Chapter XI (2)

“Thirty-three years since, you and a few other servants of the most
high God, relying simply upon His promises, left your native land to
carry the message of Christ to the heathen. You were the first
offering of the American churches to the Gentiles. You went forth amid
the sneers of the thoughtless, and with only the cold and reluctant
consent of many of your brethren. The general voice declared your
undertaking fanatical, and those who cowered under its rebuke drew
back from you in alarm. On the voyage your views respecting Christian
ordinances became changed, and this change gave rise to the convention
now in session before you.

“When at length you arrived in India, more formidable obstacles than
those arising from paganism were thrown in your path. The mightiest
empire that the world has ever seen, forbade every attempt to preach
Christ to the countless millions subjected to her sway, and ordered
you peremptorily from her shores. Escaping from her power, you took
refuge in the Isle of France, and at last, after many perils, arrived
at Rangoon, where, out of the reach of Christian power, you were
permitted to enter upon your labors of love.

“After years of toil you were able to preach Christ to the Burmans,
and men began to inquire after the eternal God. The intolerance of the
Government then became apparent, and you proceeded to Ava to plead the
cause of toleration before the emperor. Your second attempt was
successful, and permission was granted to preach the Gospel in the
capital itself. But how inscrutable are the ways of Providence! Your
labors had just commenced when a British army took possession of
Rangoon, and you and your fellow-laborer, the late Dr. Price, were
cast into a loathsome dungeon, and loaded with chains. For nearly two
years you suffered all that barbarian cruelty could inflict; and to
the special interposition of God alone is it to be ascribed that your
imprisonment was not terminated by a violent death. On you, more than
any other missionary of modern times, has been conferred the
distinction of suffering for Christ. Your limbs have been galled with
fetters, and you have tracked with bleeding feet the burning sands
between Ava and Oung-pen-la.

“With the apostle of the Gentiles you may say, ‘Henceforth let no man
trouble me; I bear in my body the scars of the Lord Jesus,’ Yet, even
here God did not leave you comfortless. He had provided an angel to
minister to your wants, and when her errand was accomplished, took her
to Himself, and the hopia-tree marks the spot whence her spirit
ascended. From prison and from chains, God, in His own time, delivered
you, and made your assistance of special importance in negotiating a
treaty of peace between these two nations, one of whom had driven you
from her shores, and the other had inflicted upon you every cruelty
but death.

“Since this period, the prime of your life has been spent in laboring
to bless the people who had so barbarously persecuted you. Almost all
the Christian literature in their language has proceeded from your
pen; your own hand has given to the nation the oracles of God, and
opened to the millions now living, and to those that shall come after
them to the end of time, the door of everlasting life. That mysterious
Providence which shut you out from Burmah proper has introduced you to
the Karens—a people who seem to have preserved, from remote antiquity,
the knowledge of the true God, and who were waiting to receive the
message of His Son. To them you, and those who have followed in your
footsteps, have made known the Saviour of the world, and they by
thousands have flocked to the standard of the cross.

“After years spent in unremitted toil, the providence of God has
brought you to be present with us at this important crisis. We
sympathize with you in all the sorrows of your painful voyage. May God
sustain you in your sore bereavement, and cause even this mysterious
dispensation to work out for you a far more exceeding and eternal
weight of glory.

“How changed is the moral aspect of the world since you first entered
upon your labors! Then no pagan nation had heard the name of Christ
from American lips; at present churches of Christ, planted by American
benevolence, are springing up in almost every heathen nation. The
shores of the Mediterranean, the islands of the sea, the thronged
cities and the wild jungles of India, are resounding with the high
praises of God, in strains first taught by American missionaries. The
nation that drove you from her shores has learned to foster the
messenger of the cross with parental solicitude. You return to your
native land, whence you were suffered to depart almost without her
blessing, and you find that the missionary enterprise has kindled a
flame that can never be quenched in the heart of the universal Church,
and that every Christian, and every philanthropist comes forward to
tender to you the homage due to the man through whose sufferings,
labors, and examples these changes have, to so great a degree, been
effected. In behalf of our brethren, in behalf of the whole Church of
Christ, we welcome you back to the land of your fathers. God grant
that your life may long be preserved, and that what you have seen may
prove to be but the beginning of blessing to our churches at home and
to the heathen abroad.”

Mr. Judson, who had been warned by his physicians against speaking in public, could only express his thankfulness in a few simple and touching words. Subsequently, in the course of the convention, the proposition was made to abandon the mission in Arracan. This brought him to his feet. “Though forbidden to speak by my medical adviser, I must say a few words. I must protest against the abandonment of the Arracan mission.” These opening words were audible to all present. Then his voice sunk into a whisper as he stated the reasons why the mission should not be given up. His closing words were: “If the convention think my services can be dispensed with in finishing my dictionary, I will go immediately to Arracan; or if God should spare my life to finish my dictionary, I will go there afterward and labor there and die, and be buried there.” It would be impossible to describe the thrilling effect upon the audience of these broken words, uttered in a low whisper, and reproduced by Dr. Cone. The Arracan mission was saved.

