Chapter VII (3)

“The advance of the English army toward the capital at this time threw
the whole town into the greatest state of alarm, and convinced the
Government that some speedy measures must be taken to save the golden
city. They had hitherto rejected all the overtures of Sir Archibald
Campbell, imagining, until this late period, that they could in some
way or other drive the English from the country. Mr. Judson and Dr.
Price were daily called to the palace and consulted; in fact, nothing
was done without their approbation. Two English officers, also, who
had lately been brought to Ava as prisoners, were continually
consulted, and their good offices requested in endeavoring to persuade
the British general to make peace on easier terms. It was finally
concluded that Mr. Judson and one of the officers above mentioned
should be sent immediately to the English camp in order to negotiate.
The danger attached to a situation so responsible, under a Government
so fickle as the Burmese, induced your brother to use every means
possible to prevent his being sent. Dr. Price was not only willing,
but desirous of going; this circumstance Mr. Judson represented to the
members of Government, and begged he might not be compelled to go, as
Dr. Price could transact the business equally as well as himself.
After some hesitation and deliberation Dr. Price was appointed to
accompany Dr. Sandford, one of the English officers, on condition that
Mr. Judson would stand security for his return, while the other
English officer, then in irons, should be security for Dr. Sandford.
The king gave them a hundred ticals each to bear their expenses
(twenty-five of which Dr. Sandford generously sent to Mr. Gouger,
still a prisoner at Oung-pen-la), boats, men, and a Burmese officer to
accompany them, though he ventured no farther than the Burman camp.
With the most anxious solicitude the court waited the arrival of the
messengers, but did not in the least relax in their exertions to
fortify the city. Men and beasts were at work night and day, making
new stockades and strengthening old ones, and whatever buildings were
in their way were immediately torn down. Our house, with all that
surrounded it, was levelled to the ground, and our beautiful little
compound turned into a road and a place for the erection of cannon.
All articles of value were conveyed out of town and safely deposited
in some other place.

“At length the boat in which the ambassadors had been sent was seen
approaching, a day earlier than was expected. As it advanced toward
the city, the banks were lined by thousands, anxiously inquiring their
success. But no answer was given; the Government must first hear the
news. The palace gates were crowded, the officers at the lut-d’hau
were seated, when Dr. Price made the following communication: ‘The
general and commissioners will make no alteration in their terms,
except the hundred lacks [a lack is a hundred thousand] of rupees may
be paid at four different times; the first twenty-five lacks to be
paid within twelve days, or the army will continue their march.’ In
addition to this, the prisoners were to be given up immediately. The
general had commissioned Dr. Price to demand Mr. Judson, and myself,
and little Maria. This was communicated to the king, who replied:
‘They are not English; they are my people, and shall not go.’ At this
time I had no idea that we should ever be released from Ava. The
Government had learned the value of your brother’s services, having
employed him the last three months; and we both concluded they would
never consent to our departure. The foreigners were again called to a
consultation, to see what could be done. Dr. Price and Mr. Judson told
them plainly that the English would never make peace on any other
terms than those offered, and that it was in vain to go down again
without the money. It was then proposed that a third part of the first
sum demanded should be sent down immediately. Mr. Judson objected, and
still said it would be useless. Some of the members of Government then
intimated that it was probable the teachers were on the side of the
English, and did not try to make them take a smaller sum; and also
threatened, if they did not make the English comply, they and their
families should suffer.

“In this interval, the fears of the Government were considerably
allayed by the offers of a general, by name Layar-thoo-yah, who
desired to make one more attempt to conquer the English, and disperse
them. He assured the king and Government that he could so fortify the
ancient city of Pugan as to make it impregnable, and that he would
there defeat and destroy the English. His offers were heard; he
marched to Pugan with a very considerable force, and made strong the
fortifications. But the English took the city with perfect ease, and
dispersed the Burmese army; while the general fled to Ava, and had the
presumption to appear in the presence of the king and demand new
troops. The king, being enraged that he had ever listened to him for a
moment, in consequence of which the negotiation had been delayed, the
English general provoked, and the troops daily advancing, ordered the
general to be immediately executed. The poor fellow was soon hurled
from the palace, and beat all the way to the court-house, when he was
stripped of his rich apparel, bound with cords, and made to kneel and
bow toward the palace. He was then delivered into the hands of the
executioners, who, by their cruel treatment, put an end to his
existence before they reached the place of execution.

“The king caused it to be reported that this general was executed in
consequence of disobeying his commands ‘_not to fight the English_.’

“Dr. Price was sent off the same night, with part of the prisoners,
and with instructions to persuade the general to take six lacks
instead of twenty-five. He returned in two or three days, with the
appalling intelligence that the English general was very angry,
refused to have any communication with him, and was now within a few
days’ march of the capital. The queen was greatly alarmed, and said
the money should be raised immediately, if the English would only stop
their march. The whole palace was in motion; gold and silver vessels
were melted up; the king and queen superintended the weighing of a
part of it, and were determined, if possible, to save their city. The
silver was ready in the boats by the next evening; but they had so
little confidence in the English, that, after all their alarm, they
concluded to send down six lacks only, with the assurance that, if the
English would stop where they then were, the remainder should be
forthcoming immediately.

