Chapter I

EARLY YEARS.
1788-1809.

The traveller who visits Malden, Massachusetts, one of the picturesque suburban towns of Boston, may find in the Baptist meeting-house a marble tablet, bearing the following inscription:

IN MEMORIAM.
REV. ADONIRAM JUDSON.
BORN AUG. 9, 1788.
DIED APRIL 12, 1850.
MALDEN, HIS BIRTHPLACE.
THE OCEAN, HIS SEPULCHRE.
CONVERTED BURMANS, AND
THE BURMAN BIBLE,
HIS MONUMENT.
HIS RECORD IS ON HIGH.

An old wooden house embosomed among the trees is still pointed out as the birthplace of Adoniram Judson. His father, who also bore the quaint, scriptural name of Adoniram, was a Congregationalist minister, born in Woodbury, Connecticut, in June, 1752. He was married November 23, 1786, to Abigail Brown, who was born at Tiverton, Rhode Island, December 15, 1759. Soon after his marriage he settled in Malden, Massachusetts, and here his eldest son, Adoniram, was born.

The boy was very precocious, learning to read when he was only three years old. While his father was absent on a journey, his mother conceived the idea of teaching her child to read, in order that she might give her husband an agreeable surprise on his return. She succeeded so well that upon his father’s return he saluted him by reading a whole chapter in the Bible.

His affection for his father must have been deeply tinged with awe; for the elder Adoniram was a stern man, and very strict in his domestic administration. One who saw him in his later life, when he was over seventy years of age, says:

“He was, as I remember him, a man of decidedly imposing appearance.
His stature was rather above the average. His white hair, erect
position, grave utterance, and somewhat taciturn manner, together with
the position he naturally took in society, left one somewhat at a loss
whether to class him with a patriarch of the Hebrews or a censor of
the Romans. He was through life esteemed a man of inflexible integrity
and uniform consistency of Christian character.”

To the influence of such a father perhaps were due the stately courtesy that characterized Mr. Judson’s social intercourse throughout his whole life, and the dignity of style which pervaded even his most familiar letters.

His father stimulated his ambition to the utmost. He seems early to have formed the hope that his boy was to become a great man, and he took no pains to hide this expectation; so that even in childhood Adoniram’s heart came to be full of worldly ambition, which in subsequent years had to be nailed to the cross. For if a man can sink the desire to be great in a passion for doing good, then his greatness really begins. “No man,” says Carlyle, “rises so high as he who knows not whither he is going.”

The family lived in Malden until Adoniram was about four and a half years old. During that time his sister, Abigail Brown Judson, was born, to become the companion of his childhood and his life-long confidante. She still survives him; and in the old homestead at Plymouth, at the age of more than ninety years, awaits a reunion with that brother of whose “affectionate tenderness” she has still a “vivid recollection.” She remembers hearing her parents relate how even in those early childhood days in Malden, when her brother was only four years old, he used to gather together the children of the neighborhood to play church, he officiating as minister; and that even then his favorite hymn was the one beginning, “Go preach my Gospel, saith the Lord.”

In January, 1793, the family removed to Wenham, Massachusetts, a village about twenty miles north-east of Boston. Here Adoniram lived until he was twelve years old. Here his brother Elnathan, who became a surgeon in the United States Navy, was born May 28, 1794. Here, too, when Adoniram was eight years old, his sister Mary was born, and died six months later. The loss of this little sister must have marked an epoch in his boyhood, for memorable is the hour when the keen ploughshare of sorrow tears up the fresh turf of a child’s heart.

Wenham, too, was the scene of many of the following reminiscences, for which we are indebted to the pen of Mrs. E. C. Judson:

“Adoniram was about seven years old, when, having been duly instructed
that the earth is a spherical body, and that it revolves around the
sun, it became a serious question in his mind whether or not the sun
moved at all. He might have settled the point by asking his father or
mother; but that would have spoiled all his pleasant speculations, and
probably would have been the very last thing to occur to him. His
little sister, whom alone he consulted, said the sun did move, for she
could see it; but he had learned already, in this matter, to distrust
the evidence of his senses, and he talked so wisely about positive
proof, that she was astonished and silenced. Soon after this, he was
one day missed about midday; and as he had not been seen for several
hours, his father became uneasy and went in search of him. He was
found in a field, at some distance from the house, stretched on his
back, his hat with a circular hole cut in the crown, laid over his
face, and his swollen eyes almost blinded with the intense light and
heat. He only told his father that he was looking at the sun; but he
assured his sister that he had solved the problem with regard to the
sun’s moving, though she never could comprehend the process by which
he arrived at the result.

