“During the forenoon of Friday, the 12th, his countenance was that of a dying man. About noon he showed some aberration of mind; but it was only transient. At three o’clock he said, in Burman, to Panapah, a native servant, ‘It is done; I am going.’ Shortly after, he made a sign with his hand downward, which was not understood; drawing Mr. Ranney’s ear close to his mouth, he said, convulsively, ‘Brother Ranney, will you bury me? bury me?—quick! quick!’ These words were prompted, perhaps, by the thought of burial in the sea crossing his mind. Mr. Ranney here being called out for a moment, Dr. Judson spoke to the servant in English, and also in Burman, of Mrs. Judson, bidding him ‘take care of poor mistress’; and at fifteen minutes past four o’clock he breathed his last. ‘His death,’ says Mr. Ranney, ‘was like falling asleep. Not the movement of a muscle was perceptible, and the moment of the going out of life was indicated only by his ceasing to breathe. A gentle pressure of the hand, growing more and more feeble as life waned, showed the peacefulness of the spirit about to take its homeward flight.’
“It was first determined to keep the body until Saturday for burial; but Mr. Ranney was admonished of the necessity of immediate preparations. A strong plank coffin was soon constructed; several buckets of sand were poured in to make it sink; and at eight o’clock in the evening the crew assembled, the larboard port was opened, and in perfect silence, broken only by the voice of the captain, all that was mortal of Dr. Judson was committed to the deep, in latitude thirteen degrees north, longitude ninety-three degrees east, nine days after their embarkation from Maulmain, and scarcely three days out of sight of the mountains of Burmah.”
[Illustration:
MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON AND HER FAMILY. _From an Ambrotype taken at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1853._ ]
The record of these last days may be fittingly closed, by a poem written by Mrs. Judson after her husband’s departure from Maulmain:
_Sweet Mother._
“The wild south-west monsoon has risen, On broad gray wings of gloom, While here from out my dreary prison I look as from a tomb—alas! My heart another tomb.
“Upon the low thatched roof the rain With ceaseless patter falls: My choicest treasures bear its stain, Mould gathers on the walls—would Heaven ’Twere _only_ on the walls!
“Sweet mother, I am here alone, In sorrow and in pain; The sunshine from my heart has flown, It feels the driving rain—ah, me! The chill, and mould, and rain.
“Four laggard months have wheeled their round Since love upon it smiled, And everything of earth has frowned On thy poor stricken child,—sweet friend; Thy weary, suffering child.
“I’d watched my loved one night and day, Scarce breathing when he slept, And as my hopes were swept away, I’d in his bosom wept.—O God! How had I prayed and wept!
“They bore him from me to the ship As bearers bear the dead; I kissed his speechless, quivering lip, And left him on his bed—alas! It seemed a coffin bed.
“Then, mother, little Charlie came, Our beautiful, fair boy, With my own father’s cherished name,— But O, he brought no joy,—my child Brought mourning and no joy.
“His little grave I can not see, Though weary months have fled Since pitying lips bent over me, And whispered, ‘He is dead.’—Ah, me! ’Tis dreadful to be dead!
“I do not mean for one like me, So weary, worn, and weak,— Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be Even now upon my cheek,—his seal On form, and brow, and cheek.
“But for a bright-winged bird like him, To hush his joyous song, And prisoned in a coffin dim, Join death’s pale phantom throng,—my boy To join that grisly throng!
“O mother, I can scarcely bear To think of this to-day: It was so exquisitely fair, That little form of clay,—my heart Still lingers by his clay.
And when for one loved far, far more Come thickly-gathering tears, My star of faith is clouded o’er, I sink beneath my fears,—sweet friend, My heavy weight of fears.
O but to feel thy fond arms twine Around me once again! It almost seems those lips of thine Might kiss away the pain—might soothe This dull, cold, heavy pain.
“But, gentle mother, through life’s storms I may not lean on thee; For helpless, cowering little forms, Cling trustingly to me.—Poor babes! To have no guide but me.
“With weary foot and broken wing, With bleeding heart and sore, Thy dove looks backward sorrowing But seeks the ark no more—thy breast Seeks never, never more.
“Sweet mother, for the exile pray, That loftier faith be given; Her broken reeds all swept away, That she may rest in heaven—her soul Grow strong in Christ and heaven.
“All fearfully, all tearfully, Alone and sorrowing, My dim eye lifted to the sky— Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ! To Thy dear cross I cling.”
-----
Footnote 67:
About twenty-five dollars.
Footnote 68:
Now the wife of the Rev. T. A. T. Hanna, of Plantsville, Conn.
Footnote 69: