Chapter IX (1)

LIFE IN MAULMAIN.
1827-1831.

Before proceeding directly to consider Mr. Judson’s life in Maulmain, it may be well to describe a peculiar phase of his mental and spiritual experience, which has been termed _Guyonism_. He seemed at one time to be inclined to embrace the mystical tenets of Thomas à Kempis, Fénélon, and Madame Guyon, and it was feared that he was leaning toward those monkish austerities which belong peculiarly to the spirit of the Roman Church. Certainly there are passages here and there in his writings which point in this direction. And yet, often in these extracts it can be discerned with what cautious and stealthy steps he trod the perilous pathway leading toward monastic asceticism. On the occasion of sending a gift of money to his sister in America, he writes:

“But I give it on the express condition that you appropriate part of
it to purchase for yourself the life of Lady Guyon ... and I hope you
will read it diligently, and endeavor to emulate that most excellent
saint so far as she was right.”

Again, he wrote to a fellow-missionary:

“As to the other matter, the land of Beulah lies beyond the valley of
the shadow of death. Many Christians spend all their days in a
continual bustle, doing good. They are too busy to find either the
valley or Beulah. Virtues they have, but are full of the life and
attractions of nature, and unacquainted with the paths of
mortification and death. Let us die as soon as possible, and by
whatever process God shall appoint. And when we are dead to the world,
and nature, and self, we shall begin to live to God.”

Again, to the missionaries at Maulmain he wrote:

“Particularly I would exhort brother Bennett to remember, among other
things, the example of the Abbé de Paris, who, after having tried
various modes of self-denial, in order to subdue his spirit, and gain
the victory over the world, at length selected a crazy man to be the
inmate of his miserable hovel. Now, though I am doubtful about
self-inflicted austerities, I am quite sure that evangelical
self-denial eminently consists in bearing patiently and gratefully all
the inconveniences and pain which God in His providence, brings upon
us, without making the least attempt to remove them, unless
destructive of life or health, or, in one word, capacity for
usefulness.”

The same pietistic vein may be found in the following resolutions, bearing date May 14, 1829:

“1. Observe the seven seasons of secret prayer every day.

“2. ‘Set a watch before my mouth, and keep the door of my lips.’

“3. See the hand of God in all events, and thereby become reconciled
to His dispensations.

“4. Embrace every opportunity of exercising kind feelings, and doing
good to others, especially to the household of faith.

“5. Consult the internal monitor on every occasion, and instantly
comply with his dictates.

“6. Believe in the doctrine of perfect sanctification attainable in
this life.”

It is also true that during this period of his life Mr. Judson withdrew himself from general society. When not directly engaged in missionary work, he spent many of his waking hours alone in a bamboo hermitage, built in the jungle far from humankind among the haunts of tigers. Here in his endeavor to crucify his passionate love of life he had a grave dug, and “would sit by the verge of it and look into it, imagining how each feature and limb would appear, days, months, and years after he had lain there.”

But concerning all these traces of a morbid inclination toward the monastic quietism of the Romish Church, there can be no more just and discriminating judgment than that expressed after his death by the tender and faithful companion of his latest years:

“About _Guyonism_ I only wish the papers were more numerous. There was
no error of heart—scarcely one of judgment in it, but a peculiar
mental organization, driven by suffering on suffering, by such
bereavement as can never be appreciated in a land like this, and
intensity of devotion, to a morbid development. A mind of less
strength or a heart of less truthfulness and sincerity would have been
wrecked, as many a noble one has been.... Strong enthusiasm of
character often drove him into peculiar positions, but his sound
judgment and elevated piety always carried him through triumphantly,
turning often the natural temperament to good account.”

These excesses of self-mortification were the outcome of a transient and superficial mood rather than of his real and underlying character. The slow torture of the twenty-one months at Ava and Oung-pen-la had left behind a residuum of temporary enfeeblement. His strong mental vision was for a time beclouded by the mists which arose from his shattered physical constitution. The loss of wife and child at Amherst trod close upon the sufferings at Ava, and these gloomy views and practices were born during the long ensuing domestic solitude. The deep shadow of this loneliness lies athwart many of his letters.

_To Mrs. Hasseltine._

“THE SOLITARY’S LAMENT.
“‘Together let us sweetly live,
Together let us die,
And hand in hand those crowns receive
That wait us in the sky.’

“Thus Ann and I, for many a year,
Together raised our prayer;
One-half reached Heaven’s propitious ear
One-half was lost in air.

“She found a distant, lonely grave,
Her foreign friends among;
No kindred spirit came to save,
None o’er her death-bed hung.

“Her dying thoughts we fain would know;
But who the tale can tell,
Save only that she met the foe,
And where they met she fell.

“And when I came, and saw her not
In all the place around,
They pointed out a grassy spot,
Where she lay under ground.

“And soon another loved one fled,
And sought her mother’s side;
In vain I stayed her drooping head;
She panted, gasped, and died.

“Thus one in beauty’s bright array,
And one all poor and pale,
Have left alike the realms of day,
And wandered down the vale—

“The vale of death, so dark and drear,
Where all things are forgot;
Where lie they whom I loved so dear;
I call—they answer not.

“O, bitter cup which God has given!
Where can relief be found?
Anon I lift my eyes to heaven.
Anon in tears they’re drowned.

“Yet He who conquered death and hell
Our Friend at last will stand;
And all whom He befriends shall dwell
In Canaan’s happy land—

“Shall joyful meet, no more to part,
No more be forced to sigh.
That death will chill the warmest heart.
And rend the closest tie.

“Such promise throws a rainbow bright
Death’s darkest storm above,
And bids us catch the heaven-born light,
And praise the God of love.

“MY DEAR MOTHER HASSELTINE: I wrote the above lines some time ago, and
intended to add a longer postscript; but find myself pressed for time
at the present moment.

“It is a long time since I had a line from any of your family. I hope
you will not quite forget me, but believe me ever,

Yours most affectionately,
“A. JUDSON.

“_August 17, 1829._”

_To the Bennetts in Rangoon._

“... I never had a _tighter fit_ of low spirits than for about a week
after you had gone. I sometimes went, after dinner, to take a solitary
walk in the veranda, and sing, with my _harmonious_ voice, ‘Heartless
and hopeless, life and love all gone.’ However, I am rallying again,
as the doctors say. But I have not yet got the steam up in the Old
Testament machine. ‘Toil and trouble,’ etc. Heaven must be sweet after
all these things. I have no more to say.... I hope you will pray for
me, for you have not such inveterate habits to struggle with as I have
contracted through a long course of religious sinning. O, my past
years in Rangoon are spectres to haunt my soul; and they seem to laugh
at me as they shake the chains they have riveted on me. I can now do
little more than beg my younger brethren and sisters not to live as I
have done, until the Ethiopian becomes so black that his skin can not
be changed. And yet I have sometimes sweet peace in Jesus, which the
world can neither give nor take away. O, the freeness, the richness of
divine grace, through the blood of the cross!

“Your affectionate, unworthy brother,
“A. JUDSON.”

To the sisters of his wife he wrote as follows:

“MAULMAIN, _October_ 24, 1828.

“MY DEAR SISTERS M. AND A.: You see from the date that it is the
second anniversary of the triumph of death over all my hopes of
earthly bliss. I have this day moved into a small cottage, which I
have built in the woods, away from the haunts of men. It proves a
stormy evening, and the desolation around me accords with the desolate
state of my own mind, where grief for the dear departed combines with
sorrow for present sin, and my tears flow at the same time over the
forsaken grave of my love and over the loathsome sepulchre of my own
heart.”

“_October 24, 1829._

“And now the third anniversary returns, and finds me in the same
cottage, except it has been removed nearer the mission-house, to make
way for a Government building. I live alone. When I wish to be quite
so, Mrs. W. sends me my food; at other times I am within the sound of
a bell that calls me to meals.

“‘Blest who, far from all mankind,
This world’s shadows left behind,
Hears from heaven a gentle strain,
Whispering love, and loves again.’

But O, that strain I have hitherto listened in vain to hear, or rather
have not listened aright, and therefore can not hear.

“Have either of you learned the art of real communion with God, and
can you teach me the first principles? God is to me the Great Unknown.
I believe in Him, but I find Him not.”

And to his own mother and sister:

“I still live alone, and board with some one of the families that
compose the mission. After the Wades left, I boarded with the
Bennetts. After the Bennetts left for Rangoon, I boarded with the
Cutters. After the Cutters left for Ava, I boarded with the Hancocks,
where I now am. I have no family or living creature about me that I
can call my own, except one dog, Fidelia, which belonged to little
Maria, and which I value more on that account. Since the death of her
little mistress, she has ever been with me; but she is now growing
old, and will die before long; and I am sure I shall shed more than
one tear when poor Fidee goes.”

The sadness of this period was also intensified by the slowness of American Christians in sending on reinforcements. He often felt that he had been left out on the skirmish line almost alone. He writes to the Corresponding Secretary:

“I am startled and terrified to find that, by several unexpected
moves, I am left, as it were, alone; there being not another foreigner
in all the country that can preach the Gospel to the perishing
millions, north and south, or feed the infant churches, except,
indeed, Mrs. Bennett, who has begun to take the management of the
female meetings. My prayers to God and my entreaties to my brethren at
home seem to have equal efficacy. Since the last missionaries left
home, I perceive no further signs of life. All seem to have gone to
slumbering and sleeping.”

In acknowledging a gift of fifty dollars from the Rev. Mr. Grow, of Thompson, Connecticut, he wrote:

“The fact is, that we are very weak, and have to complain that
hitherto we have not been well supported from home. It is most
distressing to find, when we are almost worn out, and are sinking, one
after another, into the grave, that many of our brethren in Christ at
home are just as hard and immovable as rocks; just as cold and
repulsive as the mountains of ice in the polar seas. But whatever they
do, we can not sit still and see the dear Burmans, flesh and blood
like ourselves, and like ourselves possessed of immortal souls, that
will shine forever in heaven, or burn forever in hell—we can not see
them go down to perdition without doing our very utmost to save them.
And thanks be to God, our labors are not in vain. We have three lovely
churches, and about two hundred baptized converts, and some are in
glory. A spirit of religious inquiry is extensively spreading
throughout the country, and the signs of the times indicate that the
great renovation of Burmah is drawing near. O, if we had about twenty
more versed in the language, and means to spread schools, and tracts,
and Bibles, to any extent, how happy I should be! But those rocks and
those icy mountains have crushed us down for many years.”

And at the close of an imploring appeal for new men, he says:

“May God forgive all those who desert us in our extremity. May He save
them all. But surely, if any sin will lie with crushing weight on the
trembling, shrinking soul, when grim death draws near; if any sin will
clothe the face of the final Judge with an angry frown, withering up
the last hope of the condemned, in irremediable, everlasting despair,
it is the sin of turning a deaf ear to the plaintive cry of ten
millions of immortal beings, who, by their darkness and misery, cry,
day and night, ‘_Come to our rescue, ye bright sons and daughters of
America_, COME AND SAVE US, FOR WE ARE SINKING INTO HELL.’”

A letter written after his death, by his surviving widow, shows how intense was his longing for the sympathy and co-operation of his brethren at home. “I can not regret that Dr. Judson has gone. I believe it would have broken his heart to see Burmah open, and such a lack of missionary spirit. God spared him the trial, and though it has left me so very desolate, I feel a sort of gladness too, when I think of it. I suppose he sees it there, but he can understand it better.”

After all, it was his intense piety that carried him into these extremes of self-denial. His was a great religious nature, wrestling for Christ-likeness. A small and weak nature always keeps within limit. Soil that is too thin for grain, never produces weeds. From the time that Mr. Judson gave his heart to God at Andover, he was possessed with a consuming zeal to be made holy. On this point, Mrs. E. C. Judson says: “I was first attracted by the freshness, the _originality_, if I may so call it, of his goodness.”... “His religion mingled in his letters generally, and in his conversation—a little silver thread that it is impossible to disentangle.”

He was a man of prayer. His habit was to walk while engaged in private prayer. One who knew him most intimately says that “His best and freest time for meditation and prayer was while walking rapidly in the open air. He, however, attended to the duty in his room, and so well was this peculiarity understood that when the children heard a somewhat heavy, quick, but well-measured tread, up and down the room, they would say, ‘Papa is praying.’”

“His was the life,” one writes, “of what the English would call ‘a good fellow,’ elevated and purified and beautified by religion.” Though he was a most brilliant and genial companion, yet, in his mind, every social relation was a tie by which men might be drawn heavenward. When Sir Archibald Campbell, the hero of the first Burman war, was on the eve of setting sail for his native land, crowned with the laurels of victory, he received from the lips of the humble and faithful ambassador of the cross, whom he had befriended, the following tender and solemn words of Christian admonition:

“MAULMAIN, _January_ 8, 1829.

“MY DEAR SIR: A few days ago I heard of your intention to leave this
place on your return home.

“When I reflect on your many kindnesses to me and my beloved wife,
now, I trust, in heaven, from the time I first saw you at Yebbay to
the present moment, and on the many pleasant interviews with which I
have been honored, it is natural that I should feel a desire to
express my gratitude for your goodness, and my regret at your
departure. But, besides that desire, I have, for a few days, had an
impression on my mind which I can not avoid, and dare not counteract.
I would fain say a few words to you on a subject which you have
probably never had a friend faithful enough to present plainly to your
mind. I feel that I write under the influence of a higher power; and I
beg that if my words offend you, you will still have the charity to
believe that I am influenced by none other than the most
disinterested, affectionate, and respectful sentiments. And though you
should at first be displeased, I can not but hope that you will
sometimes suffer the question to intrude on your most retired moments,
whether the words I speak are not the words of eternal truth.

“But why should I proceed with hesitation and fear? Why give way to an
unbelieving heart? He who inclines me to write will incline your heart
to receive my words. If even a heathen monarch appointed one of his
courtiers to accost him every morning with the warning salutation,
‘Philip, thou must die,’ surely Sir Archibald Campbell, of a Christian
country and Christian habits, will be willing, for a moment, to turn
away his ear from the voice of flattery, and listen to the monitory
voice of sober truth.

“And yet true religion is a very different thing from all that you
have probably been acquainted with. True religion is seldom to be
found among mitred prelates and high dignitaries. It consists not in
attachment to any particular church, nor in the observance of any
particular forms of worship. Nor does it consist in a mere abstinence
from flagrant crimes, a mere conformity to the rules of honesty and
honor. True religion consists in a reunion of the soul to that great,
omnipresent, infinite Being, from whom we have all become alienated in
consequence of the fall. In our natural state, we spend our days in
seeking the wealth and honors of this life, which we yet know to be
but short and transitory, and we become too forgetful of that awful
eternity to which we are rapidly hastening. So great is the blinding
influence of sin, so successful are the fatal machinations of the god
of this world, that when we can not stay the near approach of death
and eternity, we still endeavor to quiet our conscience and pacify our
fears by vague and indefinite ideas of the mercy of God, and by the
hope that it will be well with us hereafter, though the still voice
within whispers that all is wrong; and thus we are apt to suffer year
after year to pass away, while we drink the intoxicating draught of
pleasure, or climb the height of human ambition. O, Sir Archibald, the
glittering colors of this world will soon fade away; the bubbles of
life will soon burst and disappear; the cold grave will soon close
upon our, worldly enjoyments, and honors, and aspirings; and where
then will our souls be?

“God’s own eternal Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, came down from heaven
to rescue us from the delusion of this world, the power of sin, and
the doom of the impenitent. But ‘unless we have the spirit of Christ,
we are none of His.’ His own divine lips have declared, ‘Except a man
be born again, he can not see the kingdom of God.’ And the ambassador
of Christianity must not hesitate to declare this solemn truth,
plainly and fearlessly, to the king and the beggar, the rich and the
poor, if he would clear his own conscience, and manifest true love to
their souls.

“Allow me, then, to say to thee, Sir Archibald: Turn away thine eye
from the fleeting shadows, and thine ear from the empty sounds of
earth. Open the eye of thy mind to the uncreated beauties of that
divine Being who is ever with thee, and ever waiting to be gracious.
Listen to the call of His Holy Spirit. Give thine heart to the Friend
and Lover of man, who hung and died on the cross to redeem us from
eternal woe, and thou shalt find such peace and sweetness as thou hast
never yet conceived of. Thou wilt be astonished that thou couldst have
lived so many years ignorant of such transcendent beauty, insensible
to those excellences which fill heaven with rapture, and in some
instances make a heaven of earth. But if thou wilt not give thy heart
to God, thou wilt never find true happiness here, thou wilt never see
His face in peace.

“I do not suppose that, amid your present hurry, you will find leisure
to pay any attention to the topic I now present. But perhaps when
oceans have intervened between us, when resting in the bosom of your
own native land, the truths of this letter may, through the divine
blessing, find their way to your heart.

“Farewell, Sir Archibald, and while all around you flatter and praise,
while the plaudits of your king and country sound in your ears,
believe that there is one person, humble and unknown, who prays in his
retirement for your immortal soul; whose chief desire is to see you on
the great day invested, not with the insignia of earthly monarchs, but
with the glorious crown of eternal life, and who desires ever to
subscribe himself,

“With heartfelt affection and respect,
“Your sincere friend and faithful servant,
“A. JUDSON.”

In the “Threefold Cord,”[34]—a letter written by Mr. Judson to a young convert,—and in the following “_Pencilled Fragments_” and “_Rules of Life_,” it may be seen with what strong and eager wing-beats of aspiration his soul struggled to mount into the serene atmosphere of a pure and holy life.

PENCILLED FRAGMENTS, WITHOUT DATE.

_Topics to Encourage Prayer._

“Wrestling Jacob.

“Friend at midnight.

“The unjust judge.

“Satan fights neither with small nor great, save only with the spirit of prayer.

“An effort made in aridity, in wandering of thought, under a strong tendency to some other occupation, is more pleasing to God, and helps the soul forward in grace more than a long prayer without temptation.

“Whatever others do, let my life be a life of prayer.

“Get the King’s daughter, and you get all; the grace of devotion is the daughter of God.”

_Points of Self-denial._

“1. The passion for neatness, uniformity, and order in arrangement of things—in dress, in writing, in grounds.

“2. A disposition to suffer annoyance from little improprieties in the behavior and conversation of others.

“3. A desire to appear to advantage, to get honor and avoid shame. ‘_Come shame_, come sorrow,’ etc.

“4. A desire for personal ease and comfort, and a reluctance to suffer inconvenience.

“5. Unwillingness to bear contradiction.”

_Rules of Life._

“Rules adopted on Sunday, April 4, 1819, the era of commencing public ministrations among the Burmans; revised and re-adopted on Saturday, December 9, 1820, and on Wednesday, April 25, 1821:

“1. Be diligent in secret prayer, every morning and evening.

“2. Never spend a moment in mere idleness.

“3. Restrain natural appetites within the bounds of temperance and purity. ‘Keep thyself pure.’

“4. Suppress every emotion of anger and ill will.

“5. Undertake nothing from motives of ambition or love of fame.

“6. Never do that which, at the moment, appears to be displeasing to God.

“7. Seek opportunities of making some sacrifice for the good of others, especially of believers, provided the sacrifice is not inconsistent with some duty.

“8. Endeavor to rejoice in every loss and suffering incurred for Christ’s sake and the Gospel’s, remembering that though, like death, they are not to be wilfully incurred, yet, like death, they are great gain.

“Re-adopted the above rules, particularly _the 4th, on Sunday, August 31, 1823_.

“Re-adopted the above rules, particularly _the 1st, on Sunday, October 29, 1826_, and adopted the following minor rules:

“1. Rise with the sun.

“2. Read a certain portion of Burman every day, Sundays excepted.

“3. Have the Scriptures and some devotional book in constant reading.

“4. Read no book in English that has not a devotional tendency.

“5. Suppress every unclean _thought_ and _look_.

“Revised and re-adopted all the above rules, particularly the second of the first class, on Sunday, March 11, 1827.

“God grant me grace to keep the above rules, and ever live to His glory, for Jesus Christ’s sake.

A. JUDSON.”

“_August 9, 1842._

“1. Be more careful to observe the seasons of secret prayer.

“2. Never indulge resentful feelings toward any person.

“3. Embrace every opportunity of exercising kind feelings, and doing
good to others, especially to the household of faith.

“4. Sweet in temper, face, and word,
To please an ever-present Lord.

“Renewed December 31, 1842.

“_December 31, 1842._ Resolved to make the desire to please Christ the
grand motive of all my actions.”