“The Government now did not even ask Mr. Judson the question whether
he would go or not; but some of the officers took him by the arm, as
he was walking in the street, and told him he must go immediately on
board the boat, to accompany two Burmese officers, a woon-gyee and
woon-douk, who were going down to make peace. Most of the English
prisoners were sent at the same time. The general and commissioners
would not receive the six lacks, neither would they stop their march;
but promised, if the sum complete reached them before they should
arrive at Ava, they would make peace. The general also commissioned
Mr. Judson to collect the remaining foreigners, of whatever country,
and ask the question, before the Burmese Government, whether they
wished to go or stay. Those who expressed a wish to go should be
delivered up immediately, or peace would not be made.

“Mr. Judson reached Ava at midnight, had all the foreigners called the
next morning, and the question asked. Some of the members of
Government said to him, ‘You will not leave us; you shall become a
great man if you will remain.’ He then secured himself from the odium
of saying that he wished to leave the service of his majesty, by
recurring to the order of Sir Archibald, that whoever wished to leave
Ava should be given up, and that I had expressed a wish to go, so that
he of course must follow. The remaining part of the twenty-five lacks
was soon collected; the prisoners at Oung-pen-la were all released,
and either sent to their houses, or down the river to the English; and
in two days from the time of Mr. Judson’s return, we took an
affectionate leave of the good-natured officer who had so long
entertained us at his house, and who now accompanied us to the
waterside, and we then left forever the banks of Ava.

“It was on a cool, moonlight evening, in the month of March, that with
hearts filled with gratitude to God, and overflowing with joy at our
prospects, we passed down the Irrawaddy, surrounded by six or eight
golden boats, and accompanied by all we had on earth. The thought that
we had still to pass the Burman camp would sometimes occur to damp our
joy, for we feared that some obstacle might there arise to retard our
progress. Nor were we mistaken in our conjectures. We reached the camp
about midnight, where we were detained two hours; the woon-gyee and
high officers insisting that _we_ should wait at the camp, while Dr.
Price, who did not return to Ava with your brother, but remained at
the camp, should go on with the money, and first ascertain whether
peace would be made. The Burmese Government still entertained the idea
that, as soon as the English had received the money and prisoners,
they would continue their march, and yet destroy the capital. We knew
not but that some circumstance might occur to break off the
negotiations. Mr. Judson therefore strenuously insisted that he would
not remain, but go on immediately. The officers were finally prevailed
on to consent, hoping much from Mr. Judson’s assistance in making
peace.

“We now, for the first time for more than a year and a half, felt that
we were free, and no longer subject to the oppressive yoke of the
Burmese. And with what sensations of delight, on the next morning, did
I behold the masts of the steamboat, the sure presage of being within
the bounds of civilized life! As soon as our boat reached the shore,
Brigadier A. and another officer came on board, congratulated us on
our arrival, and invited us on board the steamboat, where I passed the
remainder of the day; while your brother went on to meet the general,
who, with a detachment of the army, had encamped at Yandabo, a few
miles farther down the river. Mr. Judson returned in the evening, with
an invitation from Sir Archibald to come immediately to his quarters,
where I was the next morning introduced, and received with the
greatest kindness by the general, who had a tent pitched for us near
his own, took us to his own table, and treated us with the kindness of
a father, rather than as strangers of another country.

“We feel that our obligations to General Campbell can never be
cancelled. Our final release from Ava, and our recovering all the
property that had there been taken, was owing entirely to his efforts.
His subsequent hospitality, and kind attention to the accommodations
for our passage to Rangoon, have left an impression on our minds which
can never be effaced. We daily received the congratulation of the
British officers, whose conduct toward us formed a striking contrast
to that of the Burmese. I presume to say that no persons on earth were
ever happier than we were during the fortnight we passed at the
English camp. For several days this single idea wholly occupied my
mind—that we were out of the power of the Burmese Government, and once
more under the protection of the English. Our feelings continually
dictated expressions like this: _What shall we render to the Lord for
all His benefits toward us?_

“The treaty of peace was soon concluded, signed by both parties, and a
termination of hostilities publicly declared. We left Yandabo after a
fortnight’s residence, and safely reached the mission-house in Rangoon
after an absence of two years and three months.

“A review of our trip to and adventures in Ava often excites the
inquiry, Why were we permitted to go? What good has been effected? Why
did I not listen to the advice of friends in Bengal, and remain there
till the war was concluded? But all that we can say is, _It is not in
man that walketh to direct his steps_. So far as my going round to
Rangoon, at the time I did, was instrumental in bringing those heavy
afflictions upon us, I can only state that, if I ever acted from a
sense of duty in my life, it was at that time; for my conscience would
not allow me any peace when I thought of sending for your brother to
come to Calcutta, in prospect of the approaching war. Our society at
home have lost no property in consequence of our difficulties; but two
years of precious time have been lost to the mission, unless some
future advantage may be gained in consequence of the severe discipline
to which we ourselves have been subject. We are sometimes induced to
think that the lesson we found so very hard to learn will have a
beneficial effect through our lives, and that the mission may, in the
end, be advanced rather than retarded.

