Chapter 30

1. “That the Executive Committee accede to the proposition of Dr. Judson to visit Ava, for the purpose of perfecting his Burman dictionary.2. “That the sum of one thousand rupees be appropriated to defray the expense of said visit.3. “That the Foreign Secretary be requested to assure Dr. Judson of the earnest wish of the Committee, that he should carefully avoid all that may jeopard his life, or interfere with his invaluable labors.”

1. “That the Executive Committee accede to the proposition of Dr. Judson to visit Ava, for the purpose of perfecting his Burman dictionary.

2. “That the sum of one thousand rupees be appropriated to defray the expense of said visit.

3. “That the Foreign Secretary be requested to assure Dr. Judson of the earnest wish of the Committee, that he should carefully avoid all that may jeopard his life, or interfere with his invaluable labors.”

But this permission came too late. The opportunity of penetrating Burmah proper had passed, and the aid of an excellent Burmese scholar, once a priest at Ava, had been secured at Maulmain, and then the toiling translator replied to the resolutions as follows:

“Considering, therefore, the uncertainty of life, and the state of my manuscripts, so effaced by time, or so erased and interlined as to be illegible to any other person but myself, I have thought it was my duty to forego, for the present, what I can not but regard as an interesting expedition, in order to drive forward the heavy work of the dictionary in the most satisfactory manner, and without increasing the hazard of any serious interruption.”

Thus after spending half a year of toil and suffering at Rangoon, he was compelled to fall back upon Maulmain. He arrived there with his family on September 5, 1847.

From the time of his return to Maulmain until his last sickness, he worked steadily at the dictionary. Again and again in his letters he alludes to this colossal undertaking.

“Since my return from America, with the exception of a visit of a few months at Rangoon, I have been occupying my old stand, engaged chiefly in preparing a Burmese dictionary, which is now in the press; that is, the English and Burmese part. The Burmese and English part will, I hope, be ready for the press in the course of another year. They will make two quarto volumes of five or six hundred pages each.... I am still hard at work on the dictionary, and shall be for above a year to come, if I live so long. The work will make two volumes quarto, containing above a thousand pages. No one can tell what toil it has cost me. But I trust it will be a valuable and standard work for a long time.It sweetens all toil to be conscious that we are laboring for the King of kings, the Lord of lords. I doubt not we find it so, whether in Maulmain or in Philadelphia.”...“I have taken shelter in the house lately occupied by brother Simons, though remote from missionary operations, where I intend to make an effort to finish the dictionary.”

“I have taken shelter in the house lately occupied by brother Simons, though remote from missionary operations, where I intend to make an effort to finish the dictionary.”

His wife, in one of her letters, thus describes his indefatigable industry:

“July 18, 1849..... “‘The goodman’ works like a galley slave; and really it quite distresses me sometimes, but he seems to get fat on it, so I try not to worry. He walks—or ratherruns—like a boy over the hills, a mile or two every morning; then down to his books, scratch-scratch, puzzle-puzzle, and when he gets deep in the mire, out on the veranda with your humble servant by his side, walking and talking (kan-ing we call it in the Burman) till the point is elucidated, and then down again—and so on till ten o’clock in the evening. It is thiswalkingwhich is keeping him out of the grave.”

“July 18, 1849.

.... “‘The goodman’ works like a galley slave; and really it quite distresses me sometimes, but he seems to get fat on it, so I try not to worry. He walks—or ratherruns—like a boy over the hills, a mile or two every morning; then down to his books, scratch-scratch, puzzle-puzzle, and when he gets deep in the mire, out on the veranda with your humble servant by his side, walking and talking (kan-ing we call it in the Burman) till the point is elucidated, and then down again—and so on till ten o’clock in the evening. It is thiswalkingwhich is keeping him out of the grave.”

At the same time he took a general oversight of the mission work in Maulmain, being, in the nature of the case, a guiding and inspiring force. He preached occasionally in the native chapel, “one sermon at least every Lord’s day.” When his beloved fellow-missionary, Mr. Haswell, was compelled to return home for a short visit on account of his ill health, the whole care of the native church devolved on him.

These literary and pastoral labors were, however, lightened by social and domestic pleasures. Though he had come to the ripe age of sixty, he had within him the fresh heart of a boy. It has been truly said of him that his spirit was intensely, unconquerably youthful. He loved to romp with his children, and early in the morning to brush

“With hasty steps the dew away.”

In a life of self-sacrifice he had discovered the perennialfountain of joy. While he followed the narrow path of stern duty, the butterfly pleasure which the worldling chases from flower to flower, had flown into his bosom. Byron, on his thirty-ninth birthday, breathed the sigh:

“My days are in the yellow leaf,The flower and fruits of life are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone.”

“My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flower and fruits of life are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone.”

How different Judson’s words uttered on his death-bed:

“I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials. But I am not old—at least in that sense; you know I am not. Oh, no man ever left the world with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes, or warmer feelings—warmer feelings.”

We are indebted for the following description of his personal appearance at this time to Dr. Wayland’s Memoir:

“In person, Dr. Judson was of about the medium height, slenderly built, but compactly knitted together. His complexion was in youth fair; but residence in India had given him the sallow hue common to that climate. His hair, when in this country, was yet of a fine chestnut, with scarcely a trace of gray. The elasticity of his movement indicated a man of thirty, rather than of nearly sixty years of age. His deportment was, in a remarkable degree, quiet and self-possessed, and his manner was pointed out as perfectly well bred, by those who consider the cultivation of social accomplishments the serious business of life. A reviewer writes on this subject as follows:“‘A person overtaking Judson in one of his early morning walks, as he strode along the pagoda-capped hills of Maulmain, would have thought the pedestrian before him rather under-sized, and of a build showing no great muscular development; although the pace was good and the step firm, yet there was nothing to indicate great powers of physical endurance, in the somewhat slight and spare frame tramping steadily in front of the observer. The latter would scarcely suppose that he had before him the man who, on the 25th of March, 1826, wrote, “Through the kind interposition of our heavenly Father, our lives have been preserved in the most imminent danger from the hand of the executioner, and in repeated instances of most alarming illness during my protracted imprisonment of one year and seven months; nine months in three pairs of fetters, two months in five, sixmonths in one, and two months a prisoner at large.” Illness nigh unto death, and three or five pairs of fetters to aid in weighing down the shattered and exhausted frame, seemed a dispensation calculated for the endurance of a far more muscular build. But meet the man, instead of overtaking him, or, better still, see him enter a room and bare his head, and the observer at once caught an eye beaming with intelligence, a countenance full of life and expression. Attention could scarce fail of being riveted on that head and face, which told at once that the spiritual and intellectual formed the man; the physical was wholly subordinate, and must have been borne through its trials by the more essential elements of the individual, by thefeu sacrewhich predominated in his disposition. Nor was this impression weakened by his conversation. Wisdom and piety were, as might be expected in such a man, its general tone; but there was a vivacity pervading it which indicated strong, buoyant, though well, it may be said very severely, disciplined animal spirits. Wit, too, was there, playful, pure, free from malice, and a certain quiet Cervantic humor, full of benignity, would often enliven and illustrate what he had to say on purely temporal affairs. His conversation was thus both very able and remarkably pleasing.’”

“‘A person overtaking Judson in one of his early morning walks, as he strode along the pagoda-capped hills of Maulmain, would have thought the pedestrian before him rather under-sized, and of a build showing no great muscular development; although the pace was good and the step firm, yet there was nothing to indicate great powers of physical endurance, in the somewhat slight and spare frame tramping steadily in front of the observer. The latter would scarcely suppose that he had before him the man who, on the 25th of March, 1826, wrote, “Through the kind interposition of our heavenly Father, our lives have been preserved in the most imminent danger from the hand of the executioner, and in repeated instances of most alarming illness during my protracted imprisonment of one year and seven months; nine months in three pairs of fetters, two months in five, sixmonths in one, and two months a prisoner at large.” Illness nigh unto death, and three or five pairs of fetters to aid in weighing down the shattered and exhausted frame, seemed a dispensation calculated for the endurance of a far more muscular build. But meet the man, instead of overtaking him, or, better still, see him enter a room and bare his head, and the observer at once caught an eye beaming with intelligence, a countenance full of life and expression. Attention could scarce fail of being riveted on that head and face, which told at once that the spiritual and intellectual formed the man; the physical was wholly subordinate, and must have been borne through its trials by the more essential elements of the individual, by thefeu sacrewhich predominated in his disposition. Nor was this impression weakened by his conversation. Wisdom and piety were, as might be expected in such a man, its general tone; but there was a vivacity pervading it which indicated strong, buoyant, though well, it may be said very severely, disciplined animal spirits. Wit, too, was there, playful, pure, free from malice, and a certain quiet Cervantic humor, full of benignity, would often enliven and illustrate what he had to say on purely temporal affairs. His conversation was thus both very able and remarkably pleasing.’”

His reputation had extended through the whole of India, and he was held in the highest esteem even by eminent Buddhists, as may be seen in the following letter addressed to him by his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Siam, who subsequently became king:

“August, 1849.”.... “I put together with my box, comprising a few artificial flowers, two passion flower, one mogneyet, or surnamed flower, and three roses, manufactured by most celebrated princess the daughter of late second king, or sub-king, who was my royal uncle, for your memorial, but are, indeed, that I don’t know what would be in your necessity from me, beg to let me know without hesitation, I shall endeavor for your desire how my power would allow.“If you desire to visit Siam some time, don’t come by land, as the strangers are prohibited to come by northern way from command of his majesty, and you would be tributed for coming by way of three pagodas, though traveling of strangers by it was allowed by political authority. It would be best if you embark on board the steamer for Singapore, and lodge little while at residence of my beloved friend Tan Tock Sing, whom I can request to comfort or make attention to you respectfully, and take passage by Siamese vessels that visit the Singapore almost every month to our country, and on your ascending and descending to and fro between this post and Singapore you need not expend any of your own, as I can pay or request the owners of ships for you if you let me be aware.“Whenever do you please to send me packet or letters, or to certain of your friend herein, you shall send by sea to Singapore with the direction thus:“To His Royal Highness, T. V. Chaufa Mongkut, of Bangkok, Siam.Kind care of Tan Tock Sing, of Singapore.“If you have opportunity to send by land, you shall send by hand of Rahany messengers, or credible traveling trademen of the same, for care of my friend the Rahany chief governor, with Siamese characters in direction as follows [here is inserted the direction in Siamese], because there is none interpreter of English. I am not pleasing the Peguen, or Pegunese, or Mons messenger, who were dignified and appointed to visit Maulmein once for a year from our court, as they generally are proud in vain and ignorant of foreign custom, and wondering or surprising themselves that they are embassadors from the king improper to carry letters from others. I think if you commit your letter or pack to them, lest they might say or do any laughable.“All white race at Bangkok, both clergymen and merchant, are well during time of cholera, as the missionaries were generally prevented themselves from filling of disease by using of drinking the dissolved mixture of calomel and opium with some spirit and oil put in water, and others by generally use of brandy.“On the ninth day of the current month, eight of Roman Catholic French priests disputed away from Siamese kingdom, on account of disagreement with the king, for ordinance the annual taxes, which were ordained upon all inhabitants of district of Bangkok. You will hear exactly from letters, perhaps, of your friends. I have no time to write you more.“I wrote you so long to fulfill your desire to hear from again as you had requested, in your addressed, as I am seeming to be, your curious but little as I was just studied of some way of English 4 years ago, commencing June, 1845, during one less of which I learned from mouth of my teacher, and on rest but by reading only.“I have the honour to be your friend,“T. Y. Chaufa Mongkut.”

“August, 1849.”

.... “I put together with my box, comprising a few artificial flowers, two passion flower, one mogneyet, or surnamed flower, and three roses, manufactured by most celebrated princess the daughter of late second king, or sub-king, who was my royal uncle, for your memorial, but are, indeed, that I don’t know what would be in your necessity from me, beg to let me know without hesitation, I shall endeavor for your desire how my power would allow.

“If you desire to visit Siam some time, don’t come by land, as the strangers are prohibited to come by northern way from command of his majesty, and you would be tributed for coming by way of three pagodas, though traveling of strangers by it was allowed by political authority. It would be best if you embark on board the steamer for Singapore, and lodge little while at residence of my beloved friend Tan Tock Sing, whom I can request to comfort or make attention to you respectfully, and take passage by Siamese vessels that visit the Singapore almost every month to our country, and on your ascending and descending to and fro between this post and Singapore you need not expend any of your own, as I can pay or request the owners of ships for you if you let me be aware.

“Whenever do you please to send me packet or letters, or to certain of your friend herein, you shall send by sea to Singapore with the direction thus:

“To His Royal Highness, T. V. Chaufa Mongkut, of Bangkok, Siam.Kind care of Tan Tock Sing, of Singapore.

“If you have opportunity to send by land, you shall send by hand of Rahany messengers, or credible traveling trademen of the same, for care of my friend the Rahany chief governor, with Siamese characters in direction as follows [here is inserted the direction in Siamese], because there is none interpreter of English. I am not pleasing the Peguen, or Pegunese, or Mons messenger, who were dignified and appointed to visit Maulmein once for a year from our court, as they generally are proud in vain and ignorant of foreign custom, and wondering or surprising themselves that they are embassadors from the king improper to carry letters from others. I think if you commit your letter or pack to them, lest they might say or do any laughable.

“All white race at Bangkok, both clergymen and merchant, are well during time of cholera, as the missionaries were generally prevented themselves from filling of disease by using of drinking the dissolved mixture of calomel and opium with some spirit and oil put in water, and others by generally use of brandy.

“On the ninth day of the current month, eight of Roman Catholic French priests disputed away from Siamese kingdom, on account of disagreement with the king, for ordinance the annual taxes, which were ordained upon all inhabitants of district of Bangkok. You will hear exactly from letters, perhaps, of your friends. I have no time to write you more.

“I wrote you so long to fulfill your desire to hear from again as you had requested, in your addressed, as I am seeming to be, your curious but little as I was just studied of some way of English 4 years ago, commencing June, 1845, during one less of which I learned from mouth of my teacher, and on rest but by reading only.

“I have the honour to be your friend,“T. Y. Chaufa Mongkut.”

“I have the honour to be your friend,

“T. Y. Chaufa Mongkut.”

To his fellow-missionaries his wide experience and affectionate disposition made him an invaluable adviser and friend. When they found themselves in trouble and sorrow they were sure to receive from his lips words of comfort and counsel. To Mrs. Moore, of Maulmain, who had lost her child, he wrote:

“Dear Sister: I do sympathize with you while suffering under the loss of your little babe. It is true that it breathed the breath of life a day or two only; but your heart—amother’sheart—feels anguish never before conceived of; and as the coffin-lid shuts out the sweet face from your longing gaze, and bars all further maternal care, the tears you shed will be, O, so bitter!“You need not my suggestion that God has done this thing in infinite wisdom and love. While, therefore, you mourn, be thankful. A part of yourself has gone before you to heaven. Yours is the early privilege of furnishing a little seraph to occupy its place in Paradise. There it will wait to welcome its mother’s arrival. The prayers you have frequently offered for the little creature will yet all be answered; the warm affections now apparently crushed in the bud will expand and bloom in heavenly glory; and every succeeding age of eternity will heighten your song of praise to God for making you the mother of a little immortal, and then, for some special purpose, bearing it away thus early to the grave, and to heaven.“Your sympathizing friend and brother,“A. Judson.”

“You need not my suggestion that God has done this thing in infinite wisdom and love. While, therefore, you mourn, be thankful. A part of yourself has gone before you to heaven. Yours is the early privilege of furnishing a little seraph to occupy its place in Paradise. There it will wait to welcome its mother’s arrival. The prayers you have frequently offered for the little creature will yet all be answered; the warm affections now apparently crushed in the bud will expand and bloom in heavenly glory; and every succeeding age of eternity will heighten your song of praise to God for making you the mother of a little immortal, and then, for some special purpose, bearing it away thus early to the grave, and to heaven.

“Your sympathizing friend and brother,“A. Judson.”

“Your sympathizing friend and brother,

“A. Judson.”

And to his afflicted fellow-laborer, the Rev. Mr. Osgood, he sends these words of comfort:

“So the light in your dwelling has gone out, my poor brother, and it is all darkness there, only as you draw down by faith some faint gleams of the light of heaven; and coldness has gathered round your hearth-stone; your house is probably desolate, your children scattered, and you a homeless wanderer over the face of the land. We have both tasted of these bitter cups once and again; we have found them bitter, and we have found them sweet too. Every cup stirred by the finger of God becomes sweet to the humble believer. Do you remember how our late wives, and sister Stevens, and perhaps some others, used to cluster around the well-curb in the mission compound at the close of day? I can almost see them sitting there, with their smiling faces,as I look out of the window at which I am now writing. Where are ours now? Clustering around the well-curb of the fountain of living water, to which the Lamb of heaven shows them the way—reposing in the arms of infinite love, who wipes away all their tears with His own hand.“Let us travel on and look up. We shall soon be there. As sure as I write or you read these lines, we shall soon be there. Many a weary step we may yet have to take, but we shall surely get there at last. And the longer and more tedious the way, the sweeter will be our repose.”

“Let us travel on and look up. We shall soon be there. As sure as I write or you read these lines, we shall soon be there. Many a weary step we may yet have to take, but we shall surely get there at last. And the longer and more tedious the way, the sweeter will be our repose.”

The great pressure of his public cares and other labors did not make him moody or absent-minded at home. His love for his children was deep and tender. To his daughter Abby, who was living at Bradford in the old homestead of the Hasseltine family, he wrote as follows:

.... “We are a deliciously happy family; but we think much of the three dear absent ones, and my tears frequently fall for your dear, dear mother in her lone bed at St. Helena. And any time I enter the burial-place here, I see the white gravestone of poor little black-eyed Charlie. Ah, we had to leave the poor little fellow to die in the arms of Mrs. Osgood. It was hard, but we could not help it. God’s will be done. He is now happy with his mother. If you should die, would you go to them too? O that I could hear of your and your brothers’ conversion!“You can never know how much I want to see you, how much I think of you, how much I pray for you, always when I pray for myself. O my dear daughter, my motherless daughter, meet me at the throne of grace; meet me in the bosom of Jesus, and we shall live in His blessed presence on high, together with your dear mother, lost to us for a time, but not forever; whose spirit ever watches over you, and will rejoice with joy yet unfelt, when you turn to the Saviour and give your heart to Him.“Your longing, hoping father,A. Judson.”

“You can never know how much I want to see you, how much I think of you, how much I pray for you, always when I pray for myself. O my dear daughter, my motherless daughter, meet me at the throne of grace; meet me in the bosom of Jesus, and we shall live in His blessed presence on high, together with your dear mother, lost to us for a time, but not forever; whose spirit ever watches over you, and will rejoice with joy yet unfelt, when you turn to the Saviour and give your heart to Him.

“Your longing, hoping father,A. Judson.”

“Your longing, hoping father,

A. Judson.”

Nor does he forget his boys who are pursuing their studies in Worcester:

“Is it possible that I have letters from you at last? I had waited so long that I began to think it would never be. And I am so glad to hear of your welfare, and especially that you have both been under religious impressions, and that Elnathan begins to entertain a hope in Christ! O, this is the most blessed news. Go on, my dear boys, and not rest until you have made your calling and election sure. I believe that you both and Abby Ann will become true Christians, and meet me in heaven; for I never pray without praying for your conversion, and I think I pray in faith. Go to school, attend to your studies, be good scholars, try to get a good education; but, O, heaven is all. Life, life, eternal life! Without this, without an interest in the Lord of life, you are lost, lost forever. Dear Adoniram, give your heart at once to the Saviour. Don’t go to sleep without doing it. Try, try for your life. Don’t mind what anybody may say to the contrary, nor how much foolish boys may laugh at you. Love the dear Saviour, who has loved you unto death. Dear sons, so soon as you have a good hope in Christ that your sins are pardoned, and that Christ loves you, urge your pastor and the church to baptize and receive you into communion. They will hold back, thinking you are too young, and must give more evidence. But don’t be discouraged. Push on. Determine to do it.Determine to stand by Christ, come what will.That is the way to get to heaven.... Will Elnathan tell me what little book it was that was so much blessed to him? I have forgotten what I sent him. I have sent you copies of your mother’s Memoir. You will be delighted to read it, so beautifully and so truthfully is it written. Ever love to cherish the memory of your own dear mother—how much she loved you to the last gasp—and prepare to follow her to heaven.“Your fond father,A. Judson.”

“Your fond father,A. Judson.”

“Your fond father,

A. Judson.”

And the two little boys who formed a part of the family group at Maulmain, often found in their father an ardent companion in their play. One of them well remembers how his father used to come into his room in the morningand greet him upon his first awakening with a delicious piece of Burmese cake, or with the joyful tidings that a rat had been caught in a trap the night before! He wrote to Mr. Stevens in Rangoon:

“I have to hold a meeting with the rising generation every evening, and that takes time. Henry can say, ‘Twinkle, twinkle,’ all himself, and Edward can repeat it after his father! Giants of genius! paragons of erudition!”

On December 24, 1847, Emily Frances Judson[68]was born at Maulmain. The happy mother addressed to her infant the following exquisite lines, which have been since treasured in so many hearts in many lands:

My Bird.

“Ere last year’s moon had left the sky,A birdling sought my Indian nest.And folded, O, so lovingly!Her tiny wings upon my breast.“From morn till evening’s purple tingeIn winsome helplessness she lies;Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,Shut softly on her starry eyes.“There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird;Broad earth owns not a happier nest;O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred,Whose waters never more shall rest!“This beautiful, mysterious thing,This seeming visitant from heaven—This bird with the immortal wing,To me—to me. Thy hand hath given.“The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,The blood its crimson hue, from mine;—This life, which I have dared invoke,Henceforth is parallel with thine.“A silent awe is in my room;I tremble with delicious fear;The future with its light and gloom,—Time and Eternity are here.“Doubts—hopes, in eager tumult rise;Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:Room for my bird in Paradise,And give her angel-plumage there!”

“Ere last year’s moon had left the sky,A birdling sought my Indian nest.And folded, O, so lovingly!Her tiny wings upon my breast.

“Ere last year’s moon had left the sky,

A birdling sought my Indian nest.

And folded, O, so lovingly!

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

“From morn till evening’s purple tingeIn winsome helplessness she lies;Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,Shut softly on her starry eyes.

“From morn till evening’s purple tinge

In winsome helplessness she lies;

Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,

Shut softly on her starry eyes.

“There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird;Broad earth owns not a happier nest;O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred,Whose waters never more shall rest!

“There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest;

O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred,

Whose waters never more shall rest!

“This beautiful, mysterious thing,This seeming visitant from heaven—This bird with the immortal wing,To me—to me. Thy hand hath given.

“This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from heaven—

This bird with the immortal wing,

To me—to me. Thy hand hath given.

“The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,The blood its crimson hue, from mine;—This life, which I have dared invoke,Henceforth is parallel with thine.

“The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,

The blood its crimson hue, from mine;—

This life, which I have dared invoke,

Henceforth is parallel with thine.

“A silent awe is in my room;I tremble with delicious fear;The future with its light and gloom,—Time and Eternity are here.

“A silent awe is in my room;

I tremble with delicious fear;

The future with its light and gloom,—

Time and Eternity are here.

“Doubts—hopes, in eager tumult rise;Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:Room for my bird in Paradise,And give her angel-plumage there!”

“Doubts—hopes, in eager tumult rise;

Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:

Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel-plumage there!”

But dark shadows began to gather around the path of the missionary. Soon after the birth of Emily, Mrs. Judson’s health began to decline. Mr. Judson thus wrote to her friend, Miss Anable:

“A crushing weight is upon me. I can not resist the dreadful conviction that dear Emily is in a settled and rapid decline. For nearly a year after the birth of baby, she enjoyed pretty good health, and I flattered myself that she would be spared for many years. But three or four months ago her appetite almost entirely failed her. Soon after, baby was taken very ill, and in the midst of it our usual help left us, and she was obliged to undergo a great deal of severe fatigue; and I see now that she has been declining ever since. She soon became unable to take our usual walks, and I procured a pony for her, and she tried riding, but without any good effect. I next sent her to Tavoy in a steamer, on a visit to the missionaries there. She was gone ten days, and returned thinner in flesh and weaker than ever. I now take her out every morning in a chaise, and this is all the exercise she can bear. She is under the care of a very skilful doctor, who appears to be making every possible effort to save her; but the symptoms are such that I have scarcely any hope left. She is thinner than she has ever been; strength almost gone; no appetite; various pains in the region of the lungs; a dry cough, which has hung on pertinaciously for two or three months. She was preparing some ‘Notes,’ to append to the Memoir, but has been obliged to leave them unfinished, being unable to write, or even read, without aggravating her pains. I look around in despair.If a change to any place promised the least relief, I would go anywhere. But we are here in the healthiest part of India, and in the dry, warm season; and she suffers so much at sea that a voyage would hardly be recommended for itself. My only hope is, that the doctor declares that her lungs are not seriously affected, and that as soon as her system is fairly brought under the influence of the course of medicine he is pursuing—digitalis being a principal ingredient—there will be a favorable result. I shall dissuade her from writing by this month’s mail, though she has mentioned that she wants to write to you and her family. Nor does she know that I am writing to you. Her family I don’t want to distress at present. She may get better. But I suffer so much myself, that I felt it would be some relief to sit down and tell you all about it.... When she was at Tavoy, she made up her mind that she must die soon, and that is now her prevailing expectation; but she contemplates the event with composure and resignation. Within a few months she has grown much in devotional feelings, and in longing desires to be wholly conformed to the will of Christ. She had formerly some doubts about the genuineness of her early conversion, but they have all left her; and though she feels that in her circumstances prolonged life is exceedingly desirable, she is quite willing to leave all at the Saviour’s call. Praise be to God for His love to her.”

Little did he imagine while he cherished these doleful forebodings, that, in the journey through the valley of the shadow of death, he was to precede his wife by several years. In November, 1849, only a few months after he wrote the above lines, he was attacked by the disease, which, after a period of a little over four months, culminated in his death. One night, while sharing with Mrs. Judson the care of one of the children who had been taken suddenly ill, he caught a severe cold. This settled on his lungs and produced a terrible cough with some fever. After three or four days, he was attacked with dysentery, and before this was subdued a congestive fever set in, from which he neverrecovered. A trip down the coast of Mergui afforded only partial relief. He tried the sea air of Amherst, but only sank the more rapidly, and then hastened back to Maulmain. The following is his last communication to the Board:

To the Corresponding Secretary.“Maulmain,February21, 1850.“My dear Brother: I can not manage a pen; so please to excuse pencil. I have been prostrated with fever ever since the latter part of last November, and have suffered so much that I have frequently remarked that I was never ill in India before. Through the mercy of God, I think I am convalescent for the last ten days; but the doctor and all my friends are very urgent that I should take a sea voyage of a month or two, and be absent from this a long time. May God direct in the path of duty. My hand is failing; so I will beg to remain“Yours affectionately,“A. Judson.”

To the Corresponding Secretary.

“Maulmain,February21, 1850.

“My dear Brother: I can not manage a pen; so please to excuse pencil. I have been prostrated with fever ever since the latter part of last November, and have suffered so much that I have frequently remarked that I was never ill in India before. Through the mercy of God, I think I am convalescent for the last ten days; but the doctor and all my friends are very urgent that I should take a sea voyage of a month or two, and be absent from this a long time. May God direct in the path of duty. My hand is failing; so I will beg to remain

“Yours affectionately,“A. Judson.”

“Yours affectionately,

“A. Judson.”

His only hope now lay in a long sea voyage. He was never so happy as when upon the deep. The ocean breezes had never failed to invigorate him. But it was a sore trial to part with his wife and children when there was but little prospect of ever seeing them again. There was, however, no alternative. A French barque, theAristide Marie, was to sail from Maulmain on the 3d of April. The dying missionary was carried on board by his weeping disciples, accompanied only by Mr. Ranney, of the Maulmain mission. There were unfortunate delays in going down the river; so that several days were lost. Meantime that precious life was ebbing rapidly away. It was not until Monday, the 8th, that the vessel got out to sea. Then came head winds and sultry weather, and after four days and nights of intense agony, Mr. Judson breathed his last on the 12th of April, and on the same day his body was buried in the sea. He died within a week from the time that he parted with his wife, and almost four months of terrible suspense elapsedbefore she learned of his death. The tidings were sent to her by the Rev. Dr. Mackay, a Scotch Presbyterian minister of Calcutta. Who can fathom her experience of suffering during those weary months of waiting! On the 22d of April, within three weeks of the time when she said farewell to her husband, exactly ten days after his body without her knowledge had found its resting-place in the sea, she gave birth to her second child, whom she named Charles, for her father. But the same day his little spirit, as though unwilling to linger amid such scenes of desolation, took its upward flight to be forever united with the parent who had entered the gates of Paradise only a little in advance. The same lyre that had echoed such glad music upon the birth of Emily, breathed the following soft, pensive strains of sorrow:

Angel Charlie.

“He came—a beauteous vision—Then vanished from my sight,His wing one moment cleavingThe blackness of my night;My glad ear caught its rustle,Then sweeping by, he stoleThe dew-drop that his comingHad cherished in my soul.“Oh, he had been my solaceWhen grief my spirit swayed,And on his fragile beingHad tender hopes been stayed;Where thought, where feeling lingeredHis form was sure to glide,And in the lone night-watches’Twas ever by my side.“He came; but as the blossomIts petals closes up,And hides them from the tempest,Within its sheltering cup,So he his spirit gatheredBack to his frightened breast,And passed from earth’s grim threshold,To be the Saviour’s guest.“My boy—ah, me! the sweetness,The anguish of that word!—My boy, when in strange night-dreamsMy slumbering soul is stirred;When music floats around me,When soft lips touch my brow,And whisper gentle greetings,Oh, tell me, is it thou?“I know, by one sweet token,My Charlie is not dead;One golden clue he left me,As on his track he sped;Were he some gem or blossomBut fashioned for to-day,My love would slowly perishWith his dissolving clay.“Oh, by this deathless yearning,Which is not idly given;By the delicious nearnessMy spirit feels to heaven;By dreams that throng my night sleep,By visions of the day,By whispers when I’m erring,By promptings when I pray;—“I know this life so cherished,Which sprang beneath my heart,Which formed of my own beingSo beautiful a part;This precious, winsome creature,My unfledged, voiceless dove,Lifts now a seraph’s pinionAnd warbles lays of love.“Oh, I would not recall thee,My glorious angel boy!Thou needest not my bosom,Rare bird of light and joy;Here dash I down the tear-drops,Still gathering in my eyes;Blest—oh! how blest!—in addingA seraph to the skies!”

“He came—a beauteous vision—

Then vanished from my sight,

His wing one moment cleaving

The blackness of my night;

My glad ear caught its rustle,

Then sweeping by, he stole

The dew-drop that his coming

Had cherished in my soul.

“Oh, he had been my solaceWhen grief my spirit swayed,And on his fragile beingHad tender hopes been stayed;Where thought, where feeling lingeredHis form was sure to glide,And in the lone night-watches’Twas ever by my side.

“Oh, he had been my solace

When grief my spirit swayed,

And on his fragile being

Had tender hopes been stayed;

Where thought, where feeling lingered

His form was sure to glide,

And in the lone night-watches

’Twas ever by my side.

“He came; but as the blossomIts petals closes up,And hides them from the tempest,Within its sheltering cup,So he his spirit gatheredBack to his frightened breast,And passed from earth’s grim threshold,To be the Saviour’s guest.

“He came; but as the blossom

Its petals closes up,

And hides them from the tempest,

Within its sheltering cup,

So he his spirit gathered

Back to his frightened breast,

And passed from earth’s grim threshold,

To be the Saviour’s guest.

“My boy—ah, me! the sweetness,The anguish of that word!—My boy, when in strange night-dreamsMy slumbering soul is stirred;When music floats around me,When soft lips touch my brow,And whisper gentle greetings,Oh, tell me, is it thou?

“My boy—ah, me! the sweetness,

The anguish of that word!—

My boy, when in strange night-dreams

My slumbering soul is stirred;

When music floats around me,

When soft lips touch my brow,

And whisper gentle greetings,

Oh, tell me, is it thou?

“I know, by one sweet token,My Charlie is not dead;One golden clue he left me,As on his track he sped;Were he some gem or blossomBut fashioned for to-day,My love would slowly perishWith his dissolving clay.

“I know, by one sweet token,

My Charlie is not dead;

One golden clue he left me,

As on his track he sped;

Were he some gem or blossom

But fashioned for to-day,

My love would slowly perish

With his dissolving clay.

“Oh, by this deathless yearning,Which is not idly given;By the delicious nearnessMy spirit feels to heaven;By dreams that throng my night sleep,By visions of the day,By whispers when I’m erring,By promptings when I pray;—

“Oh, by this deathless yearning,

Which is not idly given;

By the delicious nearness

My spirit feels to heaven;

By dreams that throng my night sleep,

By visions of the day,

By whispers when I’m erring,

By promptings when I pray;—

“I know this life so cherished,Which sprang beneath my heart,Which formed of my own beingSo beautiful a part;This precious, winsome creature,My unfledged, voiceless dove,Lifts now a seraph’s pinionAnd warbles lays of love.

“I know this life so cherished,

Which sprang beneath my heart,

Which formed of my own being

So beautiful a part;

This precious, winsome creature,

My unfledged, voiceless dove,

Lifts now a seraph’s pinion

And warbles lays of love.

“Oh, I would not recall thee,My glorious angel boy!Thou needest not my bosom,Rare bird of light and joy;Here dash I down the tear-drops,Still gathering in my eyes;Blest—oh! how blest!—in addingA seraph to the skies!”

“Oh, I would not recall thee,

My glorious angel boy!

Thou needest not my bosom,

Rare bird of light and joy;

Here dash I down the tear-drops,

Still gathering in my eyes;

Blest—oh! how blest!—in adding

A seraph to the skies!”

The following account of the closing scenes in Dr. Judson’s life was communicated to his sister by Mrs. Judson:

“Maulmain,September20, 1850.“My dear Sister: Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful bereavement, which, though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the account of your brother’s last days on board theAristide Marie, in a letter written by Mr. Ranney, from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversations with Mr. Ranney and the Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so—that I was not permitted to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the pain which I at first felt is gradually yielding to gratitude for the inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.“There was something exceedingly beautiful in the decline of your brother’s life—more beautiful than I can describe, though the impression will remain with me as a sacred legacy until I go to meet him where suns shall never set, and life shall never end. He had been, from my first acquaintance with him, an uncommonly spiritual Christian, exhibiting his richest graces in the unguarded intercourse of private life; but during his last year, it seemed as though the light of the world on which he was entering had been sent to brighten his upward pathway. Every subject on which we conversed, every book we read, every incident that occurred, whether trivial or important, had a tendency to suggest some peculiarly spiritual train of thought, till it seemed to me that, more than ever before, ‘Christ was all his theme.’ Something of the same nature was also noted in his preaching, to which I then had not the privilege of listening. He was inthe habit, however, of studying his subject for the Sabbath, audibly, and in my presence, at which time he was frequently so much affected as to weep, and sometimes so overwhelmed with the vastness of his conceptions as to be obliged to abandon his theme and choose another. My own illness at the commencement of the year had brought eternity very near to us, and rendered death, the grave, and the bright heaven beyond it, familiar subjects of conversation. Gladly would I give you, my dear sister, some idea of the share borne by him in those memorable conversations; but it would be impossible to convey, even to those who knew him best, the most distant conception of them. I believe he has sometimes been thought eloquent, both in conversation and in the sacred desk; but the fervid, burning eloquence, the deep pathos, the touching tenderness, the elevation of thought, and intense beauty of expression, which characterized those private teachings, were not only beyond what I had ever heard before, but such as I felt sure arrested his own attention, and surprised even himself. About this time he began to find unusual satisfaction and enjoyment in his private devotions, and seemed to have new objects of interest continually rising in his mind, each of which in turn became special subjects of prayer. Among these, one of the most prominent was the conversion of his posterity. He remarked that he had always prayed for his children, but that of late he had felt impressed with the duty of praying for their children and their children’s children down to the latest generation. He also prayed most fervently that his impressions on this particular subject might be transferred to his sons and daughters, and thence to their offspring, so that he should ultimately meet a long, unbroken line of descendants before the throne of God, where all might join together in ascribing everlasting praises to their Redeemer.“Another subject, which occupied a large share of his attention, was that of brotherly love. You are, perhaps, aware that, like all persons of his ardent temperament, he was subject to strong attachments and aversions, which he sometimes had difficulty in bringing under the controllinginfluence of divine grace. He remarked that he had always felt more or less of an affectionate interest in his brethren, as brethren, and some of them he had loved very dearly for their personal qualities; but he was now aware that he had never placed his standard of love high enough. He spoke of them as children of God, redeemed by the Saviour’s blood, watched over and guarded by His love, dear to His heart, honored by Him in the election, and to be honored hereafter before the assembled universe; and he said it was not sufficient to be kind and obliging to such, to abstain from evil speaking, and make a general mention of them in our prayers; but our attachment to them should be of the most ardent and exalted character; it would be so in heaven, and we lost immeasurably by not beginning now. ‘As I have loved you, so ought ye also to love one another,’ was a precept continually in his mind, and he would often murmur, as though unconsciously, ‘“As I have loved you,”—“as I have loved you,”’—then burst out with the exclamation, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’“His prayers for the mission were marked by an earnest, grateful enthusiasm, and in speaking of missionary operations in general, his tone was one of elevated triumph, almost of exultation; for he not only felt an unshaken confidence in their final success, but would often exclaim, ‘What wonders—O, what wonders God has already wrought!’“I remarked that during this year his literary labor, which he had never liked, and upon which he had entered unwillingly and from a feeling of necessity, was growing daily more irksome to him; and he always spoke of it as his ‘heavy work,’ his ‘tedious work,’ ‘that wearisome dictionary,’ etc., though this feeling led to no relaxation of effort. He longed, however, to find some more spiritual employment, to be engaged in what he considered more legitimate missionary labor, and drew delightful pictures of the future, when his whole business would be but to preach and to pray.“During all this time I had not observed any failure in physical strength; and though his mental exercises occupied a large share of my thoughts when alone, it never once occurredto me that this might be the brightening of the setting sun; my only feeling was that of pleasure, that one so near to me was becoming so pure and elevated in his sentiments, and so lovely and Christ-like in his character. In person he had grown somewhat stouter than when in America; his complexion had a healthful hue, compared with that of his associates generally; and though by no means a person of uniformly firm health, he seemed to possess such vigor and strength of constitution, that I thought his life as likely to be extended twenty years longer, as that of any member of the mission. He continued his system of morning exercise, commenced when a student at Andover, and was not satisfied with a common walk on level ground, but always chose an up-hill path, and then frequently went bounding on his way with all the exuberant activity of boyhood.“He was of a singularly happy temperament, although not of that even cast which never rises above a certain level, and is never depressed. Possessing acute sensibilities, suffering with those who suffered, and entering as readily into the joys of the prosperous and happy, he was variable in his moods; but religion formed such an essential element in his character, and his trust in Providence was so implicit and habitual, that he was never gloomy, and seldom more than momentarily disheartened. On the other hand, being accustomed to regard all the events of this life, however minute or painful, as ordered in wisdom, and tending to one great and glorious end, he lived in almost constant obedience to the apostolic injunction, ‘Rejoice evermore!’ He often told me that although he had endured much personal suffering, and passed through many fearful trials in the course of his eventful life, a kind Providence had also hedged him round with precious, peculiar blessings, so that his joys had far outnumbered his sorrows.“Toward the close of September of last year, he said to me one evening, ‘What deep cause have we for gratitude to God! Do you believe there are any other two persons in the wide world so happy as we are?’ enumerating, in his ownearnest manner, several sources of happiness, in which our work as missionaries, and our eternal prospects, occupied a prominent position. When he had finished his glowing picture, I remarked—I scarcely know why, but there was a heavy cloud upon my spirits that evening—‘We are certainly very happy now, but it can not be so always. I am thinking of the time when one of us must stand beside the bed, and see the other die.’“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that will be a sad moment; I felt it most deeply a little while ago, but now it would not be strange if your life were prolonged beyond mine—though I should wish, if it were possible, to spare you that pain. It is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ. If it should only be the will of God that we might go together, like young James and his wife! But He will order all things well, and we can safely trust our future to His hands.’“That same night we were roused from sleep by the sudden illness of one of the children. There was an unpleasant, chilling dampness in the air, as it came to us through the openings in the sloats above the windows, which affected your brother very sensibly; and he soon began to shiver so violently that he was obliged to return to his couch, where he remained under a warm covering until morning. In the morning he awoke with a severe cold, accompanied by some degree of fever; but as it did not seem very serious, and our three children were all suffering from a similar cause, we failed to give it any especial attention. From that time he was never well, though in writing to you before, I think I dated the commencement of his illness from the month of November, when he laid aside his studies. I know that he regarded this attack as trifling; and yet one evening he spent a long time in advising me with regard to my future course, if I should be deprived of his guidance, saying that it is always wise to be prepared for exigencies of this nature. After the month of November, he failed gradually, occasionally rallying in such a manner as to deceive us all, but at each relapse sinking lower than at the previous one, thoughstill full of hope and courage, and yielding ground only inch by inch, as compelled by the triumphant progress of disease. During some hours of every day he suffered intense pain; but his naturally buoyant spirits and uncomplaining disposition led him to speak so lightly of it, that I used sometimes to fear that the doctor, though a very skilful man, would be fatally deceived.“As his health declined, his mental exercises at first seemed deepened; and he gave still larger portions of his time to prayer, conversing with the utmost freedom on his daily progress, and the extent of his self-conquest. Just before our trip to Mergui, which took place in January, he looked up from his pillow one day with sudden animation, and said to me earnestly, ‘I have gained the victory at last. I love every one of Christ’s redeemed, as I believe He would have me love them—in the same manner, though not probably to the same degree, as we shall love one another in heaven; and gladly would I prefer the meanest of His creatures, who bears His name, before myself.’ This he said in allusion to the text, ‘In honor preferring one another,’ on which he had frequently dwelt with great emphasis. After further similar conversation, he concluded: ‘And now here I lie at peace with all the world, and what is better still, at peace with my own conscience. I know that I am a miserable sinner in the sight of God, with no hope but in the blessed Saviour’s merits; but I can not think of any particular fault, any peculiarly besetting sin, which it is now my duty to correct. Can you tell me of any?’“And truly, from this time no other word would so well express his state of feeling as that one of his own choosing—peace. He had no particular exercises afterward, but remained calm and serene, speaking of himself daily as a great sinner, who had been overwhelmed with benefits, and declaring that he had never in all his life before had such delightful views of the unfathomable love and infinite condescension of the Saviour as were now daily opening before him. ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’ he would suddenly exclaim, while his eye kindled, and the tears chasedeach other down his cheeks; ‘we can not understand it now—but what a beautiful study for eternity!’“After our return from Mergui, the doctor advised a still further trial of the effects of sea air and sea bathing; and we accordingly proceeded to Amherst, where we remained nearly a month. This to me was the darkest period of his illness—no medical adviser, no friend, at hand, and he daily growing weaker and weaker. He began to totter in walking, clinging to the furniture and walls, when he thought he was unobserved (for he was not willing to acknowledge the extent of his debility), and his wan face was of a ghastly paleness. His sufferings, too, were sometimes fearfully intense, so that, in spite of his habitual self-control, his groans would fill the house. At other times a kind of lethargy seemed to steal over him, and he would sleep almost incessantly for twenty-four hours, seeming annoyed if he were aroused or disturbed. Yet there were portions of the time when he was comparatively comfortable, and conversed intelligently; but his mind seemed to revert to former scenes, and he tried to amuse me with stories of his boyhood, his college days, his imprisonment in France, and his early missionary life. He had a great deal also to say on his favorite theme, ‘the love of Christ’; but his strength was too much impaired for any continuous mental effort. Even a short prayer, made audibly, exhausted him to such a degree that he was obliged to discontinue the practice.“At length I wrote to Maulmain, giving some expression of my anxieties and misgivings, and our kind missionary friends, who had from the first evinced all the tender interest and watchful sympathy of the nearest kindred, immediately sent for us—the doctor advising a sea voyage. But as there was no vessel in the harbor bound for a port sufficiently distant, we thought it best, in the meantime, to remove from our old dwelling, which had long been condemned as unhealthy, to another mission-house, fortunately empty. This change was, at first, attended with the most beneficial results; and our hopes revived so much, that we looked forward to the approaching rainy season for entire restoration. But itlasted only a little while; and then both of us became convinced that, though a voyage at sea involved much that was exceedingly painful, it yet presented the only prospect of recovery, and could not, therefore, without a breach of duty, be neglected.“‘O, if it were only the will of God to take me now—to let me die here!’ he repeated over and over again, in a tone of anguish, while we were considering the subject. ‘I can not, can not go! This is almost more than I can bear! Was there ever suffering like our suffering?’ and the like broken expressions, were continually falling from his lips. But he soon gathered more strength of purpose; and after the decision was fairly made, he never hesitated for a moment, rather regarding the prospect with pleasure. I think the struggle which this resolution cost injured him very materially; though probably it had no share in bringing about the final result. God, who saw the end from the beginning, had counted out his days, and they were hastening to a close. Until this time he had been able to stand, and to walk slowly from room to room; but as he one evening attempted to rise from his chair, he was suddenly deprived of his small remnant of muscular strength, and would have fallen to the floor but for timely support.“From that moment his decline was rapid. As he lay helplessly upon his couch, and watched the swelling of his feet, and other alarming symptoms, he became very anxious to commence his voyage, and I felt equally anxious to have his wishes gratified. I still hoped he might recover; the doctor said the chances of life and death were, in his opinion, equally balanced. And then he always loved the sea so dearly! There was something exhilarating to him in the motion of a vessel, and he spoke with animation of getting free from the almost suffocating atmosphere incident to the hot season, and drinking in the fresh sea breezes. He talked but little more, however, than was necessary to indicate his wants, his bodily sufferings being too great to allow of conversation; but several times he looked up to me with a bright smile, and exclaimed, as heretofore, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’“I found it difficult to ascertain, from expressions casually dropped from time to time, his real opinion with regard to his recovery; but I thought there was some reason to doubt whether he was fully aware of his critical situation. I did not suppose he had any preparation to make at this late hour, and I felt sure that, if he should be called ever so unexpectedly, he would not enter the presence of his Maker with a ruffled spirit; but I could not bear to have him go away without knowing how doubtful it was whether our next meeting would not be in eternity; and perhaps, too, in my own distress, I might still have looked for words of encouragement and sympathy to a source which had never before failed.“It was late in the night, and I had been performing some little sick-room offices, when suddenly he looked up to me, and exclaimed, ‘This will never do! You are killing yourself for me, and I will not permit it. You must have some one to relieve you. If I had not been made selfish by suffering, I should have insisted upon it long ago.’“He spoke so like himself, with the earnestness of health, and in a tone to which my ear had of late been a stranger, that for a moment I felt almost bewildered with sudden hope. He received my reply to what he had said with a half-pitying, half-gratified smile; but in the meantime his expression had changed—the marks of excessive debility were again apparent, and I could not forbear adding, ‘It is only a little while, you know.’“‘Only a little while,’ he repeated mournfully; ‘this separation is a bitter thing, but it does not distress me now as it did—I am too weak.’ ‘You have no reason to be distressed,’ I answered, ‘with such glorious prospects before you. You have often told me it is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ.’ He gave me a rapid, questioning glance, then assumed for several moments an attitude of deep thought. Finally, he slowly unclosed his eyes, and fixing them on me, said in a calm, earnest tone, ‘I do not believe I am going to die. I think I know why this illness has been sent upon me; I needed it; I feel that ithas done me good; and it is my impression that I shall now recover, and be a better and more useful man.’“‘Then it is your wish to recover?’ I inquired. ‘If it should be the will of God, yes. I should like to complete the dictionary, on which I have bestowed so much labor, now that it is so nearly done; for though it has not been a work that pleased my taste, or quite satisfied my feelings, I have never underrated its importance. Then after that come all the plans that we have formed. O, I feel as if I were only just beginning to be prepared for usefulness.’“‘It is the opinion of most of the mission,’ I remarked, ‘that you will not recover.’ ‘I know it is,’ he replied; ‘and I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials. But I am not old—at least in that sense; you know I am not. O, no man ever left this world, with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes or warmer feelings—warmer feelings,’ he repeated, and burst into tears.[69]His face was perfectly placid, even while the tears broke away from the closed lids, and rolled, one after another, down to the pillow. There was no trace of agitation or pain in his manner of weeping, but it was evidently the result of acute sensibilities, combined with great physical weakness. To some suggestions which I ventured to make, he replied: ‘It is not that—I know all that, and feel it in my inmost heart. Lying here on my bed, when I could not talk, I have had such views of the loving condescension of Christ, and the glories of heaven, as I believe are seldom granted to mortal man. It is not because I shrink from death that I wish to live, neither is it because the ties that bind me here, though some of them are very sweet, bear any comparison with the drawings I at times feel toward heaven; but a few years would not be missed from my eternity of bliss, and I can well afford to spare them, both for your sake and for the sake of the poor Burmans. Iam not tired of my work, neither am I tired of the world; yet when Christ calls me home, I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from his school. Perhaps I feel something like the young bride, when she contemplates resigning the pleasant associations of her childhood for a yet dearer home—though only a very little like her, forthere is no doubt resting on my future.’ ‘Then death would not take you by surprise,’ I remarked, ‘if it should come even before you could get on board ship?’ ‘O, no,’ he said, ‘death will never take me by surprise—do not be afraid of that—I feelso strong in Christ. He has not led me so tenderly thus far, to forsake me at the very gate of heaven. No, no; I am willing to live a few years longer, if it should be so ordered; and if otherwise, I am willing and glad to die now. I leave myself entirely in the hands of God, to be disposed of according to His holy will.’“The next day some one mentioned, in his presence, that the native Christians were greatly opposed to the voyage, and that many other persons had a similar feeling with regard to it. I thought he seemed troubled, and after the visitor had withdrawn, I inquired if he still felt as when he conversed with me the night previous. He replied, ‘O, yes; that was no evanescent feeling. It has been with me, to a greater or less extent, for years, and will be with me, I trust, to the end. I am ready to goto-day—if it should be the will of God, this very hour; but I am notanxiousto die; at least when I am not beside myself with pain.’“‘Then why are you so desirous to go to sea? I should think it would be a matter of indifference to you.’ ‘No,’ he answered quietly, ‘my judgment tells me it would be wrong not to go; the doctor sayscriminal. I shall certainly die here; if I go away I may possibly recover. There is no question with regard to duty in such a case; and I do not like to see any hesitation, even though it springs from affection.’“He several times spoke of a burial at sea, and always as though the prospect were agreeable. It brought, he said, a sense of freedom and expansion, and seemed far pleasanterthan the confined, dark, narrow grave, to which he had committed so many that he loved. And he added, that although his burial-place was a matter of no real importance, yet he believed it was not in human nature to be altogether without a choice.“I have already given you an account of the embarkation, of my visits to him while the vessel remained in the river, and of our last sad, silent parting; and Mr. Ranney has finished the picture. You will find, in this closing part, some dark shadows that will give you pain; but you must remember that his present felicity is enhanced by those very sufferings; and we should regret nothing that serves to brighten his crown in glory. I ought also to add, that I have gained pleasanter impressions in conversation with Mr. Ranney than from his written account; but it would be difficult to convey them to you; and, as he whom they concern was accustomed to say of similar things, ‘you will learn it all in heaven.’“During the last hour of your sainted brother’s life, Mr. Ranney bent over him, and held his hand, while poor Panapah stood at a little distance weeping bitterly. The table had been spread in the cuddy, as usual, and the officers did not know what was passing in the cabin, till summoned to dinner. Then they gathered about the door, and watched the closing scene with solemn reverence. Now—thanks to a merciful God!—his pains had left him; not a momentary spasm disturbed his placid face, nor did the contraction of a muscle denote the least degree of suffering; the agony of death was passed, and his wearied spirit was turning to its rest in the bosom of the Saviour. From time to time he pressed the hand in which his own was resting, his clasp losing in force at each successive pressure; while his shortened breath—though there was no struggle, no gasping, as if it came and went with difficulty—gradually grew softer and fainter, until it died upon the air—and he was gone. Mr. Ranney closed the eyes, and composed the passive limbs; the ship’s officers stole softly from the door, and the neglected meal was left upon the board untasted.