It may be well to glance at some of the forms of excessive self-mortification which this great religious nature assumed under the stress of sickness, sorrow, and solitude. He was reared in the sound common-sense views of New England. He knew the value of money and the necessity of providing for the future by thrifty habits and close economy. Now all this he felt it his duty to give up. His advice to young men who were coming out as missionaries was, “Never lay up money for yourselves or your families. Trust in God from day to day, and verily you shall be fed.” He was allowed by the Governor-General of India five thousand two hundred rupees,[35] in consideration of his services at the treaty of Yandabo and as a member of the embassy to Ava. Besides this, the presents he received while at Ava amounted to two thousand rupees.[36] All this money he paid into the treasury of the mission. Nor did he regard this as a donation. His view was that whatever a missionary might earn by such necessary and incidental outside work belonged, in the nature of the case, to the Board by which he was employed. But not only did he cheerfully give up these perquisites, but at a single stroke he transferred to the mission all of his private property, the slow accumulation of many years of thrift. He thus wrote to the Corresponding Secretary:

“MAULMAIN, _May_ 31, 1828.

“REV. AND DEAR SIR: When I left America, I brought with me a
considerable sum of money, the avails of my own earnings and the gifts
of my relatives and personal friends. This money has been accumulating
at interest for many years under the management of a kind friend to
the mission, and occasionally receiving accessions from other
quarters, particularly at the close of the late war, until it amounts
to twelve thousand rupees. I now beg leave to present it to the Board,
or rather to Him ‘who loved us and washed us from our sins in His own
blood.’ I am taking measures to have the money paid to the agent of
the Board, and the payment will, I trust, be effected by the end of
this year.

“I would suggest, lest a temporary suspension of the necessity of
remitting money should occasion some relaxation of the usual efforts
made to meet the current expenses of the mission, whether it may not
be advisable to invest a sum equivalent to that which I now pay the
agent, viz., six thousand dollars, as part of a permanent fund. But
this I leave entirely to the discretion of the Board.

“Yours, faithfully,
“A MISSIONARY.

“P. S.—It is not from an affected desire of concealment that the
writer has subscribed himself ‘A Missionary.’ He is sensible that the
tenor of the letter will, to those who are acquainted with the state
of the mission, sufficiently betray him. But this is not the case with
the public in general; and so far as it may be thought desirable not
to throw away the influence of example, it is quite sufficient to tell
the public that the money is given by a missionary, without specifying
the individual.”

And not only so, but he and Mr. Wade proposed to relinquish a twentieth, and conditionally, even a tenth of their respective salaries, and afterward he desired to have his own salary lessened by one-quarter.

_Letters to the Corresponding Secretary._

“MAULMAIN, _September_ 1, 1828.

“REV. AND DEAR SIR: Since it is to be ascribed to the want of money,
rather than to that of men, that the Baptists in the United States of
America make such feeble efforts to send the Gospel through the world,
inasmuch as the want of money prevents the managers of missions from
presenting those invitations and encouragements which would be gladly
embraced by many young men who are waiting the call of Providence, we
feel the importance of recurring practically to the golden rule, _that
every individual do his duty_ in furnishing those means which are
absolutely necessary to carry on the great war with the prince of
darkness and his legions in this fallen world. Feeling, also, that
missionaries and ministers are under peculiar obligations, beyond any
other classes of Christians, _to take the lead in contributing of
their substance_, and encouraged by our Saviour’s commendation of the
poor widow in the Gospel, we have entered on a course of living which
will, we hope, enable us to offer our two mites; and we propose,
therefore, to relinquish annually one-twentieth of the allowance which
we receive from the Board of Missions.

“We respectfully suggest that a similar proposal be made to the
Baptist ministers in the United States; and we engage that, as soon as
it shall appear that one hundred ministers, including ourselves, have
resolved to transmit annually to the treasurer of the American Baptist
Board of Foreign Missions one-twentieth of all their regular income,
whether derived from their salaries or estates, we will relinquish a
second twentieth of our allowance, that is, one-tenth of the whole.

“And lest it be said that we now receive high allowances, and can,
therefore, afford to make some retrenchment, we state, not by way of
ostentation, but merely to meet the remark, that, considering our
allowances cover all our personal expenses except building or house
rent, conveyance on mission business, and charges for medical
attendance, we receive less than any English missionaries of any
denomination, in any part of the East, and as little as any American
missionaries in those parts, notwithstanding the expense of living on
this coast is probably greater than at a majority of other stations.

We remain, yours faithfully,
“A. JUDSON,
“J. WADE.”

“MAULMAIN, _June_ 19, 1829.

“MY DEAR SIR: I propose, from this date, to lessen my usual allowance
by one-quarter, finding, from experience, that my present mode of
living will admit the retrenchment; this arrangement not to interfere
with the proposals made under date of September last, concerning the
one-twentieth and one-tenth.

Yours faithfully,
“A. JUDSON.”

But love of money was not the only worldly appetite which he nailed to the cross. He cut to the quick that passion for fame which was an inborn trait, and which had been inordinately stimulated by his parents during his earliest childhood. His overweening ambition received its first mortal wound, as he often remarked, when he became a Baptist. He declined the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity conferred upon him by the corporation of Brown University in 1823, and in May, 1828, wrote as follows to the editor of the _Missionary Magazine_:

“DEAR SIR: I beg to be allowed the privilege of requesting my
correspondents and friends, through the medium of your magazine, no
longer to apply to my name the title which was conferred on me in the
year 1823 by the corporation of Brown University, and which, with all
deference and respect for that honorable body, I hereby resign.

“Nearly three years elapsed before I was informed of the honor done
me, and two years more have been suffered to pass, partly from the
groundless idea that it was too late to decline the honor, and partly
through fear of doing what might seem to reflect on those who have
taken a different course, or be liable to the charge of affected
singularity, or superstitious preciseness. But I am now convinced that
the commands of Christ and the general spirit of the Gospel are
paramount to all prudential considerations, and I only regret that I
have so long delayed to make this communication.