While Mr. Judson was visiting Bradford, the native town of his beloved Ann, he learned of the death of Charlie, one of the little ones whom he had left behind in Burmah. He conveys the sad intelligence to his sons Adoniram and Elnathan, and adds:

“So it appeared that Charlie died twenty-six days before his mother,
and he was ready to welcome her at the gates of Paradise. They must
have had a very happy meeting. As he was her favorite child on account
of being long ill, how happy she must have been to take him in her
arms in that state where there is no more sickness or death! O that we
may all meet them and be so happy together!”

A few of the addresses which Mr. Judson delivered while in this country have been preserved, and the reader may be interested in the appended extracts.

_Address at a Missionary Meeting in Philadelphia._

“Be ye imitators of me, as I am of Christ, is a divine command. There
is one Being in the universe who unites in Himself all the excellences
of the human and divine nature—that being is Jesus Christ. To become
like Jesus Christ, we must be like Him, not only in spirit and
character, but in the whole course and conduct of life; and to become
like Him ought to be our whole aim. In order to this, it is necessary
to ascertain the leading characteristics of that glorious Being. It
appears from the inspired writings, that one leading characteristic of
Christ was, that ‘He went about doing good.’ To be like Him, we must
go about—not merely _stay_ and do good, but _go_ and do good. There is
another characteristic which we should consider. He led the life of a
missionary. In order, therefore, to be like Him in this particular, we
must endeavor, as far as possible, to lead the life of missionaries.
Before my arrival in Burmah, there were about seven millions of men,
women, and children, who had no knowledge of the true God, and of
salvation through Jesus Christ. They did not believe in the existence
of an eternal God. They believed that when they died they would be
changed into beasts, or be annihilated. Their only object in worship
was to obtain some mitigation of suffering. They never expected to
meet their friends again after death. Imagine yourselves, my Christian
friends, in their state without a knowledge of God. Suppose, while in
that state, you heard that in some isle of the sea were those who had
received a revelation, informing them that God had sent His own Son to
open a way to everlasting life; would you not rejoice, if some one
should come to show you that way to heaven? Would not some of you
believe? Would you not leap with joy, and kiss the feet of those who
brought you the good tidings? Would you not, under these
circumstances, desire that a messenger should come to you? ‘As ye
would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’ I should
rejoice to address the assembly at large, but my physicians have
forbidden me, and I must commit this duty to others who are to follow.
But allow me to say, that I regard the office of the missionary as a
most glorious occupation, because the _faithful_ missionary is engaged
in a work which is like that of the Lord Jesus Christ; and a
missionary who is _unfaithful_ sinks the lowest of his species in
guilt and ignominy. Happy are they who can in this respect follow
Christ. But the Lord Jesus is not now a missionary. He has retired
from this employment, and now employs Himself in sustaining His
missionaries, with the promise, ‘Lo, I am with you alway, even to the
end.’ If you can not, therefore, become a missionary, sustain by your
prayers, your influence, and your property, those who are. In these
ways Jesus Christ now sustains them. By His _prayers_, as Advocate and
Intercessor with the Father; by His _influence_, as He is vested with
all power in heaven and earth; by His _property_, by pouring out fresh
supplies of His Spirit, and opening the hearts of His children to
contribute. In order, therefore, to be like Christ, _go about_ doing
good; and if it is not in your power to give yourselves to this work,
give your prayers, your influence, and your property. So far as we are
like Christ in this world, so far shall we be like Him through
eternity. So far as we sustain this cause, which is peculiarly the
cause of God, so far shall we be happy through endless ages.”

At a meeting in Washington, D. C., he said:

“When he first visited Burmah, the idea of an eternal God was not
believed nor entertained by any of the Burmans; and nothing more than
this idea was entertained by the Karens; but now the former had in
their own language the whole Word of God; and the New Testament, and
parts of the Old, had been translated, by American missionaries, into
several other languages of the East. He spoke of our missions as
_expensive_, as requiring much for the outfit of missionaries, and for
sustaining them in that field; but sacrifices of a _pecuniary_
character were not the only or the greatest ones to be encountered.
There was the sacrifice of domestic and social comforts here enjoyed,
and the sacrifice of life. He remarked that the average life of
American missionaries to the East was only about five years. But we
must have men and money for this work; and we must all co-operate and
make sacrifices together. If men were found willing to go, the Church
at home should feel willing to send them out, and support them, that
they might give themselves wholly to their work. Dr. Judson said that
his heart was full, and it was a great privation to him that he was
not able to speak out, and unburden himself, to the satisfaction of
himself and of the audience; but this the providence of God prevented
him from doing, and he must submit.”

And at a meeting in Utica, N. Y.:

“When mingling in scenes like the present, and like that in which he
participated on the preceding evening, at which he believed some then
listening to him were present, he was led into trains of meditation
which excited the most deep and subduing emotions. At such times he
involuntarily recalled many spots memorable in his history. One of
these was the prison at Ava, to which allusion had already been made.
In that gloomy place, on one night when he was more heavily fettered
and was enduring more suffering than usual, he rose from the painful
posture in which he reclined to lean, for an interval, against the
wall. As he cast his eyes around upon the mass of wretchedness before
him, he was able, by the dim light which was always kept burning in
the prison, to observe the condition of the miserable beings among
whom he was confined. It was an appalling sight. About a hundred
condemned felons were before him, some sentenced for murder, all for
atrocious crimes. While looking on that spectacle, he felt that if
ever, by God’s mercy, he should obtain his freedom, he would endeavor
to bear without repining the ills he might be called to endure.
Another spot brought to his recollection was that where he stood to
witness the worship of the Bengalee Juggernaut—not the great
Juggernaut of Orissa—for there are several in India—but one in the
province of Bengal. The idol car moved onward. Before him, extending
as far as the eye could reach, was a vast expanse, a sea of human
heads. The whole concourse of deluded worshippers were shouting as
with one voice. Again his mind reverted to a scene that fell under his
observation, not many years since, in the Karen jungles. It was one of
the festivals of the Karens. He saw three hundred persons, prostrate
upon the earth, men, women, and children, promiscuously mingled,
covered with filth, in a state of brutal intoxication—a spectacle not
to be described to a Christian audience. Scenes like these forced
themselves upon his recollection, in view of our places of worship and
happy homes. When coming among us, and seeing the contrasted comfort,
elegance, and refinement, that make our dwellings so inviting and
their inmates so happy, the question spontaneously arose, What is the
cause of all this difference? O, it is the Gospel—the Gospel! While
surrounded with these manifold blessings, we could but very
imperfectly appreciate the sole cause of them all.

“It was to a world suffering under such wretchedness as had been
spoken of, that the Lord Jesus Christ, in compassion for mankind,
descended in the reign of the despotic and abandoned Herod. Amid such
scenes He mingled, till He expired on the cross. If His Gospel is able
to effect all that we have seen, to transform the ignorant, sensual,
and degraded heathen, and to elevate a nation to such a height of
dignity and enjoyment, and all this in a world still so full of sin,
how will its power appear in the world to which we are advancing? If
here, where sin yet reigns, so great a contrast can be wrought, how
much greater the contrast between this imperfect state and heaven,
free from every defilement!

“In Burmah, after all that has been done, there is still the same
prison at Ava, with its manacled convicts. The same Bengalee
Juggernaut is still surrounded by its countless worshippers. The same
orgies are still celebrated in the Karen jungles; and scenes
innumerable, as revolting as these, are witnessed in all heathen
lands. O, let us pray for the millions who know nothing of a God or a
Saviour, a heaven or a hell.”

Before the Boardman Missionary Society at Waterville College he spoke as follows:

“Upon an occasion like this, dear brethren, a multitude of thoughts
crowd upon me, so that I know not where to begin or what to select.
Probably many of you have the ministry in view, and some perhaps look
forward to a missionary life. You will expect me to speak of missions
and missionary life. I have seen so much of the trials and
responsibility of missionary labors that I am unwilling to urge any
one to assume them. _The urging must come from a higher source._ One
important thought just occurs to me. You have but _one_ life to live
in which to prepare for eternity. If you had four or five lives, two
or three of them might be spent in carelessness. But you have one
only. Every action of that one life gives coloring to your eternity.
How important, then, that you spend that life so as to please the
Saviour, the blessed Saviour, who has done everything for you!

“If any of you enter the Gospel ministry in this or other lands, let
not your object be so much to ‘do your duty,’ or even to ‘save souls,’
though these should have a place in your motives, as to _please the
Lord Jesus_. Let this be your ruling motive in all that you do. Now,
do you ask, _how_ you shall please Him? How, indeed, shall we know
what will please Him but by _His commands_? Obey these commands and
you will not fail to please Him. And there is that ‘last command,’
given just before He ascended to the Father, ‘Go ye into all the
world, and preach the Gospel to every creature.’ It is not _yet_
obeyed as it should be. Fulfil that, and you will please the Saviour.

“Some one asked me, not long ago, whether _faith_ or _love_ influenced
me most in going to the heathen. I thought of it a while, and at
length concluded that there was in me but _little of either_. But in
thinking of what _did_ influence me, I remembered a time, out in the
woods back of Andover Seminary, when I was almost disheartened.
Everything looked dark. No one had gone out from this country. The way
was not open. The field was far distant, and in an unhealthy climate.
I knew not what to do. All at once that ‘last command’ seemed to come
to my heart directly from heaven. I could doubt no longer, but
determined on the spot to obey it at all hazards, for the sake of
pleasing the Lord Jesus Christ.

“Now, my dear brethren, if the Lord wants you for missionaries, He
will set that command home to your hearts. If He does so, _you neglect
it at your peril_.”

And thus to the students at Hamilton, N. Y.:

“Brethren, look to Jesus. This sight will fill you with the greatest
consolation and delight. Look to Him on the cross; so great is His
love that, if He had a thousand lives, He would lay them all down for
your redemption. Look to Him on the throne; His blessed countenance
fills all heaven with delight and felicity. Look to Him in affliction;
He will strengthen you. Look to Him in temptation; He will succor you.
Look to Him in death; He will sustain you. Look to Him in the
judgment; He will save you.”