“Maulmain,September20, 1850.

“My dear Sister: Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful bereavement, which, though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the account of your brother’s last days on board theAristide Marie, in a letter written by Mr. Ranney, from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversations with Mr. Ranney and the Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so—that I was not permitted to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the pain which I at first felt is gradually yielding to gratitude for the inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.

“There was something exceedingly beautiful in the decline of your brother’s life—more beautiful than I can describe, though the impression will remain with me as a sacred legacy until I go to meet him where suns shall never set, and life shall never end. He had been, from my first acquaintance with him, an uncommonly spiritual Christian, exhibiting his richest graces in the unguarded intercourse of private life; but during his last year, it seemed as though the light of the world on which he was entering had been sent to brighten his upward pathway. Every subject on which we conversed, every book we read, every incident that occurred, whether trivial or important, had a tendency to suggest some peculiarly spiritual train of thought, till it seemed to me that, more than ever before, ‘Christ was all his theme.’ Something of the same nature was also noted in his preaching, to which I then had not the privilege of listening. He was inthe habit, however, of studying his subject for the Sabbath, audibly, and in my presence, at which time he was frequently so much affected as to weep, and sometimes so overwhelmed with the vastness of his conceptions as to be obliged to abandon his theme and choose another. My own illness at the commencement of the year had brought eternity very near to us, and rendered death, the grave, and the bright heaven beyond it, familiar subjects of conversation. Gladly would I give you, my dear sister, some idea of the share borne by him in those memorable conversations; but it would be impossible to convey, even to those who knew him best, the most distant conception of them. I believe he has sometimes been thought eloquent, both in conversation and in the sacred desk; but the fervid, burning eloquence, the deep pathos, the touching tenderness, the elevation of thought, and intense beauty of expression, which characterized those private teachings, were not only beyond what I had ever heard before, but such as I felt sure arrested his own attention, and surprised even himself. About this time he began to find unusual satisfaction and enjoyment in his private devotions, and seemed to have new objects of interest continually rising in his mind, each of which in turn became special subjects of prayer. Among these, one of the most prominent was the conversion of his posterity. He remarked that he had always prayed for his children, but that of late he had felt impressed with the duty of praying for their children and their children’s children down to the latest generation. He also prayed most fervently that his impressions on this particular subject might be transferred to his sons and daughters, and thence to their offspring, so that he should ultimately meet a long, unbroken line of descendants before the throne of God, where all might join together in ascribing everlasting praises to their Redeemer.

“Another subject, which occupied a large share of his attention, was that of brotherly love. You are, perhaps, aware that, like all persons of his ardent temperament, he was subject to strong attachments and aversions, which he sometimes had difficulty in bringing under the controllinginfluence of divine grace. He remarked that he had always felt more or less of an affectionate interest in his brethren, as brethren, and some of them he had loved very dearly for their personal qualities; but he was now aware that he had never placed his standard of love high enough. He spoke of them as children of God, redeemed by the Saviour’s blood, watched over and guarded by His love, dear to His heart, honored by Him in the election, and to be honored hereafter before the assembled universe; and he said it was not sufficient to be kind and obliging to such, to abstain from evil speaking, and make a general mention of them in our prayers; but our attachment to them should be of the most ardent and exalted character; it would be so in heaven, and we lost immeasurably by not beginning now. ‘As I have loved you, so ought ye also to love one another,’ was a precept continually in his mind, and he would often murmur, as though unconsciously, ‘“As I have loved you,”—“as I have loved you,”’—then burst out with the exclamation, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’

“His prayers for the mission were marked by an earnest, grateful enthusiasm, and in speaking of missionary operations in general, his tone was one of elevated triumph, almost of exultation; for he not only felt an unshaken confidence in their final success, but would often exclaim, ‘What wonders—O, what wonders God has already wrought!’

“I remarked that during this year his literary labor, which he had never liked, and upon which he had entered unwillingly and from a feeling of necessity, was growing daily more irksome to him; and he always spoke of it as his ‘heavy work,’ his ‘tedious work,’ ‘that wearisome dictionary,’ etc., though this feeling led to no relaxation of effort. He longed, however, to find some more spiritual employment, to be engaged in what he considered more legitimate missionary labor, and drew delightful pictures of the future, when his whole business would be but to preach and to pray.

“During all this time I had not observed any failure in physical strength; and though his mental exercises occupied a large share of my thoughts when alone, it never once occurredto me that this might be the brightening of the setting sun; my only feeling was that of pleasure, that one so near to me was becoming so pure and elevated in his sentiments, and so lovely and Christ-like in his character. In person he had grown somewhat stouter than when in America; his complexion had a healthful hue, compared with that of his associates generally; and though by no means a person of uniformly firm health, he seemed to possess such vigor and strength of constitution, that I thought his life as likely to be extended twenty years longer, as that of any member of the mission. He continued his system of morning exercise, commenced when a student at Andover, and was not satisfied with a common walk on level ground, but always chose an up-hill path, and then frequently went bounding on his way with all the exuberant activity of boyhood.

“He was of a singularly happy temperament, although not of that even cast which never rises above a certain level, and is never depressed. Possessing acute sensibilities, suffering with those who suffered, and entering as readily into the joys of the prosperous and happy, he was variable in his moods; but religion formed such an essential element in his character, and his trust in Providence was so implicit and habitual, that he was never gloomy, and seldom more than momentarily disheartened. On the other hand, being accustomed to regard all the events of this life, however minute or painful, as ordered in wisdom, and tending to one great and glorious end, he lived in almost constant obedience to the apostolic injunction, ‘Rejoice evermore!’ He often told me that although he had endured much personal suffering, and passed through many fearful trials in the course of his eventful life, a kind Providence had also hedged him round with precious, peculiar blessings, so that his joys had far outnumbered his sorrows.

“Toward the close of September of last year, he said to me one evening, ‘What deep cause have we for gratitude to God! Do you believe there are any other two persons in the wide world so happy as we are?’ enumerating, in his ownearnest manner, several sources of happiness, in which our work as missionaries, and our eternal prospects, occupied a prominent position. When he had finished his glowing picture, I remarked—I scarcely know why, but there was a heavy cloud upon my spirits that evening—‘We are certainly very happy now, but it can not be so always. I am thinking of the time when one of us must stand beside the bed, and see the other die.’

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that will be a sad moment; I felt it most deeply a little while ago, but now it would not be strange if your life were prolonged beyond mine—though I should wish, if it were possible, to spare you that pain. It is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ. If it should only be the will of God that we might go together, like young James and his wife! But He will order all things well, and we can safely trust our future to His hands.’

“That same night we were roused from sleep by the sudden illness of one of the children. There was an unpleasant, chilling dampness in the air, as it came to us through the openings in the sloats above the windows, which affected your brother very sensibly; and he soon began to shiver so violently that he was obliged to return to his couch, where he remained under a warm covering until morning. In the morning he awoke with a severe cold, accompanied by some degree of fever; but as it did not seem very serious, and our three children were all suffering from a similar cause, we failed to give it any especial attention. From that time he was never well, though in writing to you before, I think I dated the commencement of his illness from the month of November, when he laid aside his studies. I know that he regarded this attack as trifling; and yet one evening he spent a long time in advising me with regard to my future course, if I should be deprived of his guidance, saying that it is always wise to be prepared for exigencies of this nature. After the month of November, he failed gradually, occasionally rallying in such a manner as to deceive us all, but at each relapse sinking lower than at the previous one, thoughstill full of hope and courage, and yielding ground only inch by inch, as compelled by the triumphant progress of disease. During some hours of every day he suffered intense pain; but his naturally buoyant spirits and uncomplaining disposition led him to speak so lightly of it, that I used sometimes to fear that the doctor, though a very skilful man, would be fatally deceived.

“As his health declined, his mental exercises at first seemed deepened; and he gave still larger portions of his time to prayer, conversing with the utmost freedom on his daily progress, and the extent of his self-conquest. Just before our trip to Mergui, which took place in January, he looked up from his pillow one day with sudden animation, and said to me earnestly, ‘I have gained the victory at last. I love every one of Christ’s redeemed, as I believe He would have me love them—in the same manner, though not probably to the same degree, as we shall love one another in heaven; and gladly would I prefer the meanest of His creatures, who bears His name, before myself.’ This he said in allusion to the text, ‘In honor preferring one another,’ on which he had frequently dwelt with great emphasis. After further similar conversation, he concluded: ‘And now here I lie at peace with all the world, and what is better still, at peace with my own conscience. I know that I am a miserable sinner in the sight of God, with no hope but in the blessed Saviour’s merits; but I can not think of any particular fault, any peculiarly besetting sin, which it is now my duty to correct. Can you tell me of any?’

“And truly, from this time no other word would so well express his state of feeling as that one of his own choosing—peace. He had no particular exercises afterward, but remained calm and serene, speaking of himself daily as a great sinner, who had been overwhelmed with benefits, and declaring that he had never in all his life before had such delightful views of the unfathomable love and infinite condescension of the Saviour as were now daily opening before him. ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’ he would suddenly exclaim, while his eye kindled, and the tears chasedeach other down his cheeks; ‘we can not understand it now—but what a beautiful study for eternity!’

“After our return from Mergui, the doctor advised a still further trial of the effects of sea air and sea bathing; and we accordingly proceeded to Amherst, where we remained nearly a month. This to me was the darkest period of his illness—no medical adviser, no friend, at hand, and he daily growing weaker and weaker. He began to totter in walking, clinging to the furniture and walls, when he thought he was unobserved (for he was not willing to acknowledge the extent of his debility), and his wan face was of a ghastly paleness. His sufferings, too, were sometimes fearfully intense, so that, in spite of his habitual self-control, his groans would fill the house. At other times a kind of lethargy seemed to steal over him, and he would sleep almost incessantly for twenty-four hours, seeming annoyed if he were aroused or disturbed. Yet there were portions of the time when he was comparatively comfortable, and conversed intelligently; but his mind seemed to revert to former scenes, and he tried to amuse me with stories of his boyhood, his college days, his imprisonment in France, and his early missionary life. He had a great deal also to say on his favorite theme, ‘the love of Christ’; but his strength was too much impaired for any continuous mental effort. Even a short prayer, made audibly, exhausted him to such a degree that he was obliged to discontinue the practice.

“At length I wrote to Maulmain, giving some expression of my anxieties and misgivings, and our kind missionary friends, who had from the first evinced all the tender interest and watchful sympathy of the nearest kindred, immediately sent for us—the doctor advising a sea voyage. But as there was no vessel in the harbor bound for a port sufficiently distant, we thought it best, in the meantime, to remove from our old dwelling, which had long been condemned as unhealthy, to another mission-house, fortunately empty. This change was, at first, attended with the most beneficial results; and our hopes revived so much, that we looked forward to the approaching rainy season for entire restoration. But itlasted only a little while; and then both of us became convinced that, though a voyage at sea involved much that was exceedingly painful, it yet presented the only prospect of recovery, and could not, therefore, without a breach of duty, be neglected.

“‘O, if it were only the will of God to take me now—to let me die here!’ he repeated over and over again, in a tone of anguish, while we were considering the subject. ‘I can not, can not go! This is almost more than I can bear! Was there ever suffering like our suffering?’ and the like broken expressions, were continually falling from his lips. But he soon gathered more strength of purpose; and after the decision was fairly made, he never hesitated for a moment, rather regarding the prospect with pleasure. I think the struggle which this resolution cost injured him very materially; though probably it had no share in bringing about the final result. God, who saw the end from the beginning, had counted out his days, and they were hastening to a close. Until this time he had been able to stand, and to walk slowly from room to room; but as he one evening attempted to rise from his chair, he was suddenly deprived of his small remnant of muscular strength, and would have fallen to the floor but for timely support.

“From that moment his decline was rapid. As he lay helplessly upon his couch, and watched the swelling of his feet, and other alarming symptoms, he became very anxious to commence his voyage, and I felt equally anxious to have his wishes gratified. I still hoped he might recover; the doctor said the chances of life and death were, in his opinion, equally balanced. And then he always loved the sea so dearly! There was something exhilarating to him in the motion of a vessel, and he spoke with animation of getting free from the almost suffocating atmosphere incident to the hot season, and drinking in the fresh sea breezes. He talked but little more, however, than was necessary to indicate his wants, his bodily sufferings being too great to allow of conversation; but several times he looked up to me with a bright smile, and exclaimed, as heretofore, ‘O, the love of Christ! the love of Christ!’

“I found it difficult to ascertain, from expressions casually dropped from time to time, his real opinion with regard to his recovery; but I thought there was some reason to doubt whether he was fully aware of his critical situation. I did not suppose he had any preparation to make at this late hour, and I felt sure that, if he should be called ever so unexpectedly, he would not enter the presence of his Maker with a ruffled spirit; but I could not bear to have him go away without knowing how doubtful it was whether our next meeting would not be in eternity; and perhaps, too, in my own distress, I might still have looked for words of encouragement and sympathy to a source which had never before failed.

“It was late in the night, and I had been performing some little sick-room offices, when suddenly he looked up to me, and exclaimed, ‘This will never do! You are killing yourself for me, and I will not permit it. You must have some one to relieve you. If I had not been made selfish by suffering, I should have insisted upon it long ago.’

“He spoke so like himself, with the earnestness of health, and in a tone to which my ear had of late been a stranger, that for a moment I felt almost bewildered with sudden hope. He received my reply to what he had said with a half-pitying, half-gratified smile; but in the meantime his expression had changed—the marks of excessive debility were again apparent, and I could not forbear adding, ‘It is only a little while, you know.’

“‘Only a little while,’ he repeated mournfully; ‘this separation is a bitter thing, but it does not distress me now as it did—I am too weak.’ ‘You have no reason to be distressed,’ I answered, ‘with such glorious prospects before you. You have often told me it is the one left alone who suffers, not the one who goes to be with Christ.’ He gave me a rapid, questioning glance, then assumed for several moments an attitude of deep thought. Finally, he slowly unclosed his eyes, and fixing them on me, said in a calm, earnest tone, ‘I do not believe I am going to die. I think I know why this illness has been sent upon me; I needed it; I feel that ithas done me good; and it is my impression that I shall now recover, and be a better and more useful man.’

“‘Then it is your wish to recover?’ I inquired. ‘If it should be the will of God, yes. I should like to complete the dictionary, on which I have bestowed so much labor, now that it is so nearly done; for though it has not been a work that pleased my taste, or quite satisfied my feelings, I have never underrated its importance. Then after that come all the plans that we have formed. O, I feel as if I were only just beginning to be prepared for usefulness.’

“‘It is the opinion of most of the mission,’ I remarked, ‘that you will not recover.’ ‘I know it is,’ he replied; ‘and I suppose they think me an old man, and imagine it is nothing for one like me to resign a life so full of trials. But I am not old—at least in that sense; you know I am not. O, no man ever left this world, with more inviting prospects, with brighter hopes or warmer feelings—warmer feelings,’ he repeated, and burst into tears.[69]His face was perfectly placid, even while the tears broke away from the closed lids, and rolled, one after another, down to the pillow. There was no trace of agitation or pain in his manner of weeping, but it was evidently the result of acute sensibilities, combined with great physical weakness. To some suggestions which I ventured to make, he replied: ‘It is not that—I know all that, and feel it in my inmost heart. Lying here on my bed, when I could not talk, I have had such views of the loving condescension of Christ, and the glories of heaven, as I believe are seldom granted to mortal man. It is not because I shrink from death that I wish to live, neither is it because the ties that bind me here, though some of them are very sweet, bear any comparison with the drawings I at times feel toward heaven; but a few years would not be missed from my eternity of bliss, and I can well afford to spare them, both for your sake and for the sake of the poor Burmans. Iam not tired of my work, neither am I tired of the world; yet when Christ calls me home, I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from his school. Perhaps I feel something like the young bride, when she contemplates resigning the pleasant associations of her childhood for a yet dearer home—though only a very little like her, forthere is no doubt resting on my future.’ ‘Then death would not take you by surprise,’ I remarked, ‘if it should come even before you could get on board ship?’ ‘O, no,’ he said, ‘death will never take me by surprise—do not be afraid of that—I feelso strong in Christ. He has not led me so tenderly thus far, to forsake me at the very gate of heaven. No, no; I am willing to live a few years longer, if it should be so ordered; and if otherwise, I am willing and glad to die now. I leave myself entirely in the hands of God, to be disposed of according to His holy will.’

“The next day some one mentioned, in his presence, that the native Christians were greatly opposed to the voyage, and that many other persons had a similar feeling with regard to it. I thought he seemed troubled, and after the visitor had withdrawn, I inquired if he still felt as when he conversed with me the night previous. He replied, ‘O, yes; that was no evanescent feeling. It has been with me, to a greater or less extent, for years, and will be with me, I trust, to the end. I am ready to goto-day—if it should be the will of God, this very hour; but I am notanxiousto die; at least when I am not beside myself with pain.’

“‘Then why are you so desirous to go to sea? I should think it would be a matter of indifference to you.’ ‘No,’ he answered quietly, ‘my judgment tells me it would be wrong not to go; the doctor sayscriminal. I shall certainly die here; if I go away I may possibly recover. There is no question with regard to duty in such a case; and I do not like to see any hesitation, even though it springs from affection.’

“He several times spoke of a burial at sea, and always as though the prospect were agreeable. It brought, he said, a sense of freedom and expansion, and seemed far pleasanterthan the confined, dark, narrow grave, to which he had committed so many that he loved. And he added, that although his burial-place was a matter of no real importance, yet he believed it was not in human nature to be altogether without a choice.

“I have already given you an account of the embarkation, of my visits to him while the vessel remained in the river, and of our last sad, silent parting; and Mr. Ranney has finished the picture. You will find, in this closing part, some dark shadows that will give you pain; but you must remember that his present felicity is enhanced by those very sufferings; and we should regret nothing that serves to brighten his crown in glory. I ought also to add, that I have gained pleasanter impressions in conversation with Mr. Ranney than from his written account; but it would be difficult to convey them to you; and, as he whom they concern was accustomed to say of similar things, ‘you will learn it all in heaven.’

“During the last hour of your sainted brother’s life, Mr. Ranney bent over him, and held his hand, while poor Panapah stood at a little distance weeping bitterly. The table had been spread in the cuddy, as usual, and the officers did not know what was passing in the cabin, till summoned to dinner. Then they gathered about the door, and watched the closing scene with solemn reverence. Now—thanks to a merciful God!—his pains had left him; not a momentary spasm disturbed his placid face, nor did the contraction of a muscle denote the least degree of suffering; the agony of death was passed, and his wearied spirit was turning to its rest in the bosom of the Saviour. From time to time he pressed the hand in which his own was resting, his clasp losing in force at each successive pressure; while his shortened breath—though there was no struggle, no gasping, as if it came and went with difficulty—gradually grew softer and fainter, until it died upon the air—and he was gone. Mr. Ranney closed the eyes, and composed the passive limbs; the ship’s officers stole softly from the door, and the neglected meal was left upon the board untasted.

Of these days, Mr. Ranney thus wrote to the Corresponding Secretary:

Back to Index Next