The doctor's predictions proved correct; Mrs. Judson partially recovered from this attack, although in August her husband writes: "Emily's health is very delicate—her hold on life very precarious."

Alas! his own hold on life was more precarious still. In the following spring, the heart that had beat for her so fondly and truly was consigned to its "unquiet sepulchre;" "the blue waves which visit every coast" his only and "fitting monument;" while the object of his tender solicitude was compelled to endure four months the agony of suspense as to his fate, terminated by the sad certainty of his death.[12]

After the death of her husband, Mrs. Judson expressed a strong desire to remain in Burmah and devote herself to the cause which was so dear to her husband's and her own heart. But her health, always delicate, was so unfavorably affected by that climate that her physicians were of opinion another rainy season would terminate her life. A numerous family of children, several of whom were in this country, needed her maternal care and guidance; and for their sakes, as well as for her own, she left Burmah in the winter following her husband's death, and arrived in this country in October, 1851, after an absence of five years and three months. She found in the beautiful village of Hamilton a sequestered and lovely home for herself and her family, which consisted of her aged parents, the five children of Sarah B. Judson, and her own "bird," Emily Frances. The cares of her family, and literary labors, here divided her time until the prostration of her health by her last sickness, since which period she has "set her house in order,"[13] and calmly awaited the summons of death. Peacefully and sweetly did the summons come, and on the first of June she fell asleep in Jesus. With a sister poet she might have said—

"I'm passing through the eternal gates,
Ere June's sweet roses blow."

She had often spoken of this rich and glorious month as her "time to die," and repeated Bryant's hymn,—

"'Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break."

Nature had no more ardent lover than she; and it is pleasant to think that her dust is returning to dust in a lovely village church-yard, under the "pure air of heaven, and amid the luxuriance of flowers." Pleasant also is it to read that a vast concourse of sincere admirers and loving friends, and among them all her children, eagerly testified their respect to her, by attending her remains to their burial. To her glorified spirit such manifestations may indeed be of little moment. Yet even her glorified spirit may feel a new thrill of pleasure in beholding, from its serene sphere, the love that prompted them, and sought in the choice of her last resting-place to give even to the unconscious dead one more proof of affection.

In so imperfect a sketch as ours, a delineation of the character of Mrs. Judson will not be attempted, We would not, if we could, anticipate her memoir, which, it is said, will soon be published. From documents open to the public, we shall merely glean such notices of her life and character as shall induce in our readers a desire to know those details of her personal history which will doubtless be found in her biography.

From what we can learn, we infer that the prominent traits in her character were strong affections, energy, and disinterestedness. Of a slight and delicate frame and constitution, and a sensibility almost amounting to sensitiveness, she at an early age engaged in duties and made sacrifices scarcely expected from the robust and vigorous. And her exertions had for their end mainly to benefit those she loved. Whether she taught in the district school, or in the higher seminary, or wrote Sunday-school books, or contributed to literary periodicals, her affection for her mother, and desire to lighten her burdens, seem to have stimulated her exertions and called forth her powers. In her early religious experience, the same disinterestedness manifested itself; for no sooner did she feel the renewing power of faith in her own heart, than she longed to impart even to the distant heathen the same precious blessing.[14] Unselfish affection is also, we think, a strongly marked trait in her married life. Not long after their arrival in Burmah, Mr. Judson writes: "Emily loves the children as if they were her own." And again, nearly two years later: "We are a deliciously happy family;" and again, "Emily has taken to my two boys as if they were her own; so that we are a very happy family; not a happier, I am sure, on the broad earth."

Another proof of the same trait, was her loving and sympathetic appreciation of a peculiar trait in her husband, which, had her disposition been less noble, might have caused her some annoyance. Of this trait Dr. Wayland thus speaks: "There was a feature in Dr. Judson's affection as a husband, which was, I think, peculiar. He was, as it is well known, married three times, and no man was ever more tenderly attached to each of his wives. The present affection, however, seemed in no respect to lessen his affection for those for whom he mourned. He ever spoke of those who had gone before, with undiminished interest. In one of his letters to his daughter, after saying he did not believe there existed on earth so happy a family as his, he soon after adds: 'My tears fall frequently for her who lies in her lone bed at St. Helena.' It was at his suggestion that Mrs. Emily Judson wrote the life of her predecessor. He frequently refers with delight to the time when he, and all those whom he so much loved, shall meet in Paradise, no more to part, but to spend an eternity together in the presence of Christ. Those that were once loved were loved to the end; but this did not prevent the bestowment of an equal amount of affection on a successor." To quote the words of another, speaking of Mrs. Mary Ware, who, placed in similar circumstances to Mrs. Judson, showed the same noble superiority to a common weakness of her sex: "She had no sympathy and little respect for that narrow view which insists that the departed and the living cannot share the same pure love of the same true heart. With regard to a former wife—'she was the nearest and dearest to him'—she would say, 'how then can I do otherwise than love and cherish her memory?' And her children she received as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first moment like her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction."