CHAPTER II.

CONCLUSION.

* * * * "Last scene of all To close this sad, eventful history."

Scarcely four years ago,--in sickness and loneliness, and sad suspense,--in her Burman home, from which had departed (alas, forever!) its light and head--Emily C. Judson penned the foregoing beautiful letter. Read again its closing sentence,[11] and note how short a time she has "waited in faith and patience;" how _soon_ she has been "summoned home." For _her_, it would be wrong for us to mourn. She has rejoined that circle, which she loved so well on earth, in a land where

"Sickness and sorrow, pain and death Are felt and _feared_ no more."

But to her aged parents--to the little flock to whom she was as the tenderest mother--to the literary world, which enjoyed the ripe fruits of her genius--to the Christian world, of which she was a shining ornament and glory, her loss is irreparable. In her own inimitable words, we may exclaim:

"Weep, ye bereaved! a dearer head Ne'er left the pillowing breast; The good, the pure, the lovely fled, When mingling with the shadowy dead She meekly went to rest.

"Angels, rejoice! another string Has caught the strains above, Rejoice, rejoice! a new-fledged wing Around the throne is hovering, In sweet, glad, wondering love."

But though one of the sweet fountains that well up here and there in our desert world, and surround themselves with greenness, and beauty, and life, has been exhaled to heaven, still it is refreshing to know that its streams, which made glad so many hearts, have not perished, for they were of "living water, springing up" into immortality. The writer is lost to us; her writings remain. By them "she being dead yet speaketh,"

and through them, whensoever we will, she may talk with us.

Mrs. Judson's final malady was consumption, but for several years her health had been feeble. One who saw her just before she left America says: "Looking upon her, we saw at once that it was a spirit which had already outworn its frame--a slight, pale, delicate, and transparent creature, every thought and feeling shining through, and every word and movement tremulous with fragility. * * * We said farewell with no thought that she would ever return."

From her voyage across the ocean she suffered less than was apprehended, and for a time she found the climate of India rather congenial than otherwise to her const.i.tution. Her short residence at Rangoon, whither her husband removed with his family soon after reaching Burmah, was indeed a period of great suffering, and would have given a shock to a much hardier const.i.tution. Her narrative of their sufferings there, contained in the life of her husband, by Dr. Wayland, excites our wonder that she survived them. But after their removal to Maulmain, she was restored to comparative health.

A letter from her husband, written in the latter part of 1848, when her little Emily Frances, her "bird," was one year old, gives a glowing picture of their happiness and their labors. He playfully says: "Even 'the young romance writer' had made a little book, (Scripture questions,) and she manages to conduct a Bible cla.s.s, and native female prayer-meetings, so that I hope she will yet come to some good."

But a letter written to Miss Anable, Philadelphia, in the spring of 1849, is in a different strain: "A dark cloud is gathering round me. A crushing weight is upon me. I cannot resist the dreadful conviction that dear Emily is in a settled and rapid decline." After speaking of the many means he had unsuccessfully employed for her restoration, he says "The symptoms are such that I have scarcely any hope left. * * * If a change to any place promised the least relief, I would go anywhere.

But we are here in the healthiest part of India, in the dry, warm season, and she suffers so much at sea that a voyage could hardly be recommended for itself. My only hope is, the doctor declares her lungs are not seriously affected. * * * When 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. * * * Though she feels that in her circ.u.mstances, prolonged life is exceedingly desirable, she is quite willing to leave all at the Savior's call.

Praise be to G.o.d for his love to her." Some days later he adds: "Emily is better. * * * But though the deadly-pressure is removed from my heart, I do not venture to indulge any sanguine hopes after what I have seen. * * * Do remember us in your prayers."

The doctor's predictions proved correct; Mrs. Judson partially recovered from this attack, although in August her husband writes: "Emily's health is very delicate--her hold on life very precarious."

Alas! his own hold on life was more precarious still. In the following spring, the heart that had beat for her so fondly and truly was consigned to its "unquiet sepulchre;" "the blue waves which visit every coast" his only and "fitting monument;" while the object of his tender solicitude was compelled to endure four months the agony of suspense as to _his_ fate, terminated by the sad certainty of his death.[12]

After the death of her husband, Mrs. Judson expressed a strong desire to remain in Burmah and devote herself to the cause which was so dear to her husband's and her own heart. But her health, always delicate, was so unfavorably affected by that climate that her physicians were of opinion another rainy season would terminate her life. A numerous family of children, several of whom were in this country, needed her maternal care and guidance; and for their sakes, as well as for her own, she left Burmah in the winter following her husband's death, and arrived in this country in October, 1851, after an absence of five years and three months. She found in the beautiful village of Hamilton a sequestered and lovely home for herself and her family, which consisted of her aged parents, the five children of Sarah B. Judson, and her own "bird," Emily Frances. The cares of her family, and literary labors, here divided her time until the prostration of her health by her last sickness, since which period she has "set her house in order,"[13] and calmly awaited the summons of death. Peacefully and sweetly did the summons come, and on the first of June she fell asleep in Jesus. With a sister poet she might have said--

"I'm pa.s.sing through the eternal gates, Ere June's sweet roses blow."

