His only hope now lay in a long sea voyage. He was never so happy as when upon the deep. The ocean breezes had never failed to invigorate him. But it was a sore trial to part with his wife and children when there was but little prospect of ever seeing them again. There was, however, no alternative. A French barque, the _Aristide Marie_, was to sail from Maulmain on the 3d of April. The dying missionary was carried on board by his weeping disciples, accompanied only by Mr. Ranney, of the Maulmain mission. There were unfortunate delays in going down the river; so that several days were lost. Meantime that precious life was ebbing rapidly away. It was not until Monday, the 8th, that the vessel got out to sea. Then came head winds and sultry weather, and after four days and nights of intense agony, Mr. Judson breathed his last on the 12th of April, and on the same day his body was buried in the sea. He died within a week from the time that he parted with his wife, and almost four months of terrible suspense elapsed before she learned of his death. The tidings were sent to her by the Rev. Dr. Mackay, a Scotch Presbyterian minister of Calcutta. Who can fathom her experience of suffering during those weary months of waiting! On the 22d of April, within three weeks of the time when she said farewell to her husband, exactly ten days after his body without her knowledge had found its resting-place in the sea, she gave birth to her second child, whom she named Charles, for her father. But the same day his little spirit, as though unwilling to linger amid such scenes of desolation, took its upward flight to be forever united with the parent who had entered the gates of Paradise only a little in advance. The same lyre that had echoed such glad music upon the birth of Emily, breathed the following soft, pensive strains of sorrow:
_Angel Charlie._
“He came—a beauteous vision— Then vanished from my sight, His wing one moment cleaving The blackness of my night; My glad ear caught its rustle, Then sweeping by, he stole The dew-drop that his coming Had cherished in my soul.
“Oh, he had been my solace When grief my spirit swayed, And on his fragile being Had tender hopes been stayed; Where thought, where feeling lingered His form was sure to glide, And in the lone night-watches ’Twas ever by my side.
“He came; but as the blossom Its petals closes up, And hides them from the tempest, Within its sheltering cup, So he his spirit gathered Back to his frightened breast, And passed from earth’s grim threshold, To be the Saviour’s guest.
“My boy—ah, me! the sweetness, The anguish of that word!— My boy, when in strange night-dreams My slumbering soul is stirred; When music floats around me, When soft lips touch my brow, And whisper gentle greetings, Oh, tell me, is it thou?
“I know, by one sweet token, My Charlie is not dead; One golden clue he left me, As on his track he sped; Were he some gem or blossom But fashioned for to-day, My love would slowly perish With his dissolving clay.
“Oh, by this deathless yearning, Which is not idly given; By the delicious nearness My spirit feels to heaven; By dreams that throng my night sleep, By visions of the day, By whispers when I’m erring, By promptings when I pray;—
“I know this life so cherished, Which sprang beneath my heart, Which formed of my own being So beautiful a part; This precious, winsome creature, My unfledged, voiceless dove, Lifts now a seraph’s pinion And warbles lays of love.
“Oh, I would not recall thee, My glorious angel boy! Thou needest not my bosom, Rare bird of light and joy; Here dash I down the tear-drops, Still gathering in my eyes; Blest—oh! how blest!—in adding A seraph to the skies!”
The following account of the closing scenes in Dr. Judson’s life was communicated to his sister by Mrs. Judson:
“MAULMAIN, _September_ 20, 1850.
“MY DEAR SISTER: Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful bereavement, which, though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the account of your brother’s last days on board the _Aristide Marie_, in a letter written by Mr. Ranney, from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversations with Mr. Ranney and the Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so—that I was not permitted to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the pain which I at first felt is gradually yielding to gratitude for the inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.