“We should have had no hesitation about remaining in Ava if no part of
the Burmese empire had been ceded to the British. But as it was, we
felt it would be an unnecessary exposure, besides the missionary field
being much more limited in consequence of intoleration. We now
consider our future missionary prospects as bright indeed; and our
only anxiety is to be once more in that situation where our time will
be exclusively devoted to the instruction of the heathen.

“From the date at the commencement of this long letter you see, my
dear brother, that my patience has continued for two months. I have
frequently been induced to throw it aside altogether; but feeling
assured that you and my other friends are expecting something of this
kind, I am induced to send it, with all its imperfections. This
letter, dreadful as are the scenes herein described, gives you but a
faint idea of the awful reality. The anguish, the agony of mind,
resulting from a thousand little circumstances impossible to be
delineated on paper, can be known by those only who have been in
similar situations. Pray for us, my dear brother and sister, that
these heavy afflictions may not be in vain, but may be blessed to our
spiritual good and the advancement of Christ’s cause among the
heathen.”

Should the reader desire still further to explore the secrets of Mr. Judson’s prison-house, he is referred to the book entitled “Personal Narrative of Two Years’ Imprisonment in Burmah,” by Henry Gouger. Mr. G. views the subject, not from the stand-point of a missionary, nor of a minister, nor of an American, but from that of an enterprising English merchant, so that we are indebted to him for a strong cross-light shed upon Mr. Judson’s experiences. The reader’s attention is also directed to a sketch called “The Kathayan Slave,” from the pen of Mrs. E. C. Judson.[32] “I wrote,” says Mrs. J., “under my husband’s eye, and he read and approved it, so that it is perfectly reliable.”

Further information concerning the imprisonment at Ava and Oung-pen-la is afforded by the reminiscences which were gathered by Mrs. E. C. Judson from conversations with Mr. Judson.

“During the first seven months of Mr. Judson’s imprisonment, there was
but little change. The white men all wore three pairs of fetters; but
they were suffered to walk about the prison-yard, as well as they
could with their ankles only a few inches apart, and always followed
by keepers. They were from time to time subjected to almost
innumerable annoyances, vexations, and extortions; and they were
obliged to be the witnesses of wanton cruelties which they could not
prevent, and of intense sufferings which they could not alleviate. For
the most of the time, through Mrs. Judson’s continual exertions, and
by help of occasional presents, they were allowed to spend the day in
the open shed in the yard, and Mrs. Judson was even permitted to build
a little bamboo shelter for her husband, where he could be, some
portion of the time, by himself. Mr. Judson was exceedingly nice in
his personal habits, nice even to a fault; and this herding together,
even if he had been permitted to choose his associates, would have
been exceedingly unpleasant to him. They were not all, belonging as
they did to five different nations, educated in his notions of
cleanliness, and even he was often, from necessity, offensive to
himself. Sometimes he was denied the use of water, and sometimes the
admission of clothing was forbidden; and the act of dressing, with the
ankles made fast by fetters, proved to be no simple art. With all his
efforts, and the care taken by his wife of his wardrobe, he was
sometimes in a very forlorn state. His food was such as Mrs. Judson
could provide. Sometimes it came regularly, and sometimes they went
very hungry. Sometimes, for weeks together, they had no food but rice,
savored with ngapee—a certain preparation of fish, not always
palatable to foreigners. But once, when a term of unusual quiet gave
her time for the softer and more homely class of loving thoughts, Mrs.
Judson made a great effort to surprise her husband with something that
should remind him of home. She planned and labored, until, by the aid
of buffalo beef and plantains, she actually concocted a mince pie.
Unfortunately, as she thought, she could not go in person to the
prison that day; and the dinner was brought by smiling Moung Ing, who
seemed aware that some mystery must be wrapped up in that peculiar
preparation of meat and fruit, though he had never seen the
well-spread boards of Plymouth and Bradford. But the pretty little
artifice only added another pang to a heart whose susceptibilities
were as quick and deep as, in the sight of the world, they were
silent. When his wife had visited him in prison, and borne taunts and
insults with and for him, they could be brave together; when she had
stood up like an enchantress, winning the hearts of high and low,
making savage jailers, and scarcely less savage nobles, weep; or
moved, protected by her own dignity and sublimity of purpose, like a
queen along the streets, his heart had throbbed with proud admiration;
and he was almost able to thank God for the trials which had made a
character so intrinsically noble shine forth with such peculiar
brightness. But in this simple, homelike act, this little unpretending
effusion of a loving heart, there was something so touching, so unlike
the part she had just been acting, and yet so illustrative of what she
really was, that he bowed his head upon his knees, and the tears
flowed down to the chains about his ankles. What a happy man he might
have been had this heavy woe been spared them! And what was coming
next? Finally the scene changed, and there came over him a vision of
the past. He saw again the home of his boyhood. His stern, strangely
revered father, his gentle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister, and
pale young brother were gathered for the noonday meal, and he was once
more among them. And so his fancy revelled there. Finally he lifted
his head. O, the misery that surrounded him! He moved his feet, and
the rattling of the heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the
carefully prepared dinner into the hand of his associate, and as fast
as his fetters would permit, hurried to his own little shed.

