But her health still sinking, her husband could not leave her, and she was borne back to the ship. Her life ebbed away so rapidly, that he feared he must consign her to an ocean grave. But a kind Providence ordered it, that her death did not occur till the ship anch.o.r.ed at St.

Helena. Her end was as peaceful as her life had been consistent and exemplary.

"No shade of doubt or fear, or anxiety crossed her mind." So writes her husband: "She had a prevailing preference to depart and be with Christ.

I am longing to depart! she would say; and then the thought of her dear native land, to which she was approaching after an absence of twenty years, and a longing desire to see her son George, her parents, and the friends of her youth, would draw down her ascending soul, and constrain her to say, 'I am in a strait betwixt two; the will of the Lord be done.'

"In regard to her children she ever manifested the most surprising composure and resignation, so much so that I was once constrained to say, you seem to have forgotten the dear little ones we have left behind. 'Can a mother forget'--she replied, and was unable to proceed.

During her last days she spent much time in praying for the early conversion of her children.

"On the evening of the 31st of August, ... I sat alone by the side of her bed, endeavoring to administer relief to the distressed body, and consolation to the departing soul. At two o'clock in the morning, wishing to obtain one more token of recognition, I roused her attention and said, 'Do you still love the Saviour?' 'O yes,' she replied, 'I ever love the Lord Jesus Christ.' I said again, 'Do you still love me?' She replied in the affirmative, by a peculiar expression of her own. 'Then give me one more kiss;' and we exchanged that token of love for the last time. Another hour pa.s.sed,--and she ceased to breathe."

"So fades the summer cloud away; So sinks the gale when storms are o'er; So gently shuts the eye of day; So dies the wave along the sh.o.r.e."

Arrangements were made to carry the body on sh.o.r.e. The Rev. Mr. Bertram from the Island came on board, and was led into the state-room where lay all that was mortal of Mrs. Judson. "Pleasant," he says, "she was even in death. A sweet smile of love beamed on her countenance, as if heavenly grace had stamped it there. The bereaved husband and three weeping children fastened their eyes upon the loved remains, as if they could have looked forever."

The coffin was borne to the sh.o.r.e; the boats forming a kind of procession, their oars beating the waves at measured intervals, as a sort of funeral knell--The earth received her dust, and her bereaved husband continued his sad voyage towards his native land, again a widowed mourner.

PART III.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

OF MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON.

THIRD WIFE OF

REV. ADONIRAM JUDSON, D.D.

REMARKS ON HER GENIUS.--HER EARLY LIFE.--CONVERSION.--EMPLOYMENTS.--TALES AND POEMS.--ACQUAINTANCE WITH DR. JUDSON.--MARRIAGE.--VOYAGE TO INDIA.--BIOGRAPHY OF MRS. S.B.

JUDSON.--POEM WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.--POEM ON THE BIRTH OF AN INFANT.--LINES ADDRESSED TO A BEREAVED FRIEND.--LETTER TO HER CHILDREN.--"PRAYER FOR DEAR PAPA."--POEM ADDRESSED TO HER MOTHER.--HER ACCOUNT OF DR. JUDSON'S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.

Our labor of sketching the lives of the _three_ distinguished women who were permitted to share the happiness and lighten the cares of one of the most worthy and venerated of missionaries, now brings us on delicate ground. The last wife of Dr. Judson, happily for her numerous friends and for his and her children, survives him. Long may she be spared to train those children in the ways of lofty piety, to gladden the wide circle of friends and relatives now anxiously expecting her return to her native land, and to gratify the admirers of her genius with the graceful and eloquent effusions of her pen. Graceful and eloquent they have always been, but of late--touched by a coal from that altar on which she has laid her best sacrifice, _herself_--they have gained a higher and purer flow, awakened by a holier inspiration. The world admired the brilliancy of "f.a.n.n.y Forrester." Christians _love_ the exalted tenderness, the sanctified enthusiasm of Emily C. Judson.

Much as it would gratify us, and her friends to give an extended account of her life, delicacy forbids us to do more than merely to sketch those features in it, which are already the property of much of the reading public. Our outline will necessarily be meagre, but we will enrich it by several of her poems written in India, hitherto scarce published except in perishable newspapers and periodicals. We might indeed make it more interesting by incidents and anecdotes, drawn from those of her early a.s.sociates who love to dwell on the rich promise of her childhood and youth; but by doing so, we should incur the risk of intruding on the sacredness of the family circle; and we forbear.

She was born in Eaton, a town near the centre of the state of New York.

In her childhood, she exhibited an exuberance of imagination that enabled her to delight her young a.s.sociates with tales, which, according to one of them, she would sit up in bed in the morning to write, and then read aloud to them. She would, even then, write verses also, but in this gift she was perhaps inferior to a sister, who died in early life, and whose numerous poems were unfortunately, and to the grief of her family, accidentally lost. At an early period she embraced religion and was baptized by the Rev. Mr. Dean, a missionary to China, then in this country. Her interest was awakened in the heathen, even at that time, and she indulged in many ardent longings to go as a missionary to them.

