“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.