may not come to thee
As when she went away;
Though never in her olden nest
Is she to fold her wing,
And live again the days when first
She learned to fly and sing.
“Oh, happy were those days, father,When gathering round thy knee,Seven sons and daughters called thee sire—We come again but three;The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones,And sterner things than deathHave left a shadow on thy brow,A sigh upon thy breath.
“Oh, happy were those days, father,
When gathering round thy knee,
Seven sons and daughters called thee sire—
We come again but three;
The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones,
And sterner things than death
Have left a shadow on thy brow,
A sigh upon thy breath.
“And one—one of the three, father,Now comes to thee to claimThy blessing on another lot,Upon another name.Where tropic suns forever burn,Far over land and wave,The child, whom thou hast loved, would makeHer hearthstone and her grave.
“And one—one of the three, father,
Now comes to thee to claim
Thy blessing on another lot,
Upon another name.
Where tropic suns forever burn,
Far over land and wave,
The child, whom thou hast loved, would make
Her hearthstone and her grave.
“Thou’lt never wait again, father,Thy daughter’s coming tread;She ne’er will see thy face on earth—So count her with thy dead;But in the land of life and love,Not sorrowing as now,She’ll come to thee, and come, perchance,With jewels on her brow.
“Thou’lt never wait again, father,
Thy daughter’s coming tread;
She ne’er will see thy face on earth—
So count her with thy dead;
But in the land of life and love,
Not sorrowing as now,
She’ll come to thee, and come, perchance,
With jewels on her brow.
“Perchance;—I do not know, father,If any part be givenMy erring hand, among the guidesWho point the way to heaven;But it would be a joy untoldSome erring foot to stay;Remember this, when, gathering round,Ye for the exile pray.
“Perchance;—I do not know, father,
If any part be given
My erring hand, among the guides
Who point the way to heaven;
But it would be a joy untold
Some erring foot to stay;
Remember this, when, gathering round,
Ye for the exile pray.
“Let nothing here be changed, father,I would remember all,Where every ray of sunshine rests,And where the shadows fall.And now I go; with faltering footI pass the threshold o’er.And gaze, through tears, on that dear roof,My shelter nevermore.”
“Let nothing here be changed, father,
I would remember all,
Where every ray of sunshine rests,
And where the shadows fall.
And now I go; with faltering foot
I pass the threshold o’er.
And gaze, through tears, on that dear roof,
My shelter nevermore.”
58. Died in infancy.
58. Died in infancy.
59. SeeMap II.
59. SeeMap II.
60. In public speech.
60. In public speech.
61. By H. S. Washburn, Boston.
61. By H. S. Washburn, Boston.
62. Mr. Thomas Nickerson, of Newton Centre.
62. Mr. Thomas Nickerson, of Newton Centre.
63. I am indebted for this reminiscence to Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston.
63. I am indebted for this reminiscence to Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston.
64. The road has since been changed and now passes below the house.
64. The road has since been changed and now passes below the house.
65. The reader is referred to Dr. Kendrick’s Memoir of Mrs. E. C. Judson.
65. The reader is referred to Dr. Kendrick’s Memoir of Mrs. E. C. Judson.
66. See the graceful sketch of “The Life and Character of Gardner Colby,” by his son, the Rev. Henry F. Colby.
66. See the graceful sketch of “The Life and Character of Gardner Colby,” by his son, the Rev. Henry F. Colby.