“Mr. Judson was not naturally of an even temperament. Hopeful and
earnest he was, beyond most men, and withal very persevering; but at
this period of his life, and up to a much later time, he was subject
to a desponding reaction, from which his faith in God, the ruling
principle of his later years, was not now sufficiently ripe to set him
entirely free. His peculiar mental conformation was eminently active;
so that the passive suffering of his prison discipline was more
galling than to a mind differently constituted. So long as he could
contend with difficulties, he was appalled by nothing; but whatever he
might have been in after-life, he was at this time better fitted to
_do_ than to _endure_. For some time previous to the birth of poor
little Maria, he had been filled with the gloomiest forebodings; and
not without cause. His wife, from the peculiar customs of this land of
semi-civilization, was more alone than she would have been among the
wild Indian women of an American forest; and he could do nothing for
her. When the dreaded crisis was past, and a pale, puny infant of
twenty days was brought to his prison, no person not thoroughly
conversant with the secret springs of feeling which made his the
richest heart that ever beat in human bosom, would be at all able to
appreciate the scene. His first child slept beneath the waters of the
Bay of Bengal, a victim to Anglo-Indian persecution, a baby-martyr,
without the martyr’s conflict; the second, his ‘meek, blue-eyed
Roger,’ had his bed in the jungle graveyard at Rangoon; and here came
the third little wan stranger, to claim the first parental kiss from
the midst of felon chains.

“Mrs. Judson had long previous to this adopted the Burmese style of
dress. Her rich Spanish complexion could never be mistaken for the
tawny hue of the native; and her figure, of full medium height,
appeared much taller and more commanding in a costume usually worn by
women of inferior size. But her friend, the governor’s wife, who
presented her with the dress, had recommended the measure as a
concession which would be sure to conciliate the people, and win them
to a kindlier treatment of her. Behold her, then—her dark curls
carefully straightened, drawn back from her forehead, and a fragrant
cocoa-blossom, drooping like a white plume from the knot upon the
crown; her saffron vest thrown open to display the folds of crimson
beneath; and a rich silken skirt, wrapped closely about her fine
figure, parting at the ankle, and sloping back upon the floor. The
clothing of the feet was not Burman, for the native sandal could not
be worn except upon a bare foot. Behold her standing in the doorway
(for she was never permitted to enter the prison), her little
blue-eyed blossom wailing, as it almost always did, upon her bosom,
and the chained father crawling forth to the meeting!

_N. Rogers Pinx^r_ _Alex Cameron Sc._

_Ann H Judson_

_Ob^t Oct. 24^{th} 1826._
]

“The following verses, of which the writer says, ‘They were composed
in my mind at the time, and afterward written down,’ commemorate this
meeting:

_Lines addressed to an Infant Daughter, twenty days old, in the
condemned Prison at Ava._

“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep,
Hushed on thy mother’s breast;
Let no rude sound of clanking chains
Disturb thy balmy rest.

“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;
Blest that thou canst not know
The pangs that rend thy parents’ hearts,
The keenness of their woe.

“‘Sleep, darling infant, sleep;
May Heaven its blessings shed,
In rich profusion, soft and sweet,
On thine unconscious head!

“‘Why ope thy little eyes?
What would my darling see?
Thy sorrowing mother’s bending form?
Thy father’s agony?

“‘Wouldst view this drear abode,
Where fettered felons lie,
And wonder that thy father here
Should as a felon sigh?

“‘Wouldst mark the dreadful sights,
Which stoutest hearts appal—
The stocks, the cord, the fatal sword,
The torturing iron mall?

“‘No, darling infant, no!
Thou seest them not at all;
Thou only mark’st the rays of light
Which flicker on the wall.

“‘Thine untaught infant eye
Can nothing clearly see;
Sweet scenes of home and prison scenes
Are all alike to thee.

“‘Stretch, then, thy little arms,
And roll thy vacant eye,
Reposing on thy mother’s breast
In soft security.

“‘Why ope thy paly lips?
What would my darling say?
“My dear papa, why leave us thus?
Why thus in prison stay?

“‘“For poor mamma and I
All lonely live at home,
And every day we watch and wait,
And wish papa would come?”

“‘No; all alike to thee
Thy mother’s grief or mirth;
Nor know’st thou one of all the ills
Which mark thy mournful birth.

“‘Thy lips one art alone,
One loving, simple grace,
By nature’s instinct have been taught;
Seek, then, thy nestling-place!

“‘Spread out thy little hand;
Thy mother’s bosom press,
And thus return, in grateful guise,
Her more sincere caress.

“‘Go, darling infant, go;
Thine hour has passed away;
The jailer’s harsh, discordant voice
Forbids thy longer stay.

“‘God grant that we may meet
In happier times than this,
And with thine angel mother dear
Enjoy domestic bliss.

“‘But should the fearful clouds,
Which Burmah’s sky o’erspread,
Conduct the threatened vengeance down
On thy poor father’s head—

“‘Where couldst thou shelter find?
Oh, whither wouldst thou stray?
What hand would guide my darling’s steps
Along their dangerous way?

