Edward Judson · 41 of 47

Chapter XII. Last Years. 1846-1850 · Part 4

538“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 it 539has 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. I 540am 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, for there 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 feel so 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 go to-day—if it should be the will of God, this very hour; but I am not anxious to 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 says criminal. 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 pleasanter 541than 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.

542Of these days, Mr. Ranney thus wrote to the Corresponding Secretary:

“Dr. Judson was carried on board the French barque Aristide 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 steamer Proserpine, 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.

543“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, or 544even 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’clock P.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. I 545do 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 seldom 546spoke, 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.

The record of these last days may be fittingly closed, by a poem written by Mrs. Judson after her husband’s departure from Maulmain:

67. About twenty-five dollars.

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.”

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.”