Chapter XII (3)

“On Saturday he was perceptibly weaker. Such was his pain that he said
he would willingly die if he could. On Sunday, being more calm and
free from pain, he conversed freely and more at length than he had
been able to do, describing somewhat minutely the causes of his pain.
He said that no one could conceive the intensity of his sufferings.
Death would have been a glad relief. The idea of death caused no
peculiar emotion of either fear or transport. His mind was so affected
by suffering that he could not think, or even pray. Nay, he could not
think of his wife and family. He had bitter sorrow in parting with
them at first; but in Mrs. Judson’s subsequent visit, speech had been
almost denied him; and when they parted the day before, perhaps the
last time on earth, it was without a word, and almost without a
thought, so entirely had pain absorbed every faculty. Yet he felt he
had nothing to complain of. He knew it was the will of God, and
therefore right. Alluding to the swelling of his feet, he said: ‘The
natives are frightened when they see this. They regard it as a sure
sign of approaching death; but I do not. I have talked with the doctor
about this, and have myself remarked, at different times, the swelling
and subsiding. I still feel that there is so much of life in me that I
shall recover.’

“On Monday, the 6th, at half-past three o’clock P.M., the pilot, with
the two assistants above named, and Moung Shway-moung, of the Amherst
church, left the ship. At the request of Dr. Judson, Mr. Ranney wrote
to Mrs. Judson his opinion of himself, that ‘he went out to sea with a
strong feeling that he should recover.’ But on the same day the
violence of his pains returned, and his left side was swollen much,
from which he gained partial relief. On Tuesday morning, the
Tenasserim coast being yet visible, they enjoyed a fresh and
invigorating breeze; but a violent thunder-storm came on, followed by
a calm. For a short time Dr. Judson suffered less pain; but a hiccough
increased upon him. He said, ‘This hiccough is killing me; can you
think of anything to do for it?’ He afterward slept considerably, and
took some slight refreshment; but in the afternoon a new symptom
appeared, which continued to the last—frequent vomiting and an
inability to retain anything upon his stomach.

“During the night and the next day the weather was exceedingly hot.
Dr. Judson refused all nourishment, and inclined to sleep, probably on
account of the laudanum and ether administered. He said he should
weary them but little longer. The captain gave several prescriptions
without effect; on which he said, ‘It is of but little consequence. I
do not wish any one to think I died because all was not done that
could be done for me. Medicine is of no use. The disease will take its
course.’ While suffering the acute pain which invariably preceded
vomiting, he said, ‘O that I could die at once, and go immediately
into Paradise, where there is no pain.’

“On the evening of Wednesday, as Mr. Ranney was sitting by his
bedside, he said, ‘I am glad you are here. I do not feel so abandoned.
You are my only kindred now—the only one on board who loves Christ, I
mean; and it is a great comfort to have one near me who loves Christ.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Ranney, ‘you feel that Christ is now near,
sustaining you.’ ‘O, yes,’ he replied, ‘_it is all right there_. I
believe He gives me just so much pain and suffering as is necessary to
fit me to die—to make me submissive to His will.’ The captain—who
spoke but little English, but took unwearied pains to make himself
understood by a frequent resort to a French and English dictionary,
and was a pattern of kindness and benevolence—offered another
prescription; but Dr. Judson thanked him, and declined. He spoke of
the invigorating influence of the wind, and expressed a fear that they
would lose it during the night; which proved true. After midnight
there was a dead calm, and a very oppressive atmosphere. At two
o’clock his breathing became very difficult; but afterward he breathed
more freely.

“On Thursday morning his eyes had a dull appearance, remained
half-closed while sleeping, and seemed glassy and death-like. His
stomach rejected all refreshment. At ten and twelve o’clock he took
some ether, which he said did him good. After vomiting, with the
suffering which preceded it, he said, ‘O, how few there are who suffer
such great torment—who die so hard!’ During all the night his
sufferings increased, so that it was inexpressibly painful to behold
his agony—sometimes calling for water, which gave relief only while he
was drinking it, to be followed by the pain of ejecting it. At
midnight he said his fever had returned. His extremities were cold,
his head hot. It was the fever of death. His weakness was such that he
now seldom spoke, except to indicate some want, which he more
frequently did by signs.

“During the forenoon of Friday, the 12th, his countenance was that of
a dying man. About noon he showed some aberration of mind; but it was
only transient. At three o’clock he said, in Burman, to Panapah, a
native servant, ‘It is done; I am going.’ Shortly after, he made a
sign with his hand downward, which was not understood; drawing Mr.
Ranney’s ear close to his mouth, he said, convulsively, ‘Brother
Ranney, will you bury me? bury me?—quick! quick!’ These words were
prompted, perhaps, by the thought of burial in the sea crossing his
mind. Mr. Ranney here being called out for a moment, Dr. Judson spoke
to the servant in English, and also in Burman, of Mrs. Judson, bidding
him ‘take care of poor mistress’; and at fifteen minutes past four
o’clock he breathed his last. ‘His death,’ says Mr. Ranney, ‘was like
falling asleep. Not the movement of a muscle was perceptible, and the
moment of the going out of life was indicated only by his ceasing to
breathe. A gentle pressure of the hand, growing more and more feeble
as life waned, showed the peacefulness of the spirit about to take its
homeward flight.’

“It was first determined to keep the body until Saturday for burial;
but Mr. Ranney was admonished of the necessity of immediate
preparations. A strong plank coffin was soon constructed; several
buckets of sand were poured in to make it sink; and at eight o’clock
in the evening the crew assembled, the larboard port was opened, and
in perfect silence, broken only by the voice of the captain, all that
was mortal of Dr. Judson was committed to the deep, in latitude
thirteen degrees north, longitude ninety-three degrees east, nine days
after their embarkation from Maulmain, and scarcely three days out of
sight of the mountains of Burmah.”

MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY.
_From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853._
]

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

_Sweet Mother._

“The wild south-west monsoon has risen,
On broad gray wings of gloom,
While here from out my dreary prison
I look as from a tomb—alas!
My heart another tomb.

“Upon the low thatched roof the rain
With ceaseless patter falls:
My choicest treasures bear its stain,
Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven
’Twere _only_ on the walls!

“Sweet mother, I am here alone,
In sorrow and in pain;
The sunshine from my heart has flown,
It feels the driving rain—ah, me!
The chill, and mould, and rain.

“Four laggard months have wheeled their round
Since love upon it smiled,
And everything of earth has frowned
On thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend;
Thy weary, suffering child.

“I’d watched my loved one night and day,
Scarce breathing when he slept,
And as my hopes were swept away,
I’d in his bosom wept.—O God!
How had I prayed and wept!

“They bore him from me to the ship
As bearers bear the dead;
I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,
And left him on his bed—alas!
It seemed a coffin bed.

“Then, mother, little Charlie came,
Our beautiful, fair boy,
With my own father’s cherished name,—
But O, he brought no joy,—my child
Brought mourning and no joy.

“His little grave I can not see,
Though weary months have fled
Since pitying lips bent over me,
And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me!
’Tis dreadful to be dead!

“I do not mean for one like me,
So weary, worn, and weak,—
Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be
Even now upon my cheek,—his seal
On form, and brow, and cheek.

“But for a bright-winged bird like him,
To hush his joyous song,
And prisoned in a coffin dim,
Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boy
To join that grisly throng!

“O mother, I can scarcely bear
To think of this to-day:
It was so exquisitely fair,
That little form of clay,—my heart
Still lingers by his clay.

And when for one loved far, far more
Come thickly-gathering tears,
My star of faith is clouded o’er,
I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend,
My heavy weight of fears.

O but to feel thy fond arms twine
Around me once again!
It almost seems those lips of thine
Might kiss away the pain—might soothe
This dull, cold, heavy pain.

“But, gentle mother, through life’s storms
I may not lean on thee;
For helpless, cowering little forms,
Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes!
To have no guide but me.

“With weary foot and broken wing,
With bleeding heart and sore,
Thy dove looks backward sorrowing
But seeks the ark no more—thy breast
Seeks never, never more.

“Sweet mother, for the exile pray,
That loftier faith be given;
Her broken reeds all swept away,
That she may rest in heaven—her soul
Grow strong in Christ and heaven.

“All fearfully, all tearfully,
Alone and sorrowing,
My dim eye lifted to the sky—
Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ!
To Thy dear cross I cling.”

-----

Footnote 67:

About twenty-five dollars.

Footnote 68:

Now the wife of the Rev. T. A. T. Hanna, of Plantsville, Conn.

Footnote 69:

“There is nothing outside of inspiration more touchingly and
sublimely beautiful; nothing which, in its blending of the gushing
tenderness of the man, with the hallowed raptures of the saint,
gives a juster conception of the real elements of heaven.”—_Dr.
Kendrick’s “Life and Letters of Emily C. Judson._”

Footnote 70:

Mr. Judson’s departure caused the deepest sorrow among the disciples
whom he left behind. The following story is told concerning Ko Dwah,
one of the deacons in the native church at Maulmain: “This man was
devotedly attached to Dr. Judson. Both were taken sick at nearly the
same time, so that during their illness they met but once, and the old
deacon could not, with the other disciples, accompany the dying pastor
to the wharf. As soon as Dr. Judson removed, the house which he
occupied, and which had long been condemned by Dr. Morton for its
unhealthiness, was removed. Ko Dwah was not aware of the circumstance,
though living in the vicinity, until the spot was left bare. He then
insisted upon leaving his bed to look upon the ruin. He hobbled on his
staff across the road, ascended the chapel steps with great
difficulty, and then sitting down, rested his chin on his palms, and
burst into a loud, wild sort of lamentation, like the wailing at a
funeral. Neither mind nor body ever recovered from the shock, though
he lingered on for some time longer.”