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.”
[Illustration:
_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!”