Had any body of men labored long and suffered much to save poor human life and draw from burning dwelling or sinking wreck some fellow-man, their deeds would be mentioned in every circle; humane societies would award them tokens of distinction and approbation; and they would be deemed worthy of exalted honor. Nor would it be wrong thus to give them praise. The man who risks his life to save another deserves a higher, prouder monument than ever lifted itself above the tombs of fallen warriors who on the gory field have slaughtered their thousands.
Nor will the deserved approbation of the great and good of earth long be withheld from the heralds of salvation on heathen shores. The majesty of the missionary enterprise is beginning to develop itself; success is crowning the toil of years; and heathendom is assuming a new aspect. Under the faithful labors of self-denying men, the wilderness is beginning to blossom as the rose. Here and there, amid the sands of the wide desert once parched by sin and consumed by the fiery blaze of heathenish cruelty, the plants of grace are beginning to appear, and Christian churches are springing up to spread themselves like green vines upon the broken ruins of demolished idols.
It is too late now in the world's history, too late in the progress of thought, to vindicate the course pursued by the two pioneer female missionaries. When the Caravan sailed down the harbor of the "City of Peace," there were enough to curl the lip and point the finger of scorn. The devoted messengers of Jesus were charged with indelicacy, with a false ambition, with a spirit of romance and adventure, with a desire for ease and gain. As time rolled on, all these charges were withdrawn; the characters, views, and feelings of these heroic women were raised above suspicion, and now they are enveloped in a flood of glory.
"They left not home to cross the briny sea
With the proud conqueror's ambitious aim,
To wrong the guiltless, to enslave the free,
And win a bloodstained wreath of dreadful fame
By deeds unworthy of the Christian name."
Their errand was to carry mercy to the perishing and hope to the despairing; and in the name of their great Master they executed their high commission. Depending alone on God, and inspired by his grace, they labored on, amid all the doubts and sneers of others, until their holy lives and correct deportment challenged the approbation of the most sceptical,—until God honored their work by great success,—until men, hardened men, began to yield.
"And by degrees the blesséd fruits were seen
In many a contrite and converted heart,
Fruits which might cause unbidden tears to start
From eyes unused to weep; because they told
Faith was their polar star, and God's word their guide."
And future ages will honor them. When the names of Mary and Elizabeth, of Joan of Arc with her wild enthusiasm, of De Staël and her literary contemporaries, have all been lost, these will live as fresh as ever.
Ann H. Judson was born at Bradford, December 22, 1789. She was the daughter of John and Rebecca Hasseltine, worthy inhabitants of that pleasant village. Her childhood was passed within sight of the home which contained the friends, and around which clustered the employments and pursuits, of Harriet Newell. With only a narrow river rolling between them, these two devoted servants of God passed through the period of youth, little thinking how their names and fortunes were to be linked together in the holy cause of human good. Like her beloved associate, Miss Hasseltine was early in life a pupil at Bradford Academy, and made commendable progress in her studies. There she was beloved by all. The teachers regarded her as an industrious, dutiful, and talented scholar; her associates looked upon her as a sincere, openhearted, cheerful companion. Unlike Mrs. Newell, who was sedate and grave, exhibiting a seriousness almost beyond her years, Miss Hasseltine was ardent, gay, and active. She loved amusement and pleasure, and was found seeking enjoyment in all the avenues of virtuous life. One of her schoolmates, speaking of her, says, "Where Ann is, no one can be gloomy or unhappy. Her cheerful countenance, her sweet smile, her happy disposition, her keen wit, her lively conduct, never rude nor boisterous, will dispel the shades of care and hang the smiles of summer upon the sorrows of the coldest heart." Her animation gave life to all around her, and made her, at school, an unusual favorite; at home, the joy of her father's dwelling. It was probably this cheerfulness of her natural disposition which in after years enabled her to endure such protracted sufferings, and, by the side of her missionary husband, smile amid clanking fetters and gloomy dungeons. She loved to look upon the bright side of every picture, and seldom spent an hour in tears over any imaginary sorrow. On the front of evils she generally discerned signs of good; and often, while others were in sorrow, her heart was glad. Her sedate parents looked upon these exhibitions of cheerful disposition with some feelings of regret, and often chided their child for what they deemed an uneasy and restless spirit, little thinking that this very cheerfulness was to sustain her under many a trial which would have bowed others to the earth with crushed and broken spirits. God seemed to have adapted her to the very position in which he designed to place her; and her whole after career gave evidence of the wisdom of the divine arrangement. Had she been of different mould, she would have sunk ere half her work was done, ere half her toils were over.
While at Bradford Academy, Miss Hasseltine became a subject of renewing grace. Her own account of her conversion, found in her published memoir and elsewhere, is of the deepest and most thrilling interest to every pious heart. During the first sixteen years of her life, she, according to her own statement, had few convictions. She had been taught that she must be moral and virtuous, and in this way avoid suffering and secure peace of conscience. The awful necessity of being "born again" did not press itself upon her attention. Light and vain amusements engrossed much of her time, and employed many hours which should have been given to God and the practice of holiness. The prayers which she learned in youth were now forgotten, her Bible neglected, and her mind given up to vain and sinful pleasure. She did not realize that she was immortal; that she was a traveller to a long and unknown eternity; but the present hour, the present moment, received all her care and engrossed all her attention. From this state she was aroused by seeing in a little volume which she took up to read on Sabbath morning, just before going to the house of God, this solemn sentence: "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." The words sunk deep into her thoughtless heart. In vain she strove to banish them; but they would return upon her memory, and linger there with tormenting obstinacy. Vain was it that she mingled in scenes of gayety and mirth; vainly did she become "the gayest of the gay." The conviction became stronger, as each week rolled away, that she was a lost sinner. Under the influence of divine truth she continued to become more deeply impressed with the importance of giving her heart to God and being a new creature. She herself says, "I lost all relish for amusements; felt melancholy and dejected; and the solemn truth that I must obtain a new heart, or perish forever, lay with weight upon my mind." At length her feelings-became so overpowering that she could not confine them within her own bosom. God had rolled such a weight of conviction on her mind that she was almost crushed to the earth. How God could forgive her sins, she could not see. How one so guilty, so rebellious, so hardened, could obtain mercy, she did not know. Instead, at this time, of giving her heart to God, she resorted to other means to find relief from sin. She gave up many of the comforts of life, locked herself into her room, and spent many weary hours in self-imposed penance. Against the holy claims of God her heart soon rebelled, and she longed to be taken out of her misery.
At length she attained a more scriptural view of the way of salvation; she saw Christ as a vicarious sacrifice, and felt that, if saved at all, it must be by his blood, and not by her own imperfect righteousness. This view of Jesus was sweet and precious. He had become, not the Savior of the world, but her own Savior; he had died, not merely for the sins of the race, but for her sins; and in this sacred contemplation her soul found sweet relief. The torturing load of fears was gone; one sight of Christ had changed the heart and taken away its grief and sin. Like a liberated slave she rejoiced in perfect freedom, and her happy soul went out in joyful thanks to Him who had wrought the work.