The late Dr. Kendrick judiciously advised her to pursue the path of duty at home, and quietly wait the leadings and openings of Providence. This advice she followed, and as a means of improving the straitened circ.u.mstances of her family, she left home and engaged as a teacher in a seminary in Utica.

Desirous to increase still farther her mother's limited resources, she determined to employ her pen; and published some short religious tales, which, however, brought her little fame, and small pecuniary emolument.

But in 1844, by a skilful and happy letter to the conductor of the _New York Mirror_, she so attracted the attention of the fastidious and brilliant editor of that magazine, that he engaged her as a constant contributor. This arrangement, though of great pecuniary advantage, was, in a religious view, a snare to her. As a writer of light, graceful stories of a purely worldly character, she had in this country, few rivals, and her name, attached to a tale or a poem, became a pa.s.sport to popular favor. In a letter to her aged pastor, written a year after her marriage, she laments her extreme worldliness at that period, which she says, even led her to be ashamed of her former desire to be a missionary. Yet her writings are marked by purity, and generally inculcated nothing unfriendly either to virtue or religion. But it was the religion of sentiment, and the virtue of the natural heart; of which it must be confessed we find far more in fict.i.tious tales, than in real life. When we consider the n.o.bleness of the motive that led her to seek a popular path to favor and emolument--to increase the comforts of her excellent and honored mother--our censure, were we disposed to indulge any, is disarmed and almost changed to admiration.

During Dr. Judson's visit to America, in 1845, while riding in a public conveyance with Mr. G., who was escorting him to his home in Philadelphia, a story written by "f.a.n.n.y Forrester," fell into the hands of Dr. J. He read it with satisfaction, remarking that he should like to know its author. "You will soon have that pleasure," said Mr. G., "for she is now visiting at my house." An acquaintance then commenced between them, which, notwithstanding the disparity in their years, soon ripened into a warm attachment, and after a severe struggle, she broke, as she says, the innumerable ties that bound her to the fascinating worldly life she had adopted, and consented to become, what in her early religious zeal she had so longed to be--a missionary.

And now the spell of worldliness was indeed broken. With mingled shame and penitence she reviewed her spiritual declensions, and with an humbled, self-distrusting spirit renewed her neglected covenant with the G.o.d and guide of her youth. In Dr. Judson, to whom she was married on the 2d of June, 1846, she found a wise and faithful friend and counsellor, as well as a devoted husband. In his tried and experienced piety, she gained the support and encouragement she needed in her Christian life. Conscious that she had given to the world's service too many of her n.o.ble gifts, she commenced a work of an exclusively religious character and tendency, the biography of her predecessor, the second Mrs. Judson. In one year it was completed, and in speaking of it in a letter from India, whither she had accompanied Dr. J. immediately after their marriage, she playfully remarked that her husband was pleased with it, and she cared little whether any one else liked it or not.

On her pa.s.sage to India, Mrs. Judson pa.s.sed in sight of that island which must ever attract the gaze of men of every clime and nation,--the rocky prison and tomb of the conqueror of nations, Napoleon Bonaparte.

But to her the island had more tender a.s.sociations; awakened more touching recollections. It was as the grave of Sarah Judson, that her successor gazed long and tearfully on the Isle of St. Helena; and she thus embodied her feelings in song.

LINES WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.

Blow softly, gales! a tender sigh Is flung upon your wing; Lose not the treasure as ye fly, Bear it where love and beauty lie, Silent and withering.

Flow gently, waves! a tear is laid Upon your heaving breast; Leave it within yon dark rock's shade Or weave it in an iris braid, To crown the Christian's rest

Bloom, ocean isle, lone ocean isle!

Thou keep'st a jewel rare; Let rugged rock, and dark defile, Above the slumbering stranger smile And deck her couch with care.

Weep, ye bereaved! a dearer head, Ne'er left the pillowing breast; The good, the pure, the lovely fled, When mingling with the shadowy dead, She meekly went to rest.

Mourn, Burmah, mourn! a bow which spanned Thy cloud has pa.s.sed away; A flower has withered on thy sand, A pitying spirit left thy strand, A saint has ceased to pray.

Angels rejoice, another string Has caught the strains above.

Rejoice, rejoice! a new-fledged wing Around the Throne is hovering, In sweet, glad, wondering love.

Blow, blow, ye gales! wild billows roll!

Unfurl the canvas wide!

O! where she labored lies our goal: Weak, timid, frail, yet would my soul Fain be to hers allied.

_Ship Faneuil Hall_, Sept. 1846.

On the birth of an infant, she expressed her first maternal feelings, in verses of such exquisite beauty, that they can never be omitted in any collection of the gems of poetry--least of all in any collection of _her_ poems.

The following are the verses alluded to:

MY BIRD.

Ere last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest And folded, oh so lovingly!

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest O G.o.d, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest!

This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, To me--to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue, from mine-- This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room-- I tremble with delicious fear; The future with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity are here.

Doubts--hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, O my G.o.d! one earnest prayer:-- Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel plumage there!