“Yours, etc., A. JUDSON.”

The difficulty of writing his biography is enhanced by the fact that he destroyed, as far as possible, all his correspondence, including a letter of thanks for his services from the Governor-General of India, and other papers of a similar kind. He seemed determined that his friends should have no material with which to construct eulogiums. He wanted to do his work and then forget all about it, and have every one else also forget it. He was like a bee that flies into the hive with her load of pollen, and depositing it there, flies away again, without looking behind, leaving it for the other bees to pack it away in the cell. How little to the taste of his sister must it have been to receive from her brother, of whom she was so justly proud, such a commission as this:

“MAULMAIN, _May_ 28, 1829.

“MY DEAR SISTER: Yours of October 16th last arrived yesterday. In
regard to the quitclaim, it is impossible for me to ascertain, at this
distance, what particular forms are required by the laws of the United
States. But if you, or brother, or any person will send me such an
instrument as the case requires, I will complete and return it. I am
rather glad, however, that the first did not answer, because I have
now a request to make which I doubt whether you would comply with, if
I did not make your compliance a condition of my returning you the
said instrument. My request is, that you will entirely destroy all my
old letters which are in your and mother’s hands, unless it be three
or four of the later ones, which you may wish to keep as mementoes.
There are several reasons for this measure, which it would take too
much time to detail. Suffice it to say, that I am so very desirous of
effecting a complete destruction of all my old writings, that you must
allow me to say positively (as the only means of bringing you to
terms) that I can not send you the instrument you desire until I have
an assurance, under your hand, that there is nothing remaining, except
as mentioned above.”

Again, Mr. Judson had a very strong relish for literature and linguistic research. One can not fail to observe the poetic gems, original and quoted, scattered through his correspondence. The Burman literature, with its Buddhistic books and its fascinating poetry, was a vast mine unexplored. He was tempted to trace the winding paths which were ever opening before his scholarly mind, and to search this great and ancient treasure-vault. Might he not translate into English some beautiful fragments of this literature, and so enkindle in some of the highly-organized minds of the Western world a greater interest in foreign missions? But no. He turned resolutely away from the alluring prospect. He was determined not to know anything among the Burmans save Jesus Christ and Him crucified. As a missionary he was unwilling to disperse his mental forces over the wide surface of literary and philosophical pursuit, but insisted on moving along the narrow and divinely-appointed groove of unfolding the word of God and meting it out to suit the wants of perishing man.

But perhaps the severest sacrifice of all was the denial of his social instincts. It was not because he was unendowed with social sensibility that he so cut himself off from the State or conventional dinner and from a fashionable intercourse with Sir Archibald Campbell, and other cultivated Englishmen, as to incur the stigma of being called “odd.” He did not withdraw to his hermitage in the jungle because he was a fierce and sullen fanatic. On the contrary, one who knew him most intimately says that “Perhaps his most remarkable characteristic to a superficial observer was the extent and thoroughly genial nature of his sociableness.” Indeed, there was a spice of truth in the remark sneeringly made by a fashionable woman that “Judson abstained from society not from principle, but from cowardice—he was like the drunkard who was afraid to taste lest he should not know when to stop.” “His ready humor,” Mrs. Judson writes, “his aptness at illustration, his free flow of generous, gentlemanly feeling made his conversation peculiarly brilliant and attractive, and such interchanges of thought and feeling were his delight.” “He was not,” she adds, “a born angel, shut without the pale of humanity by his religion.” His was not the stern, unæsthetic nature of the great reformer and theologian who, though he lived his life on the Lake of Geneva, nowhere betrays, in his voluminous writings, that he was at all conscious of the beautiful panorama spread out before him. He was, as has been said of another, “a creature who entered into every one’s feelings, and could take the pressure of their thought instead of urging his own with iron resistance.” He was, in truth,

“... Not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.”

The author, among his own scanty childhood recollections of his father, well remembers the tenderness with which he nursed his sick boy; and a missionary associate says, “He had a peculiarly fascinating way of endearing himself to everybody whose hearts were open to his kindness.” Mrs. E. C. Judson writes:

“He was always planning pleasant little surprises for his family and
neighbors, and kept up through his married life those little
lover-like attentions which I believe husbands are apt to forget.
There was, and always must have been, a kind of _romance_ about him
(you will understand that I use the word italicized for want of a
better) which prevented every-day life with him from ever being
commonplace. If he went out before I was awake in the morning, very
likely some pretty message would be pinned to my mosquito-curtain. If
he was obliged to stay at a business-meeting, or any such place,
longer than he thought I expected (and often when he did not stay over
the time), some little pencilled line that he could trace without
attracting attention, would be dispatched to me. And often when he sat
at his study-table, something droll or tender or encouraging or
suggestive of thought, pencilled on a broken scrap of paper, sometimes
the margin of a newspaper, was every little while finding its way to
my room.... He was always earnest, enthusiastic, sympathizing, even in
the smallest trifles, tender, delicate, and considerate—_never moody_,
as he has sometimes been described, but equally communicative, whether
sad or cheerful.... He was always, even in his playfulness,
intellectual; and the more familiar, the more elevated.”

The little thoughtful attentions which he was continually paying to his fellow-missionaries, betrayed with what heartiness he entered into all their joys and sorrows. His friends, the Bennetts, had sent their children to America. One day Mr. Judson surprised them with a present of the portraits of their absent little ones, for which he had himself sent to this country. His genial appreciation of the kindness of others beams from this little card that found its way into the missionary magazine:

“A. Judson desires to present, through the _American Baptist
Magazine_, his thanks to the many kind friends of himself and the
mission, who have sent him, by the hands of brother and sister Wade,
and their associates, various donations of wearing apparel, books,
stationery, etc. Some of the articles are of great value, and all of
them are very acceptable, being such as he requires for daily use. The
faces of the donors he knows not; but many of their names he has
marked, and the notes and letters accompanying the presents have
repeatedly called forth the tear of gratitude and love. The
acquaintance thus commenced, though not personal, he expects will be
perfected in that world where there is no sea to separate friends, no
barrier to impede the interchange of mutual love. And he rejoices in
the belief that every distant expression and recognition of fraternal
affection here below will form an additional tie, binding heart to
heart, in the world above; that every cup of cold water given to a
disciple will become a perennial stream, flowing on from age to age,
and swelling the heavenly tide of life and gladness.”

He had a remarkable gift for comforting people, and was indeed a son of consolation. A lady to whom he paid a visit of condolence upon the death of her mother wrote to her friend, “He must have been peculiarly sympathetic himself, or he could not have entered into every one’s sorrows so easily.” To this trait in his character the wife who survived him bears eloquent testimony:

“Before Sir Archibald Campbell left the provinces, he took his stand
and never attended a fashionable dinner afterward. He gradually, too,
broke off from intimate association with the missionaries, partly,
perhaps, from a lack of congeniality of thought, partly from his sense
of the worth of time. If any one was in trouble, however, he was sure
to be there, and his power to soothe I have never seen equalled. Every
tone of his voice seemed calculated to touch the innermost chord of a
troubled heart.”

How exquisitely soothing are the words with which he strives to comfort a heart-broken mother, weeping in her room after her husband has gone on board ship with her little girls, about to sail for America.

“Sovereign love appoints the measure
And the number of our pains,
And is pleased when we take pleasure
In the trials He ordains.”

“Infinite love, my dear sister, in the person of the Lord Jesus, is
even now looking down upon you, and will smile if you offer Him your
bleeding, breaking heart. All created excellence and all ardor of
affection proceed from Him. He loves you far more than you love your
children; and He loves them also, when presented in the arms of faith,
far more than you can conceive. Give them up, therefore, to His tender
care. He will, I trust, restore them to you under greater advantages,
and united to Himself; and you, who now sow in tears, shall reap in
joy. And on the bright plains of heaven they shall dwell in your arms
forever, and you shall hear their celestial songs, sweetened and
heightened by your present sacrifices and tears.

“Yours, A. JUDSON.”

Again he writes to the same bereaved lady:

“What a miserable world is this! No sooner does the heart’s pulse
begin to take a little hold, than snap it goes. How many times more
shall I have to sing that melancholy ditty—

“‘Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted!’

Even those poor culprits, Elsina and Mary, do so frequently squeeze
out the tear, that it is painful to think of them. I don’t wonder that
you say your heart is ready to break. I almost wonder how you can
breathe. And I don’t think that Mrs. Wade’s sweet, but cruel letters
have helped the matter at all. But be patient, poor soul! Heaven will
be sweeter for all this, though you may be unwilling to believe it.
And we have every reason to pray and to hope that the dear absent ones
will be with you to all eternity.”

From what has been written on the subject of _Guyonism_, it can easily be seen how near at one period of his life, under the stress of grief and physical enfeeblement, Mr. Judson approached the perilous verge of fanaticism. He, however, soon recovered his mental and spiritual equilibrium, and in the busy whirl of missionary activity, and later in the formation of new social and domestic relations, threw off whatever excesses may temporarily have characterized his views and practices of self-denial. We subjoin a fragment, probably a scrap torn from the close of a letter:

“Leaving one party to prove that the standard of Christian morality is
lowered since the days of the apostles, and another party to assert
and expect the restoration of miraculous powers, let us adopt a middle
course, the golden medium—HOLY AS THE APOSTLES, WITHOUT THEIR
POWER—and then ‘the glory of this latter house shall be greater than
that of the former.’”

Having thus turned aside to study the peculiar phase of spiritual experience through which Mr. Judson passed, that we might catch as through a window a glimpse of the very interior of his character, we now resume the narrative of his incessant toils. We left him by the freshly-made graves of his wife and child at Amherst. Amherst and Maulmain, situated about twenty-five miles apart upon the coast of a newly-settled province, were competing for the honor of being the metropolis of British Burmah.[37] They were both planted in the jungle, dependent for their growth upon the tide of population which kept streaming away from the oppressions of Burman despotism toward the enlightened and liberal English rule that prevailed throughout the Tenasserim provinces. The scale, as has already been stated, was turned in favor of Maulmain, by the fact that Sir Archibald Campbell had chosen it as the headquarters of his army. It consequently grew into a large city with marvellous rapidity, while Amherst dwindled into insignificance.

The missionaries at first thought it best to have two stations, one at Amherst and the other at Maulmain—the Wades to hold the ground in the former place, and the Boardmans in the latter, while Mr. Judson should move backward and forward between the two points. But they soon decided not to attempt to keep their hold on Amherst, but to concentrate all their forces in Maulmain. This town was situated at the mouth of the Salwen, on its western bank. It consisted principally of one street which extended along the river-front about two miles. Behind the city was a long range of hills, dotted here and there with the graceful pagoda. In front swept the broad swift Salwen, “in which an English sloop-of-war was lying at anchor, and curiously-shaped Indian boats were passing to and fro with each changing tide.” Directly across the river lay the province of Martaban, still under Burman rule, the secure haunt of robbers and pirates; while far off to the seaward one could catch a glimpse of the high hills of Ballou Island.

The Boardmans were the first to remove to Maulmain, and were soon followed by the Wades, while Mr. Judson came last. We find in Mr. Boardman’s journal, under date of August 12, 1827, the following minute:

“The Burman merchant to whom I gave the books called on me yesterday,
for further information on some point which he did not fully
understand. While he was here, the head man of the village also came;
and these two together, with our Burman teacher, who seems to be
inquiring, entered into some particular discussion of the Christian
history and doctrine. In the midst of this discussion, how great was
my joy on beholding Mr. Judson approaching the house. It is now
probable that we shall all be settled together at this place.”

The mission-house had been erected by the Boardmans at the expense of the mission, upon ground given by Sir Archibald Campbell. It was situated about a mile south of the English barracks, on a gentle westerly and southerly declivity, so that it commanded a view of the river and the sea. It contained three rooms fifteen feet square, and a veranda on all sides, but enclosed on three sides for a study, store-room, dressing-room, etc. The General had offered the missionaries a site within the cantonments, but they chose rather to be where they could come into closer and more direct contact with the natives. This, however, exposed them landward to tigers, and riverward to robbers from Martaban. Their perilous situation is thus described in a letter from Mrs. Boardman to an intimate friend in Salem:

“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I have hitherto refrained from letting you know
the extreme loneliness of our condition, and the constant danger to
which we have been exposed.... Maulmain, the place of our residence,
is separated from the Burman province of Martaban only by the river.
The opposite side is the refuge of robbers, who come over in parties
twenty or thirty in number, armed with muskets, spears, knives, etc.
Thus equipped, they break into houses in the most daring manner, seize
everything valuable, and retreat immediately with their booty to the
other side of the river, where they are entirely beyond the reach of
British authority. They have in one or two instances surprised and
destroyed whole villages that were left unguarded; and in one place
they even attacked a guard of Sepoys.... Thus surrounded by dangers,
we live alone, in a house of such frail materials that it could be cut
open in any part with a pair of scissors, in the midst of a desolate
wood, and at some little distance from even a Burman neighbor.... The
military cantonments are about a mile distant, and we are the only
Europeans living outside.... We came to this place, wishing, I trust,
to spend and be spent among this people, and trusting in an Almighty
arm for protection. Be assured, my dear friend, we felt happy in our
decision. We saw this wretched, deluded people perishing in their
ignorance of the Gospel; we thought of the love of the Saviour to
precious souls; we cast a glance toward Gethsemane and Calvary, and
that was sufficient. Shall we consult our own ease and comfort, we
said, or shall we be willing to take joyfully the spoiling of our
goods? This was the question, and, I trust, the grace of God enabled
us to choose the latter.”

And they were soon called upon to endure the spoiling of their goods. The description is given in the words of Mrs. E. C. Judson:

“On the evening of the fourth day, as it deepened into night, the
books of study were thrown aside, and the book of God taken in their
stead; then the prayer was raised to heaven, and the little family
went to rest. Feeble were the rays of the one pale lamp, close by the
pillow of the young mother, scarce throwing its light upon the infant
resting in her bosom, and penetrating into the remote darkness, but by
feeble flickerings. So sleep soon brooded over the shut eyelids, and
silence folded its solemn wings about the little habitation.

“The infant stirred, and the mother opened her eyes. Why was she in
darkness? and what objects were those scattered so strangely about her
apartment, just distinguishable from the gray shadows? The lamp was
soon relighted, and startling was the scene which it revealed. There
lay, in odd confusion, trunks, boxes, and chests of drawers, all
rifled of their contents; and strewed carelessly about the floor, were
such articles as the marauders had not considered worth their taking.
While regarding in consternation, not appreciable by those who have
access to the shops of an American city, this spoiling of their goods,
Mrs. Boardman chanced to raise her eye to the curtain, beneath which
her husband had slept, and she thought of the lost goods no more. Two
long gashes, one at the head and the other at the foot, had been cut
in the muslin; and there had the desperate villains stood, glaring on
the unconscious sleeper with their fierce, murderous eyes, while the
booty was secured by their companions. The bared, swarthy arm was
ready for the blow, and the sharp knife or pointed spear glittered in
their hands. Had the sleeper opened his eyes, had he only stirred, had
but a heavy, long-drawn breath startled the cowardice of guilt—ah, had
it! But it did not. The rounded limbs of the little infant lay
motionless as their marble counterfeit; for if the rosy lips had moved
but to the slightest murmur, or the tiny hand crept closer to the
loved bosom in her baby dreams, the chord in the mother’s breast must
have answered, and the death-stroke followed. But the mother held her
treasure to her heart and slept on. Murderers stood by the bedside,
regarding with callous hearts the beautiful tableau; and the husband
and father _slept_. But there was one Eye open—the Eye that never
slumbers; a protecting wing was over them, and a soft, invisible hand
pressed down their sleeping lids.