“‘There is a God on high,
The glorious King of kings;
’Tis He to whom thy mother prays,
Whose love she sits and sings.

“‘That glorious God, so kind,
Has sent His Son to save
Our ruined race from sin and death,
And raise them from the grave.

“‘And to that gracious God
My darling I commend;
Be Thou the helpless orphan’s stay,
Her Father and her Friend.

“‘Inspire her infant heart
The Saviour’s love to know,
And guide her through this dreary world,
This wilderness of woe.

“‘Thou sleep’st again, my lamb,
Nor heed’st nor song nor prayer:
Go, sleeping in thy mother’s arms,
Safe in a mother’s care.

“‘And when, in future years,
Thou know’st thy father’s tongue,
These lines will show thee how he felt,
How o’er his babe he sung.

‘To Maria Eliza Butterworth Judson, born at Ava, January 26, 1825.’”

The following versification of the Lord’s Prayer was composed a few weeks later. It illustrates the nature of the subjects which occupied the thoughts of the missionary during this long-protracted agony. It is comprised in fewer words than the original Greek, and contains only two more than the common translation:

“Our Father God, who art in heaven,
All hallowed be Thy name;
Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done
In earth and heaven the same.

“Give us, this day, our daily bread;
And, as we those forgive
Who sin against us, so may we
Forgiving grace receive.

“Into temptation lead us not;
From evil set us free;
The kingdom, power, and glory, Lord,
Ever belong to Thee.

“Prison, Ava, March, 1825.”

“The foreigners had spent about seven months in prison, when suddenly
a change came. One day a band of men rushed into the prison-yard, and
while some seized the white prisoners, and added two more pairs of
fetters to the three they already wore, others began tearing down Mrs.
Judson’s little bamboo room, snatching up pillows and mattresses, and
whatever other articles came within their reach. At last the
prisoners, after having half the clothing torn from their persons,
were thrust into the common prison, and, with a bamboo between their
legs, again stretched upon the bare floor. Here were more than a
hundred miserable wretches, shut from every breath of air except such
as could find its way between the crevices in the boards, groaning
with various tortures, and rattling their chains, as they groped in
the gray light, and writhed and twisted themselves, as much as was in
their power, from side to side, in the vain endeavor to obtain some
ease by change of position. It was the commencement of the hot season,
and the heat was not lessened by the fevered breaths of that crowd of
sufferers, nor the close air purified by the exhalations which arose
from their bodies. Night came, but brought with it no rest. A whisper
had passed around the prison, whether through malice or accident, that
the foreigners would be led out to execution at three in the morning;
and the effect on the little band was not so much in accordance with
natural temperament as the transforming principle of faith. Bold men
were cowards, and weak men grew strong. At first Mr. Judson felt a
pang of regret that he was to go at last without saying farewell to
his unsuspecting wife and child. But gradually the feeling changed,
and he would not have had it different if he could. She had left him
in comparative comfort that day; she would come the next, and find him
beyond her care. It would be a terrible shock at first; but she would
be spared much anxious suffering, and he could almost fancy that she
would soon learn to rejoice that he was safe in glory. As for herself,
the Burmans had always treated her with some respect; she seemed to
have gained immunity from personal insult, while her intrepidity had
won their admiration; and he did not believe that even the rudest of
them would dare to do her harm. No; fruitful in resources as she had
proved herself, she would get an appointment to carry some message of
peace to the English, and so place herself under their protection. It
would be a blessing to her and to his child if he was removed from
them; and he thanked God that his time was so near at hand. He felt
thankful, too, that the execution was to take place in the morning. He
should pass his own door on the way. There he might breathe his silent
farewell, while she was spared the parting agony. He thought of
Burmah, too, even then. The English would most likely be conquerors;
and then there would be nothing to hinder the propagation of
Christianity. He even recollected—so calm and dispassionate were his
thoughts—some passages in his translation capable of a better
rendering; and then he speculated on the pillow he had lost that day,
weighing the probabilities of its ever falling into his wife’s hands,
so that the manuscript would be recovered. And then he imagined that
she did not find it, and went off into a visionary scene of its being
brought to light years afterward, which he smiled at when he gave a
sketch of these emotions, and did not fully describe. At length the
fatal hour drew nigh. They had no means of ascertaining it precisely,
but they knew that it could not be very far distant. They waited with
increased solemnity. Then they prayed together, Mr. Judson’s voice for
all of them, and then he, and probably each of the others, prayed
separately. And still they waited, in awful expectancy. The hour
passed by—they felt it _must_ be passed—and there was no unusual
movement in the prison. Still they expected and waited, till finally
there woke a glimmering of hope, a possibility that they had been
deceived. And so, hoping, and doubting, and fearing, they lingered on,
till the opening of the door assured them of what they had long
suspected. It was morning. Then the jailer came; and, in answer to
their questions, chucked them mockingly under the chin, and told then,
Oh, no; he could not spare his beloved children yet, just
after—kicking the bamboo as he spoke, till all the chains rattled, and
the five rows of fetters dashed together, pinching sharply the flesh
that they caught between them—just after he had taken so much trouble
to procure them fitting ornaments.