But Mr. Judson did not belong exclusively to any one city or section of the country. Not only in New England and in the Northern States was his name revered. His memory was most warmly cherished by Southern hearts. The eminent Dr. Jeter, in a meeting held at Richmond, Va., on the 8th of February, 1846, welcomed Mr. Judson in an eloquent and affectionate address, the closing words of which are appended:

“But I must close my remarks. Brother Judson, we are acquainted with
your history. We have marked your labors, have sympathized in your
various sufferings, have shed many a tear at the foot of the
‘hopia-tree’; have gone, in fancy, on mournful pilgrimage to the rocky
Island of St. Helena; have rejoiced in your successes and the
successes of your devoted associates, and have long and fervently
wished to see your face in the flesh. This privilege we now enjoy.
Welcome, thrice welcome are you, my brother, to our city, our
churches, our bosoms. I speak as the representative of Southern
Baptists. We love you for the truth’s sake, and for your labors in the
cause of Christ. We honor you as the father of American missions.

“One thought pains us. To-morrow morning you will leave us. We shall
see your face no more. You will soon return to Burmah, the land of
your adoption. There you will continue your toils, and there,
probably, be buried. But this separation is not without its solace.
Thank God, it is as near from Burmah to heaven as from Richmond, or
any other point on the globe. Angels, oft commissioned to convey to
heaven the departing spirits of pious Burmans and Karens, have learned
the way to that dark land. When dismissed from your toils and
sufferings, they will be in readiness to perform the same service for
you. God grant that we may all meet in that bright world. There sin
shall no more annoy us, separations no more pain us, and every power
will find full and sweet employ in the service of Christ.

“And now, my brother, I give my hand in token of our affection to you,
and of your cordial reception among us.”

Mr. Judson’s reply attested his capacity for taking a broad and catholic view of the religious situation at a time when the country was agitated by disturbing sectional jealousies:

“I congratulate the Southern and Southwestern churches,” he said, “on
the formation of the Southern Baptist Convention for Foreign Missions.
I congratulate the citizens of Richmond that the Board of that
Convention is located here. Such an organization should have been
formed several years ago. Besides other circumstances, the extent of
the country called for a separate organization. I have read with much
pleasure the proceedings of the Convention at Augusta, Ga., and
commend the dignified and courteous tone of the address sent forth by
that body. I am only an humble missionary of the heathen, and do not
aspire to be a teacher of Christians in this enlightened country; but
if I may be indulged a remark, I would say, that if hereafter the more
violent spirits of the North should persist in the use of irritating
language, I hope they will be met, on the part of the South, with
dignified silence.”

It was his desire to go further South, but his frail health imperatively forbade him, and so after visiting Baltimore, where he was welcomed at a most enthusiastic missionary meeting, he turned northward again.

While on this tour through the country, everywhere kindling missionary enthusiasm, he met, during a visit in Philadelphia, a young lady, Miss Emily Chubbuck, who, under the _nom de plume_ of Fanny Forester, had achieved a wide literary reputation. The acquaintance culminated in marriage. This lady, who was to take the place at his side left successively vacant by Ann Hasseltine and Sarah Boardman, had been disciplined in the hard school of poverty. She was born August 22, 1817, at Eaton, a little town in Central New York, and near a stream which, with its fringe of alders, murmurs here and there in her prose and poetry under the name of Alderbrook. Her parents, Charles Chubbuck and Lavinia Richards, had moved to Eaton from New Hampshire. Her childhood days were spent in a little house which can still be seen on the road from Eaton to West Eaton, perched against a hill so close beneath the road that, as she says, one would feel half disposed “to step from the road where you stood to the tip of the chimney.”[64] Her parents were very poor, and she thus describes a winter she passed when she was about thirteen years old:

“We suffered a great deal from cold this winter, though we had plenty
of plain food. Indeed, we _never_ were reduced to hunger. But the
house was large and unfinished, and the snow sometimes drifted into it
in heaps. We were unable to repair it, and the owner was unwilling.
Father was absent nearly all the time, distributing newspapers; and
the severity of the winter so affected his health that he could do but
little when he was at home. Mother, Harriet, and I were frequently
compelled to go out into the fields, and dig broken wood out of the
snow, to keep ourselves from freezing. Catherine and I went to the
district school as much as we could.”

Again she wrote:

“_November, 1830._ Father’s attempt at farming proved, as might have
been expected, an entire failure, and for want of a better place he
determined to remove to the village. He took a little old house on the
outskirts, the poorest shelter we ever had, with only two rooms on the
floor, and a loft, to which we ascended by means of a ladder. We were
not discouraged, however, but managed to make the house a little
genteel as well as tidy. Harriet and I used a turn-up bedstead,
surrounded by pretty chintz curtains, and we made a parlor and
dining-room of the room by day. Harriet had a knack at twisting
ribbons and fitting dresses, and she took in sewing; Catherine and
Wallace went to school; and I got constant employment of a little
Scotch weaver and thread-maker at twisting thread. Benjamin returned
to his old place, and Walker was still in the printing-office.”

Her little hands very early learned to contribute to the support of the family. When eleven years old she earned a dollar and twenty-five cents a week splicing rolls in a woolen factory. She says of this period: “My principal recollections are of noise and filth, bleeding hands and aching feet, and a very sad heart.” Little did the residents of Eaton then dream that this little factory-girl was afterward to become such an honor to their humble village. Subsequently, when she first applied for the position of teacher in the district school, a young farmer who was acting trustee replied, “Why, the scholars will be bigger than their teacher.” But the little schoolmistress made her teaching a success, and before she was twenty years of age had contributed to the village newspaper poems of great literary merit. About this time she attracted the attention of the Misses Sheldon, who were conducting a well-known ladies’ school at Utica. They offered her gratuitous instruction for a single term, and subsequently proposed to complete her education without present charge. This afforded her an excellent opportunity for self-improvement. Her health, however, had been shattered by the hardship and labors of her earlier years, and it was through great weakness and suffering that she pressed toward higher literary excellence. She was continually spurred on by her desire to secure a home for her aged parents. It was for this purpose that she wrote those charming stories in which grace and strength of style are combined with the purest moral tone. It was under such circumstances as these that she sent to the press the stories for children, entitled “The Great Secret,” “Effie Maurice,” “Charles Linn,” “Allen Lucas,” “John Frink,” and also the fascinating tales for older readers, which were afterward gathered together, under the name of “Alderbrook.” Her biographer[65] relates the following incident:

“As Miss Sheldon was at one time passing near midnight through the
halls, a light streaming from Emily’s apartment attracted her
attention, and, softly opening the door, she stole in upon her vigils.
Emily sat in her night-dress, her papers lying outspread before her,
grasping with both hands her throbbing temples, and pale as a marble
statue. Miss S. went to her, whispered words of sympathy, and gently
chided her for robbing her system of its needed repose. Emily’s heart
was already full, and now the fountain of feeling overflowed in
uncontrollable weeping. ‘Oh, Miss Sheldon,’ she exclaimed, ‘I _must_
write, I _must_ write; I must do what I can to aid my poor parents.’”

While making a visit in New York during the month of June, 1847, Miss Chubbuck wrote a letter to the _Evening Mirror_, which at that time was an exceedingly popular magazine, edited by George P. Morris and N. P. Willis. In a graceful and sportive vein she offered her literary services to this periodical:

“You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this spring. _Such_
beautiful things! Well, you know (no, you don’t know that, but you can
guess) what a delightful thing it would be to appear in one of those
charming, head-adorning, complexion-softening, hard-feature-subduing
neapolitans; with a little gossamer veil dropping daintily on the
shoulder of one of those exquisite _balzarines_, to be seen any day at
Stewart’s and elsewhere. Well, you know (this you _must_ know) that
shop-keepers have the impertinence to demand a trifling exchange for
these things even of a lady; and also that some people have a
remarkably small purse, and a remarkably small portion of the yellow
‘root’ in that. And now, to bring the matter home, _I_ am one of that
class. I have the most beautiful little purse in the world, but it is
only kept for show; I even find myself under the necessity of
counterfeiting—that is, filling the void with tissue paper in lieu of
bank-notes, preparatory to a shopping expedition.

“Well, now to the point. As Bel and I snuggled down on the sofa this
morning to read the _New Mirror_ (by the way, Cousin Bel is never
obliged to put tissue paper in her purse), it struck us that you would
be a friend in need, and give good counsel in this emergency. Bel,
however, insisted on my not telling what I wanted the money for. She
even thought that I had better intimate orphanage, extreme suffering
from the bursting of some speculative bubble, illness, etc., etc.; but
did not I know you better? Have I read the _New Mirror_ so much (to
say nothing of the graceful things coined ‘under a bridge,’ and a
thousand other pages flung from the inner heart), and not learned who
has an eye for everything pretty? Not so stupid, Cousin Bel; no, no!

“However, this is not quite the point, after all; but here it is. I
have a pen—not a gold one, I don’t think I could write with one, but a
nice, little, feather-tipped pen, that rests in the curve of my finger
as contentedly as in its former pillow of down. (Shocking! how that
line did run down hill! and this almost as crooked! dear me!) Then I
have little messengers racing ‘like mad’ through the galleries of my
head; spinning long yarns, and weaving fabrics rich and soft as the
balzarine which I so much covet, until I shut my eyes and stop my ears
and whisk away, with the ‘wonderful lamp’ safely hidden in my own
brown braids. Then I have Dr. Johnson’s dictionary—capital London
edition, etc., etc.; and after I use up all the words in that, I will
supply myself with Webster’s wondrous quarto, appendix and all. Thus
prepared, think you not I should be able to put something in the shops
of the literary caterers? something that, for once in my life, would
give me a real errand into Broadway? May be you of the _New Mirror_
PAY for acceptable articles—may be not. _Comprenez-vous?_

“O, I _do_ hope that beautiful balzarine like Bel’s will not be gone
before another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the next
_Mirror_; but pray, my dear Editor, let it be done very cautiously,
for Bel would pout all day if she should know what I had written. Till
Saturday,

“Your anxiously-waiting friend,
“FANNY FORESTER.”

This letter attracted the attention of Mr. Willis, and drew from him a characteristic reply:

“Well, we give in! On _condition_ that you are under twenty-five, and
that you will wear a rose (recognizably) in your bodice the first time
you appear in Broadway with the hat and balzarine, we will pay the
bills. Write us thereafter a sketch of Bel and yourself, as cleverly
done as this letter, and you may ‘snuggle down’ on the sofa, and
consider us paid, and the public charmed with you.”

Mr. Willis at once introduced her through his columns to the American public, and, though they never saw each other but once, he became from this time on her life-long literary adviser and friend. And so, after the long struggle with poverty and ill-health, this woman, by dint of an imperious will and an unmistakable genius, began to take her place among the foremost literary characters of America. We quote from her biographer, Dr. Kendrick, who is well qualified by his intellectual acumen and fine poetic nature to judge of the quality of her mind:

“Those who now turn over the stories of Alderbrook will, I think, be
at no loss to explain the popularity which they attained. They will
find in them a truth to nature—a freshness and raciness of thought and
diction—a freedom from the hackneyed conventionalisms of ordinary
story-telling, a descriptive and dramatic power, which lend to them an
unfailing charm. The language is ever plain and simple. They never
affect ‘big’ words, nor deck themselves out in fripperies of
expression. If there are occasional conceits of thought—and such are
almost inevitable in a young woman’s first converse with the
public—the style is almost wholly free from them. It delights in that
plain Anglo-Saxon that comes freighted with home associations to every
heart; and yet this simple style, under her delicate handling, has all
the grace of ornament.

“Another source of the popularity of her sketches is found in the
spirit and vivacity of her descriptions—showing a clear and close eye
for the observation of nature—and in the lifelike truthfulness of her
character-drawing. Her personages are not mere pegs on which to hang a
story—a train of external incidents: they are themselves the story.
They are not mere labelled embodiments of the virtues and vices of the
Decalogue, but actual men and women, brought by a few simple but
effective touches livingly before the eye, and, even in her lightest
sketches, sharply individualized. Thus the interest of her stories is
emphatically a human interest. It is not what the actors _do_, but
what they _are_, that rivets our attention, and chains us to her
fascinating pages. As might be inferred from this, she possesses
extraordinary dramatic power. The _dramatis personæ_ live and breathe
and move through the story. The author transports herself into the
scene; identifies herself with her characters; and instead of
conducting her narration by cold, second-hand details, makes it gush
warmly and livingly from the lips of the speakers. Not unfrequently
nearly the whole story is unfolded by dialogue, natural, racy, and
spirited, and that which in its mere outward details would be but a
trivial incident, under this warm, dramatic handling, and imbedded in
human passion, is impregnated with life and interest. Equally happy,
too, is Emily in the conduct of her narrative—in the management of the
plot—in so seizing upon the hinging-points, the _nodes_ and crises of
the story, and so coloring, and grouping, and contrasting them, as to
give them their utmost effect. With the instinctive eye of genius, she
separates the incidental from the essential, and strikes to the inmost
core of her subject.

“And finally—and here perhaps was pre-eminently the secret of Emily’s
power—she was drawing from her own life, ‘coloring from her own
heart.’ With every stroke of her pen she daguerreotyped herself upon
the page before her. The trials of her youth—her own harsh
experiences—quivered through her bright and glittering fancies, and
compelled many a tear from hearts unknowing of the cause. She was
unconsciously obeying the dictum of the great Master; she moved others
because she had first been moved herself. The tear that trembled in
their eye answered to that which had first glistened in her own. The
emotion that swelled their bosoms was responsive to that which had
throbbed in her own breast. True to herself, she was true to the
universal elements of humanity.

“And yet she was far from being the mere recorder; she dealt not in
the mere statistics of experience. Her power of fancy was equal to her
power of feeling. The germ of her conception sprung from the actual,
but it developed itself in the realm of the ideal. When fancy supplied
the groundwork, her feelings insensibly blended themselves with it,
giving it genuineness and vitality. When she started from experience,
fancy instantly stood as its servitor, ready to invest the creation
with her bright and glittering hues. Thus her heart and
life-experiences were so transfigured and idealized that she did not
obtrude herself indelicately or painfully before the public. ‘Grace
Linden,’ ‘Lilias Fane,’ ‘Dora,’ ‘Nora Maylie,’ ‘Ida Ravelin,’ even,
were all born in he depths of her own nature, all embodied a certain
portion of her spiritual essence; yet all were so wrought and moulded,
so blended with imaginative elements, that she for whom they really
stood ‘passed in music out of sight.’ So amidst the deeper emotions of
later life her power of imagination kept pace with her power of
passionate emotion. ‘My Bird,’ ‘Watching,’ ‘My Angel Guide,’ are
beautifully idealized, and it is only perhaps in ‘Sweet Mother’ that
the bleeding, agonizing heart of the stricken wife and daughter comes
nakedly before the public. And with all this, there breathes through
all her pages a tenderness and delicacy of sentiment which impart to
them a nameless charm.

“In this slight analysis I am not claiming for ‘Fanny Forester’s’
sketches the highest order of genius. They are a woman’s production,
and are thoroughly womanly. They aspire to no heights of masculine
eloquence, no depths of philosophical teaching. They deal with the
heart, the fancy, and the imagination. Nor in mere vigor and grasp of
intellect is she, perhaps, to be classed with Joanna Bailie, Mrs.
Browning, and Miss Bronté; although looking at _all_ which she did, I
am satisfied that she approaches much nearer to them in intellectual
vigor than they do to her in womanly delicacy and softness. It is one
of her high excellences that she never compromises her womanhood; and
yet to her who could write the ‘Madness of the Missionary Enterprise,’
and render such contributions as she did to the memoir of her husband,
is to be assigned no mean rank among the intellects of the world. Mr.
Willis, Dr. Griswold, and Mr. H. B. Wallace, than whom our country has
produced no more competent literary critics, estimated her genius as
of a very high order, and regarded her true sphere as that not of
popularity, but of fame.”

But, besides her intellectual gifts, Miss Chubbuck had an intensely religious nature. She was the child of pious parents, and was subject to very early religious impressions. She writes:

“The first event of any importance which I remember is the conversion
of my sister Lavinia, when I was about seven years of age. My little
cot was in her room; and as she grew worse after her baptism, the
young members of the church were in the habit of spending the night
with her, partly in the character of watchers, partly because of a
unity of interest and feeling. She and her visitors spent the greater
part of the night in conversation and prayer, without any thought of
disturbing so sound a sleeper as I seemed to be, I was a silent,
sometimes tearful listener when they talked; and when they prayed I
used to kneel down in my bed, and with hands clasped and heart
uplifted, follow them through to the end. I can not recall my
exercises with any degree of distinctness; but I remember longing to
go to heaven, and be with Christ; some moments of ecstasy, and some of
deep depression on account of my childish delinquencies. My sister
used often to converse with me on religious subjects; and I remember
on one occasion her going to the next room and saying to my mother,
‘That child’s talk is wonderful! I believe, if there is a Christian in
the world, she is one.’ For a moment I felt a deep thrill of joy, and
then I became alarmed lest I should have deceived them. The effect was
to make me reserved and cautious.”

In subsequent life she dated her conversion as occurring when she was eight years old. She used to attend all the religious services in the neighborhood. She writes:

“Indeed, I believe my solemn little face was almost ludicrously
familiar to worshippers of every denomination, for I remember a
Presbyterian once saying to me, as I was leaving the chapel, after
having, as usual, asked prayers: ‘What! this little girl not converted
yet! How do you suppose we can waste any more time in praying for
you?’”

Indeed, she seems from her earliest years to have been haunted by the conviction that she was, some time or other, to be a missionary to the heathen; but she was always striving to rid herself of this irksome thought. She said to a friend:

“I have felt, ever since I read the memoir of Mrs. Ann H. Judson when
I was a small child, that I must become a missionary. I fear it is but
a childish fancy, and am making every effort to banish it from my
mind; yet the more I seek to divert my thoughts from it, the more
unhappy I am.”

It was by a strange coincidence that this gifted woman, who had been from childhood so deeply impressed by the story of Ann Hasseltine, should meet Mr. Judson in January, 1846. It was at the house of Dr. Gillette in Philadelphia, Mr. Judson had been invited to come from Boston, and Dr. Gillette had gone there to bring him on. The journey was long and cold, and an accident caused a delay of three or four hours. Dr. Gillette saw in the hands of a friend a collection of light sketches called “Trippings,“ by Fanny Forester. He borrowed it, and handed it to Mr. Judson that he might read it, and so while away the tedious and uncomfortable hours of delay. Mr. Judson read portions of the book, and recognizing the power with which it was written, expressed a regret that a person of such intellectual gifts should devote them to the writing of light literature. “I should be glad to know her,“ he remarked. “The lady who writes so well ought to write better. It’s a pity that such fine talents should be employed on such eesubjects.”

Dr. Gillette answered that he would soon have the pleasure of meeting her, because she was at that time a guest in his own house. Upon their arrival, Mr. Judson was entertained at the residence of Mr. Robarts, and the next morning called at Dr. Gillette’s. His first meeting with Miss Chubbuck is thus described by Dr. Kendrick:

“Promptly on the next day he came over to Mr. Gillette’s. Emily (in
her morning-dress) was submitting to the not very poetical process of
vaccination. As soon as it was over, Dr. Judson conducted her to the
sofa, saying that he wished to talk with her. She replied half
playfully that she should be delighted and honored by having him talk
to her. With characteristic impetuosity he immediately inquired how
she could reconcile it with her conscience to employ talents so noble
in a species of writing so little useful or spiritual as the sketches
which he had read. Emily’s heart melted; she replied with seriousness
and candor, and explained the circumstances which had drawn her into
this field of authorship. Indigent parents, largely dependent on her
efforts—years of laborious teaching—books published with but little
profit, had driven her to still new and untried paths, in which at
last success unexpectedly opened upon her. Making this employment
purely secondary, and carefully avoiding everything of doubtful
tendency, she could not regard her course as open to serious
strictures. It was now Dr. Judson’s turn to be softened. He admitted
the force of her reasons, and that even his own strict standard could
not severely censure the direction given to filial love. He opened
another subject. He wished to secure a person to prepare a memoir of
his recently deceased wife, and it was partly, in fact, with this
purpose that he had sought Emily’s acquaintance. She entertained the
proposition, and the discussion of this matter naturally threw them
much together during the ensuing few days.”

_Alex. Cameron, Eng.^r_

Emily C Judson
]

Mr. Judson and Emily Chubbuck were married in Hamilton, N. Y., on the 2d of the following June.

The marriage was pleasing neither to the literary nor to the religious world. The one thought that the brilliant Fanny Forester was throwing herself away in marrying “an old missionary“; the other feared that the moral grandeur of the missionary cause was compromised by an alliance between its venerable founder and a writer of fiction.

These conflicting opinions made, however, but a slight impression upon Mr. Judson’s mind. He was not dependent for his happiness and well-being upon the opinion of others. He had long before learned to think and to act independently, otherwise he would never have become a missionary, least of all a Baptist. He wrote to his betrothed:

“I have been so cried down at different periods of my life—especially
when I became a Baptist—and lost all—all but Ann—that I suppose I am a
little hardened. But I feel for you, for it is your first field.
Whatever of strength or shield is mine, or I can draw down from
heaven, is yours.”

But the missionary’s heart kept turning toward the field of his labors far across the sea. If his two Burmese assistants had been with him, he might have contented himself a little longer in this country, for he could then have worked more effectively on his dictionary.

The following poem (by Mr. H. S. Washburn, of Boston) seems to gather up and express that longing for his Burman home which impelled him to re-embark even before he had been nine months in the United States. The author of these stanzas read them to Mr. Judson while he was busy packing his boxes for the voyage, and found that they seemed exactly to voice the desire of his heart:

_Judson Longing for his Burman Home._

“A stranger in my native land!
O home beyond the sea,
How yearns with all its constant love,
This weary heart for thee.

“I left thee, when around my hearth
Was gathering thickest gloom,
And gentle ones have since that hour
Descended to the tomb.

“A flower has withered on thy breast,
Thou wilt that treasure keep;
And sweet her rest, whose grave is made
Away upon the deep.

“I once trod lightly on the turf
That I am treading now;
The flush of hope was on my cheek.
And youth was on my brow—

“But time hath wrought a wondrous change
In all I loved—and _me_!
I prize thee, native land—but more,
My home beyond the sea.

“O Burmah! shrouded in the pall
Of error’s dreadful night!
For wings—for wings once more to bear
To thy dark shores the light:

“To rear upon thy templed hills.
And by thy sunny streams,
The standard of the Cross, where now
The proud Pagoda gleams.

“One prayer, my God! Thy will be done—
One only boon I crave:
To finish well my work,—and rest
Within a Burman grave!”

Less than six weeks intervened between his marriage to Miss Chubbuck and his embarkation. Many tender farewells had to be spoken. He well knew that the dear ones from whom he was parting would probably never be seen again on earth. He thus wrote to his boys, Adoniram and Elnathan, whom he left with Dr. and Mrs. Newton at Worcester, and to his daughter Abby, whom he had committed to the care of his only sister at Plymouth:

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“MY DEAR SONS: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. Many a time I
shall look at your likenesses, and weep over them, and pray that you
may early become true Christians. Love your brother George, and your
uncle and aunt Newton. Pray every morning and evening. Your new mamma
sends you her best love. Forget not

“Your affectionate father,
“A. JUDSON.”

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“MY DEAR DAUGHTER: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I think
the likenesses taken of your face very good. I shall take one with me,
and shall many a time look at it, and weep over it, and pray that you
may early become a Christian. The other I shall give to George, to
keep a while at Worcester, and finally give to your aunt Judson when
he visits Plymouth.

“Love your dear aunts and cousins, with whom you live; pray every
morning and evening, and may we meet again on earth, and if not, O,
may we meet in heaven, and be happy together. Your new mamma sends her
best love.

“Your affectionate father,
“A. JUDSON.

“Write me once in three months.”

To his only sister, also, the fond playmate of his childhood, the sole survivor of the dear family group that had clung to him so tenderly when, many years before, with the flush of youth on his cheek, he had set his face toward the rising sun, he speaks the parting word:

“BOSTON, _July_ 10, 1846.

“DEAR SISTER: Farewell. We embark to-morrow about noon. I have two
likenesses of Abby Ann. One I take myself, The other I hand to George,
that he may take it to Worcester, and keep it with the boys, until he
visits Plymouth, in about a month or six weeks, when he is to give it
to you. I left Abby Ann at Bradford yesterday forenoon; gave the
twenty dollars, which they will place to your credit. Take care of
yourself, dear sister, and spare no expense that is necessary for your
health and comfort.

“Emily sends her best love. Every blessing rest upon you, until we
meet in heaven.

“Ever most affectionately,
“A. JUDSON.”

The following is his last public utterance in America:

“My friends are aware that it is quite impossible for me, without
serious injury to myself, to sustain my voice at such a height as to
reach this large assembly, except for a few sentences. I have,
therefore, taken the liberty of putting some thoughts on paper, which
the Rev. Mr. Hague will do me the honor of reading to you.

“I wish, however, in my own voice, to praise God for the deep interest
in the cause of missions manifested by the friends of the Redeemer in
this city and the vicinity, and to thank them for all their
expressions and acts of kindness toward me during my brief sojourn
among them. I regret that circumstances have prevented my spending
more time in this city, and forming a more intimate acquaintance with
those whom a slight acquaintance has taught me so much to love.

“It is as certain as any future event can be, that I shall never again
revisit the shores of my native land; that, after a few days, your
beautiful city, this great and glorious country, will be forever shut
from my view. No more shall I enter your places of worship; no more
shall I behold your faces, and exchange the affectionate salutations
of Christian love.

“The greatest favor we can bestow on our absent friends is to bear
them on our hearts at the throne of grace. I pray you, dear friends,
remember me there, and my missionary associates, and our infant
churches, and the poor heathen, among whom we go to live. And though
we do meet no more on earth, I trust that our next meeting will be in
that blessed world where ‘the loved and the parted here below meet
ne’er to part again.’”

_Address._