“He was noted among his companions for uncommon acuteness in the
solution of charades and enigmas, and retained a great store of them
in his memory for the purpose of puzzling his school-fellows. On one
occasion he found in a newspaper an enigma rather boastfully set
forth, and accompanied by a challenge for a solution. He felt very
sure that he had ‘guessed riddles as hard as that,’ and gave himself
no rest until he had discovered a satisfactory answer. This he copied
out in as fair a hand as possible, addressed it to the editor, and,
with no confidante but his sister, conveyed it to the post-office. But
the postmaster supposed it to be some mischievous prank of the
minister’s son, and he accordingly placed the letter in the hands of
the father. The poor boy’s surprise and discomfiture may be imagined
when he saw it paraded on the table after tea. ‘Is that yours,
Adoniram?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘How came you to write it?’ Silence. ‘What is
it about?’ Falteringly, ‘Please read it, father.’ ‘I do not read other
people’s letters. Break the seal, and read it yourself.’ Adoniram
broke the seal and mumbled over the contents, then placed the letter
in his father’s hands. He read it, called for the newspaper which had
suggested it, and after reading and re-reading both, laid them on the
table, crossed his hands on his knees, and looked intently into the
fire. Meantime Adoniram stood silently watching his countenance,
speculating on the chances of his being treated as a culprit, or
praised for his acuteness. But the father woke from his reverie, the
subject of conversation was changed, and the letter never heard of
afterward. The next morning Adoniram’s father gravely informed him
that he had purchased for his use a book of riddles, a very common
one, but, as soon as he had solved all that it contained, he should
have more difficult books. ‘You are a very acute boy, Adoniram,’ he
added, patting him on the head with unusual affection, ‘and I expect
you to become a great man.’ Adoniram seized upon the book of riddles
joyfully, and was a good deal surprised and disappointed to find it
the veritable arithmetic which the larger boys in Master Dodge’s
school were studying. But then his father had praised him, and if
there was anything puzzling in the arithmetic, he was sure he should
like it; and so he prepared to enter upon the study with alacrity.

“Before reaching his tenth year, he had gained quite a reputation for
good scholarship, especially in arithmetic. A gentleman residing in
the neighboring town of Beverly sent him a problem, with the offer of
a dollar for the solution. Adoniram immediately shut himself in his
chamber. The reward was tempting; but, more important still, his
reputation was at stake. On the morning of the second day he was
called from his seclusion to amuse his little brother, who was ill. He
went reluctantly, but without murmuring, for the government of his
parents was of a nature that no child would think of resisting. His
task was to build a cob-house. He laid an unusually strong foundation,
with unaccountable slowness and hesitation, and was very deliberately
proceeding with the superstructure, when suddenly he exclaimed,
‘That’s it. I’ve got it!’ and sending the materials for the half-built
house rolling about the room, he hurried off to his chamber to record
the result. The problem was solved, the dollar was won, and the boy’s
reputation established.

“At the age of ten he was sent to one Captain Morton, of whom he took
lessons in navigation, in which he is said to have made decided
progress. In the grammar-school he was noted for his proficiency in
the Greek language. His school-mates nicknamed him Virgil, or (in
allusion to the peculiar style of the hat which he wore, as well as to
his studious habits) ‘old Virgil dug up.’ As a boy, he was spirited,
self-confident, and exceedingly enthusiastic, very active and
energetic, but fonder of his books than of play. His sister has a
vivid recollection of his affectionate tenderness toward her, and of
his great kindness to inferior animals. He was very fond of desultory
reading; and as there were no books for children at that period, he
alternated between the books of theology found in his father’s library
and the novels of Richardson and Fielding, or the plays of Ben Jonson,
which he was able to borrow in the neighborhood. It is not probable
that his father encouraged this latter class of reading; but the
habits of self-dependence, which he had thought proper to cultivate in
his son, left his hours of leisure mostly untrammelled; and seeing the
greediness with which the boy occasionally devoured books of the
gravest character, it very likely had not occurred to him that he
could feel the least possible interest in any work of the imagination.

“Before Adoniram was twelve years of age, he had heard visitors at his
father’s talk a great deal of a new exposition of the Apocalypse,
which they pronounced a work of rare interest. Now, the Revelation was
the book that, of all others in the Bible, he delighted most to read;
and he had searched the few commentators his father possessed without
getting much light upon its mysteries. The new exposition was owned by
a very awe-inspiring gentleman in the neighborhood; but Adoniram felt
that he _must_ have it, and after combating a long time with his
bashfulness, he at last determined on begging the loan of it. He
presented himself in the great man’s library, and was coldly and
sternly refused. For once, his grief and mortification were so great
that he could not conceal the affair from his father. He received more
sympathy than he anticipated. ‘Not lend it to you!’ said the good man,
indignantly; ‘I wish _he_ could understand it half as well. You shall
have books, Adoniram, just as many as you can read, and I’ll go to
Boston myself for them.’ He performed his promise, but the desired
work on the Apocalypse, perhaps for judicious reasons, was not
obtained.”

In the year 1800 the family removed to Braintree, and two years later, when Adoniram was fourteen years old, took up their abode in the old historic town of Plymouth. In 1804 he entered Providence College—subsequently called Brown University—one year in advance.

During his college course he was a hard student; and in 1807, at the age of nineteen, was graduated the valedictorian of his class, in spite of the fact that for six weeks of the Senior year he was absent, engaged in teaching school in Plymouth. He was ambitious to excel; and a classmate says of him, he has “no recollection of his ever failing, or even hesitating, in recitation.” He had a powerful rival in his friend Bailey,[1] and this probably added zest to his ambition. When he received the highest appointment in the commencement exercises, his delight knew no bounds. He hurried to his room, and wrote, “Dear father, I have got it. Your affectionate son, A. J.” He then took a circuitous route to the post-office, that he might quiet the beatings of his heart, and appear with propriety before his classmates, and especially before his rival friend.

To his circumspect and studious behavior while in college, a letter to his father from the President of the College bears unequivocal witness:

“BROWN UNIVERSITY, _April_ 30, 1805.

“REV. SIR: Notwithstanding the greatness of my present hurry, I must
drop you a word respecting your son; and this, I can assure you, is
not by way of complaint. A uniform propriety of conduct, as well as an
intense application to study, distinguishes his character. Your
expectations of him, however sanguine, must certainly be gratified. I
most heartily congratulate you, my dear sir, on that charming prospect
which you have exhibited in this very amiable and promising son; and I
most heartily pray that the Father of mercies may make him now, while
a youth, a son in his spiritual family, and give him an earnest of the
inheritance of the saints in light.

“I am, very respectfully,
“Your friend and servant,
“ASA MESSER.”

In the autumn of 1807, young Judson opened in Plymouth a private Academy, which he taught for nearly a year. During this time he also published two text-books: “The Elements of English Grammar,” and “The Young Lady’s Arithmetic.”

But the most important event of this period of his life was his conversion. In a condensed journal of his, entitled “A Record of Dates and Events pertaining to the Life of Adoniram Judson,”—a valuable document still preserved in autograph, and reproduced in the Appendix—may be found the following entry: “1808, Nov. Began to entertain a hope of having received the regenerating influences of the Holy Spirit.”[2]

From his earliest years he had indeed breathed a thoroughly Christian atmosphere. He could truly have said with St. Augustine, “This name of my Saviour, Thy Son, had my tender heart, even with my mother’s milk, devoutly drunk in, and deeply cherished; and whatsoever was without that name, though never so learned, polished, or true, took not entire hold of me.”

The following reminiscences of his youth, by Mrs. E. C. Judson, show that years before he had given serious thought to the subject of personal religion:

“When about fourteen years of age, his studies were interrupted by a
serious attack of illness, by which he was reduced to a state of
extreme weakness, and for a long time his recovery was doubtful. It
was more than a year before he was able to resume his customary
occupations. Previous to this, he had been too actively engaged to
devote much time to thought; but as soon as the violence of the
disease subsided, he spent many long days and nights in reflecting on
his future course. His plans were of the most extravagantly ambitious
character. Now he was an orator, now a poet, now a statesman; but
whatever his character or profession, he was sure in his
castle-building to attain to the highest eminence. After a time, one
thought crept into his mind, and embittered all his musings. Suppose
he should attain to the very highest pinnacle of which human nature is
capable; what then? Could he hold his honors forever? His favorites of
other ages had long since been turned to dust, and what was it to them
that the world still praised them? What would it be to him, when a
hundred years had gone by, that America had never known his equal? He
did not wonder that Alexander wept when at the summit of his ambition;
he felt very sure that he should have wept too. Then he would become
alarmed at the extent of his own wicked soarings, and try to comfort
himself with the idea that it was all the result of the fever in his
brain.

“One day his mind reverted to religious pursuits. Yes, an eminent
divine was very well, though he should of course prefer something more
brilliant. Gradually, and without his being aware of his own train of
thought, his mind instituted a comparison between the great worldly
divine, toiling for the same perishable objects as his other
favorites, and the humble minister of the Gospel, laboring only to
please God and benefit his fellow-men. There was (so he thought) a
sort of sublimity about that, after all. Surely the world was all
wrong, or such a self-abjuring man would be its hero. Ah, but the good
man had a reputation more enduring. Yes, yes, his fame was sounded
before him as he entered the other world; and that was the only fame
worthy of the possession, because the only one that triumphed over the
grave. Suddenly, in the midst of his self-gratulation, the words
flashed across his mind, ‘Not unto us, not unto us, but to Thy name be
the glory.’ He was confounded. Not that he had actually made himself
the representative of this last kind of greatness; it was not
sufficiently to his taste for that; but he had ventured on dangerous
ground, and he was startled by a flood of feelings that had till now
remained dormant. He had always said and thought, so far as he had
thought anything about it, that he wished to become truly religious;
but now religion seemed so entirely opposed to all his ambitious
plans, that he was afraid to look into his heart, lest he should
discover what he did not like to confess, even to himself—that he did
not want to become a Christian. He was fully awake to the vanity of
worldly pursuits, and was, on the whole, prepared to yield the palm of
excellence to religious ones; but his father had often said he would
one day be a great man, and a great man he had resolved to be.”

During his college course he began to cherish skeptical views.

“It was at this period that French infidelity was sweeping over the
land like a flood; and free inquiry in matters of religion was
supposed to constitute part of the education of every man of spirit.
Young Judson did not escape the contamination. In the class above him
was a young man by the name of E——who was amiable, talented, witty,
exceedingly agreeable in person and manners, but a confirmed Deist. A
very strong friendship sprang up between the two young men, founded on
similar tastes and sympathies; and Judson soon became, at least
professedly, as great an unbeliever as his friend. The subject of a
profession was often discussed between them. At one time they proposed
entering the law, because it afforded so wide a scope for political
ambition; and at another, they discussed their own dramatic powers,
with a view to writing plays.

“Immediately on closing the school at Plymouth, Judson set out on a
tour through the Northern States. After visiting some of the New
England States, he left the horse with which his father had furnished
him with an uncle in Sheffield, Connecticut, and proceeded to Albany
to see the wonder of the world, the newly-invented Robert Fulton
steamer. She was about proceeding on her second trip to New York, and
he gladly took passage in her. The magnificent scenery of the Hudson
had then excited comparatively little attention, and its novelty and
sublimity could not fail to make a deep and lasting impression on one
of Judson’s ardent and adventurous spirit. Indeed, during his last
illness, he described it with all the enthusiasm that he might have
done in his youth. His name was frequently mistaken for that of
Johnson; and it occurred to him that, in the novel scenes before him,
he might as well use this convenient disguise, in order to see as
deeply into the world as possible. He therefore, without actually
giving out the name with distinctness, or ever writing it down, became
Mr. Johnson. He had not been long in New York before he contrived to
attach himself to a theatrical company, not with the design of
entering upon the stage, but partly for the purpose of familiarizing
himself with its regulations, in case he should enter upon his
literary projects, and partly from curiosity and love of adventure.[3]

“Before setting out upon his tour he had unfolded his infidel
sentiments to his father, and had been treated with the severity
natural to a masculine mind that has never doubted, and to a parent
who, after having made innumerable sacrifices for the son of his pride
and his love, sees him rush recklessly on to his own destruction. His
mother was none the less distressed, and she wept, and prayed, and
expostulated. He knew his superiority to his father in argument; but
he had nothing to oppose to his mother’s tears and warnings, and they
followed him now wherever he went. He knew that he was on the verge of
such a life as he despised. For the world he would not see a young
brother in his perilous position; but ‘I,’ he thought, ‘am in no
danger. I am only seeing the world—the dark side of it, as well as the
bright; and I have too much self-respect to do anything mean or
vicious.’ After seeing what he wished of New York, he returned to
Sheffield for his horse, intending to pursue his journey westward. His
uncle, Rev. Ephraim Judson, was absent, and a very pious young man
occupied his place. His conversation was characterized by a godly
sincerity, a solemn but gentle earnestness, which addressed itself to
the heart, and Judson went away deeply impressed.

“The next night he stopped at a country inn. The landlord mentioned,
as he lighted him to his room, that he had been obliged to place him
next door to a young man who was exceedingly ill, probably in a dying
state; but he hoped that it would occasion him no uneasiness. Judson
assured him that, beyond pity for the poor sick man, he should have no
feeling whatever, and that now, having heard of the circumstance, his
pity would not of course be increased by the nearness of the object.
But it was, nevertheless, a very restless night. Sounds came from the
sick-chamber—sometimes the movements of the watchers, sometimes the
groans of the sufferer; but it was not these which disturbed him. He
thought of what the landlord had said—the stranger was probably in a
dying state; and was he prepared? Alone, and in the dead of night, he
felt a blush of shame steal over him at the question, for it proved
the shallowness of his philosophy. What would his late companions say
to his weakness? The clear-minded, intellectual, witty E——, what would
he say to such consummate boyishness? But still his thoughts _would_
revert to the sick man. Was he a Christian, calm and strong in the
hope of a glorious immortality? or was he shuddering upon the brink of
a dark, unknown future? Perhaps he was a ‘freethinker,’ educated by
Christian parents, and prayed over by a Christian mother. The landlord
had described him as a _young_ man; and in imagination he was forced
to place himself upon the dying bed, though he strove with all his
might against it. At last morning came, and the bright flood of light
which it poured into his chamber dispelled all his ‘superstitious
illusions.’ As soon as he had risen, he went in search of the
landlord, and inquired for his fellow-lodger. ‘He is dead,’ was the
reply. ‘Dead!’ ‘Yes, he is gone, poor fellow! The doctor said he would
probably not survive the night.’ ‘Do you know who he was?’ ‘O, yes; it
was a young man from Providence College—a very fine fellow; his name
was E——.’ Judson was completely stunned. After hours had passed, he
knew not how, he attempted to pursue his journey. But one single
thought occupied his mind, and the words, Dead! lost! lost! were
continually ringing in his ears. He knew the religion of the Bible to
be true; he felt its truth; and he was in despair. In this state of
mind he resolved to abandon his scheme of travelling, and at once
turned his horse’s head toward Plymouth.”

He arrived at Plymouth September 22, 1808, and in October of the same year entered the Theological Institution at Andover, one year in advance. As he was neither a professor of religion nor a candidate for the ministry, he was admitted only by special favor. On the 2d of December, 1808, he made a solemn dedication of himself to God; and on the 28th of May, 1809, at the age of twenty-one, joined the Third Congregational church in Plymouth. His conversion involved in itself a consecration to the Christian ministry. How complete this consecration was, may be seen in the following extract from a letter to Miss Ann Hasseltine:

“ANDOVER, _December_ 30, 1810. Sunday Eve.

“I have been through the labors of another Sabbath. A preacher can say
with Pope, ‘E’en Sunday shines no day of rest to me.’ Brother Nott
preaches this evening; but, on account of a cold, I stay at home. I am
persuaded that the chief reason why we do not enjoy religion is, that
we do not try to enjoy it. We are not like a good man who resolved
that he _would_ grow in grace. We pervert the doctrine of our
dependence to indulging indolence and sinful ease. I have enjoyed some
religion to-day, and I think by means of resolving in the morning that
I would avoid everything displeasing to God. I have some hope that I
shall be enabled to keep this in mind, in whatever I do—_Is it
pleasing to God?_ To assist my memory, I have used the expedient of
inscribing it on several articles which frequently meet my sight. Is
it not a good plan? But after all, it will be of no use, unless I
resolve, in divine strength, instantly to obey the decision of
conscience.”

“_December 31._ Monday Eve.

“It is now half after nine, and I have been sitting fifteen minutes
with my pen in hand, thinking how to begin. I have this day attained
more than ever to what I suppose Christians mean by the enjoyment of
God. I have had pleasant seasons at the throne of God. Those lines of
Watts have been very sweet to me:

“‘Till Thou hast brought me to my home,
Where fears and doubts can never come,
Thy countenance let me often see,
And often Thou shalt hear from me.’
(_78th of 1st Book._)

God is waiting to be gracious, and is willing to make us happy in
religion, if we would not run away from Him. We refuse to open the
window-shutters, and complain that it is dark. We grieve the Holy
Spirit by little sins, and thus lose our only support. Perhaps the
secret of living a holy life is to avoid everything which will
displease God and grieve the Spirit, and to be strictly attentive to
the means of grace. God has promised that He will regard the man that
is of a broken and contrite spirit, and trembleth at His word. He has
promised that they that wait upon Him shall renew their strength. The
Almighty, the immutably faithful, has made this promise. He is not a
man, that He should lie, and His arm is not of flesh. Wait, then, upon
the Lord. Of how much real happiness we cheat our souls by preferring
a trifle to God! We have a general intention of living religion; but
we intend to begin to-morrow or next year. The present moment we
prefer giving to the world, ‘A little more sleep, a little more
slumber.’ Well, a little more sleep, and we shall sleep in the grave.
A few days, and our work will be done. And when it is once done, it is
done to all eternity. A life once spent is irrevocable. It will remain
to be contemplated through eternity. If it be marked with sins, the
marks will be indelible. If it has been a useless life, it can never
be improved. Such it will stand forever and ever. The same may be said
of each day. When it is once past, it is gone forever. All the marks
which we put upon it, it will exhibit forever. It will never become
less true that such a day was spent in such a manner. Each day will
not only be a witness of our conduct, but will affect our everlasting
destiny. No day will lose its share of influence in determining where
shall be our seat in heaven. How shall we then wish to see each day
marked with usefulness! It will then be too late to mend its
appearance. It is too late to mend the days that are past. The future
is in our power. Let us, then, each morning, resolve to send the day
into eternity in such a garb as we shall wish it to wear forever. And
at night let us reflect that one more day is irrevocably gone,
indelibly marked. Good-night.”

-----

Footnote 1:

The late Hon. John Bailey, member of Congress from Massachusetts.

Footnote 2:

See Appendix A.

Footnote 3:

The natural tenderness of the sister from whom some of these
reminiscences have been derived, has cast a mantle of charity over
this episode in Mr. Judson’s life. There is reason to believe that
his course was more wayward than is here indicated.

An English gentleman who, many years after, was his fellow-prisoner
in Ava, writes as follows: “I will give the story as I heard it from
the actor’s own mouth, and as nearly as I can recollect them, in his
words: ‘In my early days of wildness I joined a band of strolling
players. We lived a reckless, vagabond life, finding lodgings where
we could, and bilking the landlord where we found opportunity—in
other words, running up a score, and then decamping without paying
the reckoning. Before leaving America, when the enormity of this
vicious course rested with a depressing weight on my mind, I made a
second tour over the same ground, carefully making amends to all
whom I had injured.’”

This, though rather a coarse statement of the case, seems to the
author in the main truthful. The author does not wish to gloze over
this episode in Mr. Judson’s life. Such a wrong course, succeeded by
thorough repentance and reparation, he thinks quite characteristic
of Mr. Judson’s positive nature.