“I ought to have stated before that the keeper, to whose share Mr.
Judson’s old pillow fell on the day they were so unceremoniously
thrust into the inner prison, had afterward exchanged it for a better
one, wondering, no doubt, at the odd taste of the white man. When he
was again robbed of his clothes and bedding, on the day he was driven
away to Oung-pen-la, one of the ruffians deliberately untied the mat
which was used as a cover to the precious pillow, and threw the
apparently worthless roll of hard cotton away. Some hours after, Moung
Ing, stumbling upon this one relic of the vanished prisoners, carried
it to the house as a token; and, several months from that time, the
manuscript which now makes a part of the Burmese Bible was found
within, uninjured.

“They remained at Oung-pen-la six months, when Mr. Judson was, for the
first time, released from his irons, to be employed as translator and
interpreter to the Burmans. From the first, he had been particularly
careful not to take any part in political affairs; for, however the
war might end, he did not wish the Burmans to receive an impression
that he was in the interests of the English. He felt that it would be
wrong to endanger his influence as a religious teacher by taking any
step which would be likely to render him obnoxious even to a conquered
people. But now he had no choice. His own wishes in the matter were
not consulted, any more than they had been when he was first thrown
into prison. He was probably selected for the office because there was
no one who could be better trusted, although it was evident that not
the slightest confidence was reposed in him. He was carried to Ava
under guard, kept in prison two days, and then, without being
permitted to visit his own house but a few moments, was sent to
Maloun. Here he remained about six weeks, when, in consequence of the
advance of the English from Prome, he was hurriedly sent back to Ava.
It was late in the night when he arrived, and he was taken through the
streets directly past his own door. A feeble light glimmered within,
assuring him that it was not altogether deserted; but yet what might
not have occurred in those six weeks! He entreated permission to enter
but for five minutes; he threatened, he bribed, he appealed to their
humanity, for he knew that even they, hard as they seemed, must have
humanity somewhere; but all without success. His conductors, with some
show of feeling, assured him that they had orders to take him directly
to the court-house, and that they dared not disobey. He crouched down
in an outbuilding until morning, when, after a slight examination, he
was placed under guard in an out-of-the-way shed, which served as a
temporary prison. At night of the same day, Moung Ing found him in
this obscure place, where he had been all day without food. While
conversing with the faithful Burman, Mr. Judson once or twice fancied
there was something in his words or manner, or perhaps both, a little
puzzling; but the impression was only momentary, and the very sight of
this messenger from his wife relieved him of a burden of apprehension.
He immediately dispatched Moung Ing to the friendly governor, for aid
in his new difficulties, instructing him carefully as to his words and
behavior, and, in the joy of his heart, bade him tell the
_tsayah-ga-dau_ to keep up courage one day more; it was almost certain
he should be with her on the next. As soon as the messenger was gone,
Mr. Judson’s thoughts immediately recurred to the singularity of his
behavior, scarcely observable at the time, but now assuming much
importance. His wife was doubtless well, though Moung Ing had
certainly not been very explicit when inquired of; she _must_ be well,
for had she not sent several messages, and herself suggested the
application to the governor? The child, too, was well; he had said
that unhesitatingly. Why had he hesitated in the other case? Could it
be, could it really be, that anything serious had befallen her, and
they had concealed it from him? But no; those messages! He remembered,
however (it all came to him too clearly now), how ostentatiously the
good-natured Burman had paraded one of those messages whenever he
asked a question; and yet, think as he would, they all resolved
themselves into two—she longed to see him, and she recommended an
application to the governor. The messenger had certainly behaved
strangely, and he had been strangely blinded. These two simple phrases
had been repeated so often, and in such variety of style, that they
had been made to appear a dozen, and to contain a world of meaning;
and for the time he was fully satisfied. ‘She must be living,’ he
repeated to himself; ‘there is ample proof of that.’ ‘She must _have
been_ living,’ answered a withering doubt within, ‘when she gave the
directions to Moung Ing.’ After that one thought, he had no
disposition to sleep. The tedious night at length dragged itself away;
and, though the governor sent for him as early as could reasonably be
expected in the morning, a strange, vague apprehension seemed to
concentrate whole ages in those few early hours. The kind old man had
become his security with the Government, and set him free. With a step
more fleet than for the last two years he had practiced, and in spite
of the maimed ankles, which sometimes almost refused their office, he
hurried along the street to his beloved home. The door stood
invitingly open, and, without having been seen by any one, he entered.
The first object which met his eye was a fat, half-naked Burman woman,
squatting in the ashes beside a pan of coals, and holding on her knees
a wan baby, so begrimed with dirt that it did not occur to the father
it could be his own. He gave but one hasty look, and hurried to the
next room. Across the foot of the bed, as though she had fallen there,
lay a human object, that, at the first glance, was scarcely more
recognizable than his child. The face was of a ghastly paleness, the
features sharp, and the whole form shrunken almost to the last degree
of emaciation. The glossy black curls had all been shorn from the
finely-shaped head, which was now covered by a close-fitting cotton
cap, of the coarsest and—unlike anything usually coming in contact
with that head—not the cleanest kind. The whole room presented an
appearance of the very extreme of wretchedness, more harrowing to the
feelings than can be told. There lay the devoted wife, who had
followed him so unweariedly from prison to prison, ever alleviating
his distresses, without even common hireling attendance. He knew, by
the very arrangement of the room, and by the expression of sheer
animality on the face of the woman who held his child, that the
Bengalee cook had been her only nurse. The wearied sleeper was
awakened by a breath that came too near her cheek. Perhaps a falling
tear might have been added; for, steady as were those eyes in
difficulties, dauntless in dangers, and stern when conscience frowned,
they were well used to tender tears.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“One evening several persons at our house were repeating anecdotes of
what different men in different ages had regarded as the highest type
of sensuous enjoyment; that is, enjoyment derived from outward
circumstances. ‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Judson; ‘these men were not qualified
to judge. I know of a much higher pleasure than that. What do you
think of floating down the Irrawaddy, on a cool, moonlight evening,
with your wife by your side, and your baby in your arms, free—all
free? But _you_ can not understand it, either; it needs a twenty-one
months’ qualification; and I can never regret my twenty-one months of
misery, when I recall that one delicious thrill. I think I have had a
better appreciation of what heaven may be ever since.’ And so, I have
no doubt, he had.

