“Dr. Judson was carried on board the French barqueAristide Marie, bound for the Isle of Bourbon, with the reluctant assent of his friends, his physician having recommended such a voyage as the only possible means of restoration. It being desirable to get to sea as soon as practicable, application was made to the commissioner of the provinces, to permit the barque to be towed out of the river by the steamerProserpine, which was that morning to proceed southward with troops. Permission was granted, and on Wednesday, April 3, by the kindness of Captain Lawford, commandant of artillery, a palanquin and bearers took Dr. Judson, then too weak to stand, and carried him on board. There they learned, with surprise and sorrow, that the steamer would not take them in tow. The commander of the troops claimed that, while employed as a military transport, the vessel was not subject to the commissioner’s order, and on the ground that it might endanger the lives of the soldiers, declined to comply with it. The consequence of this collision of authorities was, that, instead of getting to sea in twenty-four hours, they were five days in reaching Amherst, and it was six days before the pilot left the vessel. How much was thus lost it is impossible to conjecture.“The delay permitted Mrs. Judson (who would gladly have accompanied her husband, though at the hazard of her life, if he had consented), and Mr. Stilson, and Mr. and Mrs. Stevens to visit him repeatedly, and minister to his comfort. He bore the fatigue of embarkation very well, and on Thursday took more refreshment than for several days previous. This gave hope of a favorable change; but on Friday he was not as well, and his two Burmese assistants, Ko En and Ko Shway Doke, disciples of many years’ standing, who remained on board till the pilot left the vessel, requested that he might be taken back to Maulmain. They were confident he was near his end, and could not endure the thought of his burial in the ocean; they wanted his grave to be made where they and the other disciples could look upon it.[70]But any attempt to do this would have proved fatal, and there was no choice but to fulfil their original purpose, Mr. Stilson reminding the affectionate disciples of the death and unknown burial-place of Moses.“On Saturday he was perceptibly weaker. Such was his pain that he said he would willingly die if he could. On Sunday, being more calm and free from pain, he conversed freely and more at length than he had been able to do, describing somewhat minutely the causes of his pain. He said that no one could conceive the intensity of his sufferings. Death would have been a glad relief. The idea of death caused no peculiar emotion of either fear or transport. His mind was so affected by suffering that he could not think, oreven pray. Nay, he could not think of his wife and family. He had bitter sorrow in parting with them at first; but in Mrs. Judson’s subsequent visit, speech had been almost denied him; and when they parted the day before, perhaps the last time on earth, it was without a word, and almost without a thought, so entirely had pain absorbed every faculty. Yet he felt he had nothing to complain of. He knew it was the will of God, and therefore right. Alluding to the swelling of his feet, he said: ‘The natives are frightened when they see this. They regard it as a sure sign of approaching death; but I do not. I have talked with the doctor about this, and have myself remarked, at different times, the swelling and subsiding. I still feel that there is so much of life in me that I shall recover.’“On Monday, the 6th, at half-past three o’clockP.M., the pilot, with the two assistants above named, and Moung Shway-moung, of the Amherst church, left the ship. At the request of Dr. Judson, Mr. Ranney wrote to Mrs. Judson his opinion of himself, that ‘he went out to sea with a strong feeling that he should recover.’ But on the same day the violence of his pains returned, and his left side was swollen much, from which he gained partial relief. On Tuesday morning, the Tenasserim coast being yet visible, they enjoyed a fresh and invigorating breeze; but a violent thunder-storm came on, followed by a calm. For a short time Dr. Judson suffered less pain; but a hiccough increased upon him. He said, ‘This hiccough is killing me; can you think of anything to do for it?’ He afterward slept considerably, and took some slight refreshment; but in the afternoon a new symptom appeared, which continued to the last—frequent vomiting and an inability to retain anything upon his stomach.“During the night and the next day the weather was exceedingly hot. Dr. Judson refused all nourishment, and inclined to sleep, probably on account of the laudanum and ether administered. He said he should weary them but little longer. The captain gave several prescriptions without effect; on which he said, ‘It is of but little consequence. Ido not wish any one to think I died because all was not done that could be done for me. Medicine is of no use. The disease will take its course.’ While suffering the acute pain which invariably preceded vomiting, he said, ‘O that I could die at once, and go immediately into Paradise, where there is no pain.’“On the evening of Wednesday, as Mr. Ranney was sitting by his bedside, he said, ‘I am glad you are here. I do not feel so abandoned. You are my only kindred now—the only one on board who loves Christ, I mean; and it is a great comfort to have one near me who loves Christ.’ ‘I hope,’ said Mr. Ranney, ‘you feel that Christ is now near, sustaining you.’ ‘O, yes,’ he replied, ‘it is all right there. I believe He gives me just so much pain and suffering as is necessary to fit me to die—to make me submissive to His will.’ The captain—who spoke but little English, but took unwearied pains to make himself understood by a frequent resort to a French and English dictionary, and was a pattern of kindness and benevolence—offered another prescription; but Dr. Judson thanked him, and declined. He spoke of the invigorating influence of the wind, and expressed a fear that they would lose it during the night; which proved true. After midnight there was a dead calm, and a very oppressive atmosphere. At two o’clock his breathing became very difficult; but afterward he breathed more freely.“On Thursday morning his eyes had a dull appearance, remained half-closed while sleeping, and seemed glassy and death-like. His stomach rejected all refreshment. At ten and twelve o’clock he took some ether, which he said did him good. After vomiting, with the suffering which preceded it, he said, ‘O, how few there are who suffer such great torment—who die so hard!’ During all the night his sufferings increased, so that it was inexpressibly painful to behold his agony—sometimes calling for water, which gave relief only while he was drinking it, to be followed by the pain of ejecting it. At midnight he said his fever had returned. His extremities were cold, his head hot. It was the fever of death. His weakness was such that he now seldomspoke, except to indicate some want, which he more frequently did by signs.“During the forenoon of Friday, the 12th, his countenance was that of a dying man. About noon he showed some aberration of mind; but it was only transient. At three o’clock he said, in Burman, to Panapah, a native servant, ‘It is done; I am going.’ Shortly after, he made a sign with his hand downward, which was not understood; drawing Mr. Ranney’s ear close to his mouth, he said, convulsively, ‘Brother Ranney, will you bury me? bury me?—quick! quick!’ These words were prompted, perhaps, by the thought of burial in the sea crossing his mind. Mr. Ranney here being called out for a moment, Dr. Judson spoke to the servant in English, and also in Burman, of Mrs. Judson, bidding him ‘take care of poor mistress’; and at fifteen minutes past four o’clock he breathed his last. ‘His death,’ says Mr. Ranney, ‘was like falling asleep. Not the movement of a muscle was perceptible, and the moment of the going out of life was indicated only by his ceasing to breathe. A gentle pressure of the hand, growing more and more feeble as life waned, showed the peacefulness of the spirit about to take its homeward flight.’“It was first determined to keep the body until Saturday for burial; but Mr. Ranney was admonished of the necessity of immediate preparations. A strong plank coffin was soon constructed; several buckets of sand were poured in to make it sink; and at eight o’clock in the evening the crew assembled, the larboard port was opened, and in perfect silence, broken only by the voice of the captain, all that was mortal of Dr. Judson was committed to the deep, in latitude thirteen degrees north, longitude ninety-three degrees east, nine days after their embarkation from Maulmain, and scarcely three days out of sight of the mountains of Burmah.”
“Dr. Judson was carried on board the French barqueAristide Marie, bound for the Isle of Bourbon, with the reluctant assent of his friends, his physician having recommended such a voyage as the only possible means of restoration. It being desirable to get to sea as soon as practicable, application was made to the commissioner of the provinces, to permit the barque to be towed out of the river by the steamerProserpine, which was that morning to proceed southward with troops. Permission was granted, and on Wednesday, April 3, by the kindness of Captain Lawford, commandant of artillery, a palanquin and bearers took Dr. Judson, then too weak to stand, and carried him on board. There they learned, with surprise and sorrow, that the steamer would not take them in tow. The commander of the troops claimed that, while employed as a military transport, the vessel was not subject to the commissioner’s order, and on the ground that it might endanger the lives of the soldiers, declined to comply with it. The consequence of this collision of authorities was, that, instead of getting to sea in twenty-four hours, they were five days in reaching Amherst, and it was six days before the pilot left the vessel. How much was thus lost it is impossible to conjecture.
“The delay permitted Mrs. Judson (who would gladly have accompanied her husband, though at the hazard of her life, if he had consented), and Mr. Stilson, and Mr. and Mrs. Stevens to visit him repeatedly, and minister to his comfort. He bore the fatigue of embarkation very well, and on Thursday took more refreshment than for several days previous. This gave hope of a favorable change; but on Friday he was not as well, and his two Burmese assistants, Ko En and Ko Shway Doke, disciples of many years’ standing, who remained on board till the pilot left the vessel, requested that he might be taken back to Maulmain. They were confident he was near his end, and could not endure the thought of his burial in the ocean; they wanted his grave to be made where they and the other disciples could look upon it.[70]But any attempt to do this would have proved fatal, and there was no choice but to fulfil their original purpose, Mr. Stilson reminding the affectionate disciples of the death and unknown burial-place of Moses.
“On Saturday he was perceptibly weaker. Such was his pain that he said he would willingly die if he could. On Sunday, being more calm and free from pain, he conversed freely and more at length than he had been able to do, describing somewhat minutely the causes of his pain. He said that no one could conceive the intensity of his sufferings. Death would have been a glad relief. The idea of death caused no peculiar emotion of either fear or transport. His mind was so affected by suffering that he could not think, oreven pray. Nay, he could not think of his wife and family. He had bitter sorrow in parting with them at first; but in Mrs. Judson’s subsequent visit, speech had been almost denied him; and when they parted the day before, perhaps the last time on earth, it was without a word, and almost without a thought, so entirely had pain absorbed every faculty. Yet he felt he had nothing to complain of. He knew it was the will of God, and therefore right. Alluding to the swelling of his feet, he said: ‘The natives are frightened when they see this. They regard it as a sure sign of approaching death; but I do not. I have talked with the doctor about this, and have myself remarked, at different times, the swelling and subsiding. I still feel that there is so much of life in me that I shall recover.’
“On Monday, the 6th, at half-past three o’clockP.M., the pilot, with the two assistants above named, and Moung Shway-moung, of the Amherst church, left the ship. At the request of Dr. Judson, Mr. Ranney wrote to Mrs. Judson his opinion of himself, that ‘he went out to sea with a strong feeling that he should recover.’ But on the same day the violence of his pains returned, and his left side was swollen much, from which he gained partial relief. On Tuesday morning, the Tenasserim coast being yet visible, they enjoyed a fresh and invigorating breeze; but a violent thunder-storm came on, followed by a calm. For a short time Dr. Judson suffered less pain; but a hiccough increased upon him. He said, ‘This hiccough is killing me; can you think of anything to do for it?’ He afterward slept considerably, and took some slight refreshment; but in the afternoon a new symptom appeared, which continued to the last—frequent vomiting and an inability to retain anything upon his stomach.
“During the night and the next day the weather was exceedingly hot. Dr. Judson refused all nourishment, and inclined to sleep, probably on account of the laudanum and ether administered. He said he should weary them but little longer. The captain gave several prescriptions without effect; on which he said, ‘It is of but little consequence. Ido not wish any one to think I died because all was not done that could be done for me. Medicine is of no use. The disease will take its course.’ While suffering the acute pain which invariably preceded vomiting, he said, ‘O that I could die at once, and go immediately into Paradise, where there is no pain.’