She had often spoken of this rich and glorious month as her "time to die," and repeated Bryant's hymn,--

"'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The s.e.xton's hand my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break."

Nature had no more ardent lover than she; and it is pleasant to think that her dust is returning to dust in a lovely village church-yard, under the "pure air of heaven, and amid the luxuriance of flowers."

Pleasant also is it to read that a vast concourse of sincere admirers and loving friends, and among them all her children, eagerly testified their respect to her, by attending her remains to their burial. To her glorified spirit such manifestations may indeed be of little moment. Yet even her glorified spirit may feel a new thrill of pleasure in beholding, from its serene sphere, the love that prompted them, and sought in the choice of her last resting-place to give even to the unconscious dead one more proof of affection.

In so imperfect a sketch as ours, a delineation of the character of Mrs.

Judson will not be attempted. We would not, if we could, antic.i.p.ate her memoir, which, it is said, will soon be published. From doc.u.ments open to the public, we shall merely glean such notices of her life and character as shall induce in our readers a desire to know those details of her personal history which will doubtless be found in her biography.

From what we can learn, we infer that the prominent traits in her character were strong affections, energy, and disinterestedness. Of a slight and delicate frame and const.i.tution, and a sensibility almost amounting to sensitiveness, she at an early age engaged in duties and made sacrifices scarcely expected from the robust and vigorous. And her exertions had for their end mainly to benefit those she loved. Whether she taught in the district school, or in the higher seminary, or wrote Sunday-school books, or contributed to literary periodicals, her affection for her mother, and desire to lighten her burdens, seem to have stimulated her exertions and called forth her powers. In her early religious experience, the same disinterestedness manifested itself; for no sooner did she feel the renewing power of faith in her own heart, than she longed to impart even to the distant heathen the same precious blessing.[14] Unselfish affection is also, we think, a strongly marked trait in her married life. Not long after their arrival in Burmah, Mr.

Judson writes: "Emily loves the children as if they were her own." And again, nearly two years later: "We are a deliciously happy family;" and again, "Emily has taken to my two boys as if they were her own; so that we are a very happy family; not a happier, I am sure, on the broad earth."

Another proof of the same trait, was her loving and sympathetic appreciation of a peculiar trait in her husband, which, had her disposition been less n.o.ble, might have caused her some annoyance. Of this trait Dr. Wayland thus speaks: "There was a feature in Dr. Judson's affection as a husband, which was, I think, peculiar. He was, as it is well known, married three times, and no man was ever more tenderly attached to each of his wives. The present affection, however, seemed in no respect to lessen his affection for those for whom he mourned. He ever spoke of those who had gone before, with undiminished interest. In one of his letters to his daughter, after saying he did not believe there existed on earth so happy a family as his, he soon after adds: 'My tears fall frequently for her who lies in her lone bed at St. Helena.'

It was at his suggestion that Mrs. Emily Judson wrote the life of her predecessor. He frequently refers with delight to the time when he, and all those whom he so much loved, shall meet in Paradise, no more to part, but to spend an eternity together in the presence of Christ. Those that were once loved were loved to the end; but this did not prevent the bestowment of an equal amount of affection on a successor." To quote the words of another, speaking of Mrs. Mary Ware, who, placed in similar circ.u.mstances to Mrs. Judson, showed the same n.o.ble superiority to a common weakness of her s.e.x: "She had no sympathy and little respect for that narrow view which insists that the departed and the living cannot share the same pure love of the same true heart. With regard to a former wife--'she was the nearest and dearest to him'--she would say, 'how then can I do otherwise than love and cherish her memory?' And _her_ children she received as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first moment like her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction."

Since writing the above, we have seen a poem, ent.i.tled "Love's Last Wish," addressed to her husband, by Mrs. Judson when she thought herself near death, which expresses so beautifully the sentiment we have here attributed to her, that, did our limits permit, we would copy the whole.

We can only give an extract.

"Thou say'st I'm fading day by day, And in thy face I read thy fears; It would be hard to pa.s.s away So soon, and leave thee to thy tears.

I hoped to linger by thy side, Until thy homeward call was given, Then silent to my pillow glide, And wake upon thy breast in heaven.

"I do not ask to be forgot; I've read thy heart in every line, And know that there one sacred spot, Whate'er betide, will still be mine, For death but lays its mystic spell Upon affection's earthliness,-- I know that, though thou lov'st me well, _Thou lov'st thy sainted none the less_.

And when at last we meet above, Where marriage vows are never spoken, _We all shall form one chain of love_, Whose spirit-links can ne'er be broken."

Of Mrs. Judson's happiness in her married and missionary life, we feel bound to say a few words, because the tone of some articles, written since her death, would lead to the impression that, so far from having had any enjoyment as a wife, a mother, and a missionary, she had sacrificed not only all her literary aspirations, but her whole earthly happiness to her desire to benefit the heathen. Thus one widely circulated article speaks of her mission-life as a "slow martyrdom of sacrifices and sorrows;" * * * as "filled with bitterness,"--speaks, too, of the agony wrung out of her heart by suspense in regard to her husband's fate, expressed in that exquisite piece to her mother, (page 334,) as "one hour of the _years she suffered_ in Burmah." That the life of any faithful missionary is one of exile, toil, and privation, we are not disposed to deny. The world knows it too well; and seeing that such toils are uncheered by the acquisition of fame or wealth--the only reward it can appreciate--the world considers the life of the missionary a living death, endured like martyrdom, only for the sake of its crown in the life to come. But not in this light was their life considered by the n.o.ble three whose history we have sketched in this volume, nor by Dr. Judson. The elevated sources of happiness opened even in this world to those who literally obey the command to forsake all for Christ, cast far into the shade all merely selfish enjoyment; while the pure domestic affections, and the bliss resulting from them, are as much the portion of the missionary, as of his favored brethren at home. Who can read the letters of Dr. Judson, in Dr. Wayland's memoir of him, or the exquisite letters of his widow found in this volume, without the conviction that the latter years of her life, privileged as they were with the high companionship of one so gifted and so dear as was her husband, and in the midst of social and domestic duties that brought their own exceeding great reward, were, of all her years, the richest and the happiest!

But her own idea of the comparative happiness of her _two lives_, may be best gathered from her poetry, for it is a characteristic and charm of her verse that it is the pouring forth of her deepest feelings at the moment when they swayed her soul with strongest influence. We extract a few verses from a poem written at Rangoon, during that period of great physical suffering to which we have alluded, but of which Dr. Judson writes: "My sojourn in Rangoon, though tedious and trying in some respects, I regard as one of the greenest spots, one of the brightest oases, in the diversified wilderness of my life. If this world is so happy, what must heaven be?"

TO MY HUSBAND.

"Tis May, but no sweet violet springs In these strange woods and dells; The dear home-lily never swings Her little pearly bells; But search my heart and thou wilt see What wealth of flowers it owes to thee.

The robin's voice is never heard From palm and banyan trees; And strange to me each gorgeous bird, Whose pinion fans the breeze; But love's white wing bends softly here, Love's thrilling music fills my ear.

The pure, the beautiful, the good, Ne'er gather in this place; None but the vicious and the rude, The dark of mind and face; But _all the wealth of thy vast soul_ Is pressed into my br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl.

Here closely nestled by thy side, Thy arm around me thrown, I ask no more. _In mirth and pride_ _I've stood--oh so alone_!

Now, what is all this world to me, Since I have found my world in thee?

Oh if we are so happy here, Amid our toils and pains, With thronging cares and dangers near And marr'd by earthly stains, How great must be the compa.s.s given Our souls, to _bear_ the bliss of heaven!"

As to the sacrifice of her literary taste and reputation, this is so far from the fact, that we may a.s.sert without fear of contradiction, that the world never knew her best excellence as a writer, till it was startled, as it were, by her deathless utterances, wafted by east winds from her Indian home. Her memoir of her predecessor, and her appeals for Burmah, have thrilled thousands of hearts that knew nothing of her "Alderbrook;" and her "Bird," has, perhaps, awakened in many a mother's heart its first deep appreciation of the holy responsibilities of maternity. The Christian world gained much, the literary world lost nothing, when f.a.n.n.y Forester became a missionary.

But her harp is idle now, and its loosened strings will wait long for a hand to tune and draw from them such soul-moving cadences as we have been wont to hear. In purer air she sweeps a n.o.bler lyre; and methinks her song may well be, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord; even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: Page 356.]

[Footnote 12: See her touching allusion to that suspense in the thirteenth and fourteenth verses of her poem, "Sweet Mother," page 336.]