“The reception of a lady was an incident in the English camp; and Mrs.
Judson’s fame had gone before her. No one better than a true-born
Englishman can discern precisely the measure of attention grateful to
a woman in her situation; and there were innumerable minute touches in
General Campbell’s conduct which fixed her gratitude, and more still
that of her husband on her account. It was not that his son was sent
with the staff officers who came to escort her from the steamer; nor
that unexpected honors, in military guise, waited her on the shore,
where she was received by Sir Archibald in person; nor that her tent
was larger and more commodious than his own, with the very agreeable
addition of a veranda; but it was a certain fatherly kindness and
genuine heart interest, which made her feel as though she was
receiving all these favors from a friend.

“An incident that occurred a few days after the landing of the
prisoners is perhaps worthy of notice. General Campbell was to give a
dinner to the Burmese commissioners, and he chose to make it an affair
of some pomp and magnificence. At a given order, almost as by magic,
the camp was turned into a scene of festivity, with such a profusion
of gold and crimson, and floating banners, as is thought most pleasing
to an Oriental eye. When the dinner hour arrived, the company marched
in couples, to the music of the band, toward the table, led by the
general, who walked alone. As they came opposite the tent with the
veranda before it, suddenly the music ceased, the whole procession
stood still, and while the wondering Burmans turned their eager eyes
in every direction, doubtful as to what would be the next act in the
little drama, so curious to them as strangers, the general entered the
tent. In a moment he reappeared with a lady on his arm—no stranger to
the conscious commissioners—whom he led to the table, and seated at
his own right hand. The abashed commissioners slid into their seats
shrinkingly, where they sat as though transfixed by a mixture of
astonishment and fear. ‘I fancy these gentlemen must be old
acquaintances of yours, Mrs. Judson,’ General Campbell remarked,
amused by what he began to suspect, though he did not fully understand
it; ‘and, judging from their appearance, you must have treated them
very ill.’ Mrs. Judson smiled. The Burmans could not understand the
remark, but they evidently considered themselves the subject of it,
and their faces were blank with consternation.

“‘What is the matter with yonder owner of the pointed beard?’ pursued
Sir Archibald; ‘he seems to be seized with an ague fit.’

“‘I do not know,’ answered Mrs. Judson, fixing her eyes on the
trembler, with perhaps a mischievous enjoyment of his anxiety, ‘unless
his memory may be too busy. He is an old acquaintance of mine, and may
probably infer danger to himself from seeing me under your
protection.’

“She then proceeded to relate how, when her husband was suffering from
fever in the stifled air of the inner prison, with five pairs of
fetters about his ankles, she had walked several miles to this man’s
house to ask a favor. She had left home early in the morning; but was
kept waiting so long that it was noonday before she proffered her
request, and received a rough refusal. She was turning sorrowfully
away, when his attention was attracted by the silk umbrella she
carried in her hand, and he instantly seized upon it. It was in vain
that she represented the danger of her walking home without it; told
him she had brought no money, and could not buy anything to shelter
her from the sun; and begged that, if he took that, he would at least
furnish her with a paper one, to protect her from the scorching heat.
He laughed, and, turning the very suffering that had wasted her into a
jest, told her it was only stout people who were in danger of a
sunstroke—the sun could not find such as she; and so turned her from
the door.

“Expressions of indignation burst from the lips of the listening
officers; and, try to restrain them as they would, indignant glances
did somewhat detract from that high tone of courtesy which it is an
Englishman’s, and especially an English officer’s, pride, to preserve
in all matters of hospitality. The poor Burman, conscience-taught,
seemed to understand everything that was passing, and his features
were distorted with fear; while his face, from which the perspiration
oozed painfully, appeared, through his tawny skin, of a deathly
paleness. It was not in a woman’s heart to do other than pity him; and
Mrs. Judson remarked softly, in Burmese, that he had nothing to fear,
and then repeated the remark to Sir Archibald. The conversation
immediately became general, and every means was taken to reassure the
timorous guests, but with little success. There sat the lady, whom all
but one of them had personally treated with indignity, at the right
hand of power, and her husband, just released from his chains, close
beyond; and they doubtless felt conscious that if they and their lady
wives were in such a position they would ask the heads of their
enemies, and the request would be granted.

