“In the spring And glory of his being he went forth From the embraces of devoted friends, From ease and quiet happiness.... He went forth Strengthen’d to suffer—gifted to subdue The might of human passion—to pass on Quietly to the sacrifice of all The lofty hopes of boyhood, and to turn The high ambition written on that brow, From its first dream of power and human fame, Unto a task of seeming lowliness— Yet God-like in his purpose.”[4]
It is a mistake to suppose that a dull and second-rate man is good enough for the heathen. The worst-off need the very best we have. God gave His best, even His only-begotten Son, in order to redeem a lost world. The most darkened and degraded souls need the best thinking. When our Blessed Lord was presenting His Gospel to a fallen Samaritan woman, He seems to have preserved His best thought for her; and in order to make a bad woman good, utters in her ears the most august philosophical thesis to be found in any tongue: “God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.” Missions have had their grandest successes when England’s best scholars, like Bishop Patteson and Bishop Selwyn, have devoted their splendid talents to the conversion of the fiercest and the lowest savages of Micronesia and New Zealand. It would be a sad day for American Christians if they should ever deserve Nehemiah’s reproach: “Their nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord.” Christianity will advance over the earth with long, swift strides when the churches are ready to send their best men, and the best men are ready to go.
Judson fully appreciated the dangers and hardships of a missionary life. He seems to have counted the cost. After one of the battles in the Franco-Prussian war, the German Emperor, William, had his attention drawn to one of the wounded soldiers on the field. The King held out his hand to the powder-stained private, and asked him what his trade was. The man said, “I am a Doctor of Philosophy, your Majesty.” “Well, you must have learned to bear your wounds philosophically,” said the King. “Yes,” replied the soldier, “that I had already made up my mind to.” Young Judson, before he had resolved to be a missionary, had _made up his mind to_ the sufferings and privations which he well knew were in store for him. He thus wrote to Mr. Hasseltine, of Bradford, when asking for his daughter’s hand:
“I have now to ask whether you can consent to part with your daughter early next spring, to see her no more in this world? whether you can consent to her departure to a heathen land, and her subjection to the hardships and sufferings of a missionary life? whether you can consent to her exposure to the dangers of the ocean; to the fatal influence of the southern climate of India; to every kind of want and distress; to degradation, insult, persecution, and perhaps a violent death? Can you consent to all this, for the sake of Him who left His heavenly home and died for her and for you; for the sake of perishing, immortal souls; for the sake of Zion and the glory of God? Can you consent to all this, in hope of soon meeting your daughter in the world of glory, with a crown of righteousness brightened by the acclamations of praise which shall redound to her Saviour from heathens saved, through her means, from eternal woe and despair?”
These same anticipations of missionary sorrows pervade a pathetic letter written by him to Miss Ann Hasseltine, during the period of their betrothal:
“_January 1, 1811._ Tuesday Morn.