“On the evening of Wednesday, as Mr. Ranney was sitting by his bedside, he said, ‘I am glad you are here. I do not feel so abandoned. You are my only kindred now—the only one on board who loves Christ, I mean; and it is a great comfort to have one near me who loves Christ.’ ‘I hope,’ said Mr. Ranney, ‘you feel that Christ is now near, sustaining you.’ ‘O, yes,’ he replied, ‘it is all right there. I believe He gives me just so much pain and suffering as is necessary to fit me to die—to make me submissive to His will.’ The captain—who spoke but little English, but took unwearied pains to make himself understood by a frequent resort to a French and English dictionary, and was a pattern of kindness and benevolence—offered another prescription; but Dr. Judson thanked him, and declined. He spoke of the invigorating influence of the wind, and expressed a fear that they would lose it during the night; which proved true. After midnight there was a dead calm, and a very oppressive atmosphere. At two o’clock his breathing became very difficult; but afterward he breathed more freely.
“On Thursday morning his eyes had a dull appearance, remained half-closed while sleeping, and seemed glassy and death-like. His stomach rejected all refreshment. At ten and twelve o’clock he took some ether, which he said did him good. After vomiting, with the suffering which preceded it, he said, ‘O, how few there are who suffer such great torment—who die so hard!’ During all the night his sufferings increased, so that it was inexpressibly painful to behold his agony—sometimes calling for water, which gave relief only while he was drinking it, to be followed by the pain of ejecting it. At midnight he said his fever had returned. His extremities were cold, his head hot. It was the fever of death. His weakness was such that he now seldomspoke, except to indicate some want, which he more frequently did by signs.
“During the forenoon of Friday, the 12th, his countenance was that of a dying man. About noon he showed some aberration of mind; but it was only transient. At three o’clock he said, in Burman, to Panapah, a native servant, ‘It is done; I am going.’ Shortly after, he made a sign with his hand downward, which was not understood; drawing Mr. Ranney’s ear close to his mouth, he said, convulsively, ‘Brother Ranney, will you bury me? bury me?—quick! quick!’ These words were prompted, perhaps, by the thought of burial in the sea crossing his mind. Mr. Ranney here being called out for a moment, Dr. Judson spoke to the servant in English, and also in Burman, of Mrs. Judson, bidding him ‘take care of poor mistress’; and at fifteen minutes past four o’clock he breathed his last. ‘His death,’ says Mr. Ranney, ‘was like falling asleep. Not the movement of a muscle was perceptible, and the moment of the going out of life was indicated only by his ceasing to breathe. A gentle pressure of the hand, growing more and more feeble as life waned, showed the peacefulness of the spirit about to take its homeward flight.’
“It was first determined to keep the body until Saturday for burial; but Mr. Ranney was admonished of the necessity of immediate preparations. A strong plank coffin was soon constructed; several buckets of sand were poured in to make it sink; and at eight o’clock in the evening the crew assembled, the larboard port was opened, and in perfect silence, broken only by the voice of the captain, all that was mortal of Dr. Judson was committed to the deep, in latitude thirteen degrees north, longitude ninety-three degrees east, nine days after their embarkation from Maulmain, and scarcely three days out of sight of the mountains of Burmah.”
MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY.From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853.
MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY.From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853.
MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY.From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853.
The record of these last days may be fittingly closed, by a poem written by Mrs. Judson after her husband’s departure from Maulmain:
Sweet Mother.
Sweet Mother.
Sweet Mother.
“The wild south-west monsoon has risen,On broad gray wings of gloom,While here from out my dreary prisonI look as from a tomb—alas!My heart another tomb.“Upon the low thatched roof the rainWith ceaseless patter falls:My choicest treasures bear its stain,Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven’Twereonlyon the walls!“Sweet mother, I am here alone,In sorrow and in pain;The sunshine from my heart has flown,It feels the driving rain—ah, me!The chill, and mould, and rain.“Four laggard months have wheeled their roundSince love upon it smiled,And everything of earth has frownedOn thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend;Thy weary, suffering child.“I’d watched my loved one night and day,Scarce breathing when he slept,And as my hopes were swept away,I’d in his bosom wept.—O God!How had I prayed and wept!“They bore him from me to the shipAs bearers bear the dead;I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,And left him on his bed—alas!It seemed a coffin bed.“Then, mother, little Charlie came,Our beautiful, fair boy,With my own father’s cherished name,—But O, he brought no joy,—my childBrought mourning and no joy.“His little grave I can not see,Though weary months have fledSince pitying lips bent over me,And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!’Tis dreadful to be dead!“I do not mean for one like me,So weary, worn, and weak,—Death’s shadowy paleness seems to beEven now upon my cheek,—his sealOn form, and brow, and cheek.“But for a bright-winged bird like him,To hush his joyous song,And prisoned in a coffin dim,Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boyTo join that grisly throng!“O mother, I can scarcely bearTo think of this to-day:It was so exquisitely fair,That little form of clay,—my heartStill lingers by his clay.And when for one loved far, far moreCome thickly-gathering tears,My star of faith is clouded o’er,I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend,My heavy weight of fears.O but to feel thy fond arms twineAround me once again!It almost seems those lips of thineMight kiss away the pain—might sootheThis dull, cold, heavy pain.“But, gentle mother, through life’s stormsI may not lean on thee;For helpless, cowering little forms,Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!To have no guide but me.“With weary foot and broken wing,With bleeding heart and sore,Thy dove looks backward sorrowingBut seeks the ark no more—thy breastSeeks never, never more.“Sweet mother, for the exile pray,That loftier faith be given;Her broken reeds all swept away,That she may rest in heaven—her soulGrow strong in Christ and heaven.“All fearfully, all tearfully,Alone and sorrowing,My dim eye lifted to the sky—Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ!To Thy dear cross I cling.”
“The wild south-west monsoon has risen,On broad gray wings of gloom,While here from out my dreary prisonI look as from a tomb—alas!My heart another tomb.“Upon the low thatched roof the rainWith ceaseless patter falls:My choicest treasures bear its stain,Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven’Twereonlyon the walls!“Sweet mother, I am here alone,In sorrow and in pain;The sunshine from my heart has flown,It feels the driving rain—ah, me!The chill, and mould, and rain.“Four laggard months have wheeled their roundSince love upon it smiled,And everything of earth has frownedOn thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend;Thy weary, suffering child.“I’d watched my loved one night and day,Scarce breathing when he slept,And as my hopes were swept away,I’d in his bosom wept.—O God!How had I prayed and wept!“They bore him from me to the shipAs bearers bear the dead;I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,And left him on his bed—alas!It seemed a coffin bed.“Then, mother, little Charlie came,Our beautiful, fair boy,With my own father’s cherished name,—But O, he brought no joy,—my childBrought mourning and no joy.“His little grave I can not see,Though weary months have fledSince pitying lips bent over me,And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!’Tis dreadful to be dead!“I do not mean for one like me,So weary, worn, and weak,—Death’s shadowy paleness seems to beEven now upon my cheek,—his sealOn form, and brow, and cheek.“But for a bright-winged bird like him,To hush his joyous song,And prisoned in a coffin dim,Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boyTo join that grisly throng!“O mother, I can scarcely bearTo think of this to-day:It was so exquisitely fair,That little form of clay,—my heartStill lingers by his clay.And when for one loved far, far moreCome thickly-gathering tears,My star of faith is clouded o’er,I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend,My heavy weight of fears.O but to feel thy fond arms twineAround me once again!It almost seems those lips of thineMight kiss away the pain—might sootheThis dull, cold, heavy pain.“But, gentle mother, through life’s stormsI may not lean on thee;For helpless, cowering little forms,Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!To have no guide but me.“With weary foot and broken wing,With bleeding heart and sore,Thy dove looks backward sorrowingBut seeks the ark no more—thy breastSeeks never, never more.“Sweet mother, for the exile pray,That loftier faith be given;Her broken reeds all swept away,That she may rest in heaven—her soulGrow strong in Christ and heaven.“All fearfully, all tearfully,Alone and sorrowing,My dim eye lifted to the sky—Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ!To Thy dear cross I cling.”
“The wild south-west monsoon has risen,On broad gray wings of gloom,While here from out my dreary prisonI look as from a tomb—alas!My heart another tomb.
“The wild south-west monsoon has risen,
On broad gray wings of gloom,
While here from out my dreary prison
I look as from a tomb—alas!
My heart another tomb.
“Upon the low thatched roof the rainWith ceaseless patter falls:My choicest treasures bear its stain,Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven’Twereonlyon the walls!
“Upon the low thatched roof the rain
With ceaseless patter falls:
My choicest treasures bear its stain,
Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven
’Twereonlyon the walls!
“Sweet mother, I am here alone,In sorrow and in pain;The sunshine from my heart has flown,It feels the driving rain—ah, me!The chill, and mould, and rain.
“Sweet mother, I am here alone,
In sorrow and in pain;
The sunshine from my heart has flown,
It feels the driving rain—ah, me!
The chill, and mould, and rain.
“Four laggard months have wheeled their roundSince love upon it smiled,And everything of earth has frownedOn thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend;Thy weary, suffering child.
“Four laggard months have wheeled their round
Since love upon it smiled,
And everything of earth has frowned
On thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend;
Thy weary, suffering child.
“I’d watched my loved one night and day,Scarce breathing when he slept,And as my hopes were swept away,I’d in his bosom wept.—O God!How had I prayed and wept!
“I’d watched my loved one night and day,
Scarce breathing when he slept,
And as my hopes were swept away,
I’d in his bosom wept.—O God!
How had I prayed and wept!
“They bore him from me to the shipAs bearers bear the dead;I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,And left him on his bed—alas!It seemed a coffin bed.
“They bore him from me to the ship
As bearers bear the dead;
I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,
And left him on his bed—alas!
It seemed a coffin bed.
“Then, mother, little Charlie came,Our beautiful, fair boy,With my own father’s cherished name,—But O, he brought no joy,—my childBrought mourning and no joy.
“Then, mother, little Charlie came,
Our beautiful, fair boy,
With my own father’s cherished name,—
But O, he brought no joy,—my child
Brought mourning and no joy.
“His little grave I can not see,Though weary months have fledSince pitying lips bent over me,And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!’Tis dreadful to be dead!
“His little grave I can not see,
Though weary months have fled
Since pitying lips bent over me,
And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!
’Tis dreadful to be dead!
“I do not mean for one like me,So weary, worn, and weak,—Death’s shadowy paleness seems to beEven now upon my cheek,—his sealOn form, and brow, and cheek.
“I do not mean for one like me,
So weary, worn, and weak,—
Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be
Even now upon my cheek,—his seal
On form, and brow, and cheek.
“But for a bright-winged bird like him,To hush his joyous song,And prisoned in a coffin dim,Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boyTo join that grisly throng!
“But for a bright-winged bird like him,
To hush his joyous song,
And prisoned in a coffin dim,
Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boy
To join that grisly throng!
“O mother, I can scarcely bearTo think of this to-day:It was so exquisitely fair,That little form of clay,—my heartStill lingers by his clay.
“O mother, I can scarcely bear
To think of this to-day:
It was so exquisitely fair,
That little form of clay,—my heart
Still lingers by his clay.
And when for one loved far, far moreCome thickly-gathering tears,My star of faith is clouded o’er,I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend,My heavy weight of fears.
And when for one loved far, far more
Come thickly-gathering tears,
My star of faith is clouded o’er,
I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend,
My heavy weight of fears.
O but to feel thy fond arms twineAround me once again!It almost seems those lips of thineMight kiss away the pain—might sootheThis dull, cold, heavy pain.
O but to feel thy fond arms twine
Around me once again!
It almost seems those lips of thine
Might kiss away the pain—might soothe
This dull, cold, heavy pain.
“But, gentle mother, through life’s stormsI may not lean on thee;For helpless, cowering little forms,Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!To have no guide but me.
“But, gentle mother, through life’s storms
I may not lean on thee;
For helpless, cowering little forms,
Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!
To have no guide but me.
“With weary foot and broken wing,With bleeding heart and sore,Thy dove looks backward sorrowingBut seeks the ark no more—thy breastSeeks never, never more.
“With weary foot and broken wing,
With bleeding heart and sore,
Thy dove looks backward sorrowing
But seeks the ark no more—thy breast
Seeks never, never more.
“Sweet mother, for the exile pray,That loftier faith be given;Her broken reeds all swept away,That she may rest in heaven—her soulGrow strong in Christ and heaven.
“Sweet mother, for the exile pray,
That loftier faith be given;
Her broken reeds all swept away,
That she may rest in heaven—her soul
Grow strong in Christ and heaven.
“All fearfully, all tearfully,Alone and sorrowing,My dim eye lifted to the sky—Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ!To Thy dear cross I cling.”
“All fearfully, all tearfully,
Alone and sorrowing,
My dim eye lifted to the sky—
Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ!
To Thy dear cross I cling.”
67. About twenty-five dollars.
67. About twenty-five dollars.
68. Now the wife of the Rev. T. A. T. Hanna, of Plantsville, Conn.
68. Now the wife of the Rev. T. A. T. Hanna, of Plantsville, Conn.
69. “There is nothing outside of inspiration more touchingly and sublimely beautiful; nothing which, in its blending of the gushing tenderness of the man, with the hallowed raptures of the saint, gives a juster conception of the real elements of heaven.”—Dr. Kendrick’s “Life and Letters of Emily C. Judson.”
69. “There is nothing outside of inspiration more touchingly and sublimely beautiful; nothing which, in its blending of the gushing tenderness of the man, with the hallowed raptures of the saint, gives a juster conception of the real elements of heaven.”—Dr. Kendrick’s “Life and Letters of Emily C. Judson.”
70. Mr. Judson’s departure caused the deepest sorrow among the disciples whom he left behind. The following story is told concerning Ko Dwah, one of the deacons in the native church at Maulmain: “This man was devotedly attached to Dr. Judson. Both were taken sick at nearly the same time, so that during their illness they met but once, and the old deacon could not, with the other disciples, accompany the dying pastor to the wharf. As soon as Dr. Judson removed, the house which he occupied, and which had long been condemned by Dr. Morton for its unhealthiness, was removed. Ko Dwah was not aware of the circumstance, though living in the vicinity, until the spot was left bare. He then insisted upon leaving his bed to look upon the ruin. He hobbled on his staff across the road, ascended the chapel steps with great difficulty, and then sitting down, rested his chin on his palms, and burst into a loud, wild sort of lamentation, like the wailing at a funeral. Neither mind nor body ever recovered from the shock, though he lingered on for some time longer.”
70. Mr. Judson’s departure caused the deepest sorrow among the disciples whom he left behind. The following story is told concerning Ko Dwah, one of the deacons in the native church at Maulmain: “This man was devotedly attached to Dr. Judson. Both were taken sick at nearly the same time, so that during their illness they met but once, and the old deacon could not, with the other disciples, accompany the dying pastor to the wharf. As soon as Dr. Judson removed, the house which he occupied, and which had long been condemned by Dr. Morton for its unhealthiness, was removed. Ko Dwah was not aware of the circumstance, though living in the vicinity, until the spot was left bare. He then insisted upon leaving his bed to look upon the ruin. He hobbled on his staff across the road, ascended the chapel steps with great difficulty, and then sitting down, rested his chin on his palms, and burst into a loud, wild sort of lamentation, like the wailing at a funeral. Neither mind nor body ever recovered from the shock, though he lingered on for some time longer.”