“‘I never thought I was over and above vindictive,’ remarked Mr.
Judson, when he told the story; ‘but really it was one of the richest
scenes I ever beheld.’

“A British officer, Major Calder Campbell, describing ‘an adventure in
Ava’ in the year 1826, gives a beautiful and affecting description of
Mrs. Judson. Major Campbell, then a lieutenant, when descending the
Irrawaddy River in a canoe manned by Burmans, was attacked in the
night, while asleep, by his faithless boatmen, and severely wounded
and robbed. When waiting on the beach with much anxiety and distress
for the passage of some friendly bark, a row-boat was seen
approaching.

“Signals of distress were made, and a skiff sent to his assistance.
The following is the language of the writer:

“‘We were taken on board. My eyes first rested on the thin, attenuated
form of a lady—a white lady! the first white woman I had seen for more
than a year! She was standing on the little deck of the row-boat,
leaning on the arm of a sickly-looking gentleman with an intellectual
cast of countenance, in whom I at once recognized the husband or the
brother.

“‘His dress and bearing pointed him out as a missionary. I have said
that I had not beheld a white female for many months; and now the
soothing accents of female words fell upon my ears like a household
hymn of my youth.

“‘My wound was tenderly dressed, my head bound up, and I was laid upon
a sofa bed. With what a thankful heart did I breathe forth a blessing
on these kind Samaritans! With what delight did I drink in the mild,
gentle sounds of that sweet woman’s voice, as she pressed me to
recruit my strength with some of that beverage “which cheers but not
inebriates!” She was seated in a large sort of swinging chair, of
American construction, in which her slight, emaciated, but graceful
form appeared almost ethereal. Yet, with much of heaven, there were
still the breathings of earthly feeling about her, for at her feet
rested a babe, a little, wan baby, on which her eyes often turned with
all a mother’s love; and gazing frequently upon her delicate features,
with a fond yet fearful glance, was that meek missionary, her husband.
Her face was pale, very pale, with that expression of deep and serious
thought which speaks of the strong and vigorous mind within the frail
and perishing body; her brown hair was braided over a placid and holy
brow; but her hands—those small, lily hands—were quite beautiful;
beautiful they were, and very wan; for ah, they told of disease—of
death—death in all its transparent grace—when the sickly blood shines
through the clear skin, even as the bright poison lights up the
Venetian glass which it is about to shatter. That lady was Mrs.
Judson, whose long captivity and severe hardships amongst the Burmese
have since been detailed in her published journals.

“‘I remained two days with them; two delightful days they were to me.
Mrs. Judson’s powers of conversation were of the first order, and the
many affecting anecdotes that she gave us of their long and cruel
bondage, their struggles in the cause of religion, and their
adventures during a long residence at the court of Ava, gained a
heightened interest from the beautiful, energetic simplicity of her
language, as well as from the certainty I felt that so fragile a
flower as she in very truth was, had but a brief season to linger on
earth.

“’Why is it that we grieve to think of the approaching death of the
young, the virtuous, the ready? Alas! it is the selfishness of human
nature that would keep to itself the purest and sweetest gifts of
Heaven, to encounter the blasts and the blights of a world where we
_see_ them, rather than that they should be transplanted to a happier
region, _where we see them not_.

“‘When I left the kind Judsons, I did so with regret. When I looked my
last on her mild, worn countenance, as she issued some instructions to
my new set of boatmen, I felt my eyes fill with prophetic tears. They
were not perceived. We parted, and we never met again; nor is it
likely that the wounded subaltern was ever again thought of by those
who had succored him. Mrs. Judson and her child died soon after the
cessation of hostilities.’”

-----

Footnote 28:

Gouger’s “Narrative of Imprisonment in Burmah.”

Footnote 29:

Mr. Gouger, a fellow-prisoner with Mr. Judson, thus describes this
pathetic meeting: “It so happened, that at the moment of their
interview outside the wicket-door, I had to hobble to the spot to
receive my daily bundle of provisions, and the heart-rending scene
which I there beheld was one that it is impossible to forget. Poor
Judson was fastidiously neat and cleanly in his person and apparel,
just the man to depict the metamorphosis he had undergone in these
two wretched days in its strongest contrast. When Mrs. Judson had
parted from him he was in the enjoyment of these personal comforts,
whereas now none but an artist could describe his appearance. Two
nights of restless torture of body and anxiety of mind had imparted
to his countenance a haggard and death-like expression, while it
would be hardly decent to advert in more than general terms to his
begrimed and impure exterior. No wonder his wretched wife, shocked
at the change, hid her face in her hands, overwhelmed with grief,
hardly daring to trust herself to look upon him. Perhaps the part I
myself sustained in the picture may have helped to rivet it on my
memory, for though more than thirty-five years have since passed
away, it reverts to me with all the freshness of a scene of
yesterday.”

Footnote 30:

Maria Elizabeth Butterworth Judson, who was born in Ava, January 26,
1825.

Footnote 31: