“I ought to have stated before that the keeper, to whose share Mr. Judson’s old pillow fell on the day they were so unceremoniously thrust into the inner prison, had afterward exchanged it for a better one, wondering, no doubt, at the odd taste of the white man. When he was again robbed of his clothes and bedding, on the day he was driven away to Oung-pen-la, one of the ruffians deliberately untied the mat which was used as a cover to the precious pillow, and threw the apparently worthless roll of hard cotton away. Some hours after, Moung Ing, stumbling upon this one relic of the vanished prisoners, carried it to the house as a token; and, several months from that time, the manuscript which now makes a part of the Burmese Bible was found within, uninjured.
“They remained at Oung-pen-la six months, when Mr. Judson was, for the first time, released from his irons, to be employed as translator and interpreter to the Burmans. From the first, he had been particularly careful not to take any part in political affairs; for, however the war might end, he did not wish the Burmans to receive an impression that he was in the interests of the English. He felt that it would be wrong to endanger his influence as a religious teacher by taking any step which would be likely to render him obnoxious even to a conquered people. But now he had no choice. His own wishes in the matter were not consulted, any more than they had been when he was first thrown into prison. He was probably selected for the office because there was no one who could be better trusted, although it was evident that not the slightest confidence was reposed in him. He was carried to Ava under guard, kept in prison two days, and then, without being permitted to visit his own house but a few moments, was sent to Maloun. Here he remained about six weeks, when, in consequence of the advance of the English from Prome, he was hurriedly sent back to Ava. It was late in the night when he arrived, and he was taken through the streets directly past his own door. A feeble light glimmered within, assuring him that it was not altogether deserted; but yet what might not have occurred in those six weeks! He entreated permission to enter but for five minutes; he threatened, he bribed, he appealed to their humanity, for he knew that even they, hard as they seemed, must have humanity somewhere; but all without success. His conductors, with some show of feeling, assured him that they had orders to take him directly to the court-house, and that they dared not disobey. He crouched down in an outbuilding until morning, when, after a slight examination, he was placed under guard in an out-of-the-way shed, which served as a temporary prison. At night of the same day, Moung Ing found him in this obscure place, where he had been all day without food. While conversing with the faithful Burman, Mr. Judson once or twice fancied there was something in his words or manner, or perhaps both, a little puzzling; but the impression was only momentary, and the very sight of this messenger from his wife relieved him of a burden of apprehension. He immediately dispatched Moung Ing to the friendly governor, for aid in his new difficulties, instructing him carefully as to his words and behavior, and, in the joy of his heart, bade him tell the tsayah-ga-dau to keep up courage one day more; it was almost certain he should be with her on the next. As soon as the messenger was gone, Mr. Judson’s thoughts immediately recurred to the singularity of his behavior, scarcely observable at the time, but now assuming much importance. His wife was doubtless well, though Moung Ing had certainly not been very explicit when inquired of; she must be well, for had she not sent several messages, and herself suggested the application to the governor? The child, too, was well; he had said that unhesitatingly. Why had he hesitated in the other case? Could it be, could it really be, that anything serious had befallen her, and they had concealed it from him? But no; those messages! He remembered, however (it all came to him too clearly now), how ostentatiously the good-natured Burman had paraded one of those messages whenever he asked a question; and yet, think as he would, they all resolved themselves into two—she longed to see him, and she recommended an application to the governor. The messenger had certainly behaved strangely, and he had been strangely blinded. These two simple phrases had been repeated so often, and in such variety of style, that they had been made to appear a dozen, and to contain a world of meaning; and for the time he was fully satisfied. ‘She must be living,’ he repeated to himself; ‘there is ample proof of that.’ ‘She must have been living,’ answered a withering doubt within, ‘when she gave the directions to Moung Ing.’ After that one thought, he had no disposition to sleep. The tedious night at length dragged itself away; and, though the governor sent for him as early as could reasonably be expected in the morning, a strange, vague apprehension seemed to concentrate whole ages in those few early hours. The kind old man had become his security with the Government, and set him free. With a step more fleet than for the last two years he had practiced, and in spite of the maimed ankles, which sometimes almost refused their office, he hurried along the street to his beloved home. The door stood invitingly open, and, without having been seen by any one, he entered. The first object which met his eye was a fat, half-naked Burman woman, squatting in the ashes beside a pan of coals, and holding on her knees a wan baby, so begrimed with dirt that it did not occur to the father it could be his own. He gave but one hasty look, and hurried to the next room. Across the foot of the bed, as though she had fallen there, lay a human object, that, at the first glance, was scarcely more recognizable than his child. The face was of a ghastly paleness, the features sharp, and the whole form shrunken almost to the last degree of emaciation. The glossy black curls had all been shorn from the finely-shaped head, which was now covered by a close-fitting cotton cap, of the coarsest and—unlike anything usually coming in contact with that head—not the cleanest kind. The whole room presented an appearance of the very extreme of wretchedness, more harrowing to the feelings than can be told. There lay the devoted wife, who had followed him so unweariedly from prison to prison, ever alleviating his distresses, without even common hireling attendance. He knew, by the very arrangement of the room, and by the expression of sheer animality on the face of the woman who held his child, that the Bengalee cook had been her only nurse. The wearied sleeper was awakened by a breath that came too near her cheek. Perhaps a falling tear might have been added; for, steady as were those eyes in difficulties, dauntless in dangers, and stern when conscience frowned, they were well used to tender tears.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“One evening several persons at our house were repeating anecdotes of what different men in different ages had regarded as the highest type of sensuous enjoyment; that is, enjoyment derived from outward circumstances. ‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Judson; ‘these men were not qualified to judge. I know of a much higher pleasure than that. What do you think of floating down the Irrawaddy, on a cool, moonlight evening, with your wife by your side, and your baby in your arms, free—all free? But you can not understand it, either; it needs a twenty-one months’ qualification; and I can never regret my twenty-one months of misery, when I recall that one delicious thrill. I think I have had a better appreciation of what heaven may be ever since.’ And so, I have no doubt, he had.
“The reception of a lady was an incident in the English camp; and Mrs. Judson’s fame had gone before her. No one better than a true-born Englishman can discern precisely the measure of attention grateful to a woman in her situation; and there were innumerable minute touches in General Campbell’s conduct which fixed her gratitude, and more still that of her husband on her account. It was not that his son was sent with the staff officers who came to escort her from the steamer; nor that unexpected honors, in military guise, waited her on the shore, where she was received by Sir Archibald in person; nor that her tent was larger and more commodious than his own, with the very agreeable addition of a veranda; but it was a certain fatherly kindness and genuine heart interest, which made her feel as though she was receiving all these favors from a friend.
“An incident that occurred a few days after the landing of the prisoners is perhaps worthy of notice. General Campbell was to give a dinner to the Burmese commissioners, and he chose to make it an affair of some pomp and magnificence. At a given order, almost as by magic, the camp was turned into a scene of festivity, with such a profusion of gold and crimson, and floating banners, as is thought most pleasing to an Oriental eye. When the dinner hour arrived, the company marched in couples, to the music of the band, toward the table, led by the general, who walked alone. As they came opposite the tent with the veranda before it, suddenly the music ceased, the whole procession stood still, and while the wondering Burmans turned their eager eyes in every direction, doubtful as to what would be the next act in the little drama, so curious to them as strangers, the general entered the tent. In a moment he reappeared with a lady on his arm—no stranger to the conscious commissioners—whom he led to the table, and seated at his own right hand. The abashed commissioners slid into their seats shrinkingly, where they sat as though transfixed by a mixture of astonishment and fear. ‘I fancy these gentlemen must be old acquaintances of yours, Mrs. Judson,’ General Campbell remarked, amused by what he began to suspect, though he did not fully understand it; ‘and, judging from their appearance, you must have treated them very ill.’ Mrs. Judson smiled. The Burmans could not understand the remark, but they evidently considered themselves the subject of it, and their faces were blank with consternation.
“‘What is the matter with yonder owner of the pointed beard?’ pursued Sir Archibald; ‘he seems to be seized with an ague fit.’
“‘I do not know,’ answered Mrs. Judson, fixing her eyes on the trembler, with perhaps a mischievous enjoyment of his anxiety, ‘unless his memory may be too busy. He is an old acquaintance of mine, and may probably infer danger to himself from seeing me under your protection.’
“She then proceeded to relate how, when her husband was suffering from fever in the stifled air of the inner prison, with five pairs of fetters about his ankles, she had walked several miles to this man’s house to ask a favor. She had left home early in the morning; but was kept waiting so long that it was noonday before she proffered her request, and received a rough refusal. She was turning sorrowfully away, when his attention was attracted by the silk umbrella she carried in her hand, and he instantly seized upon it. It was in vain that she represented the danger of her walking home without it; told him she had brought no money, and could not buy anything to shelter her from the sun; and begged that, if he took that, he would at least furnish her with a paper one, to protect her from the scorching heat. He laughed, and, turning the very suffering that had wasted her into a jest, told her it was only stout people who were in danger of a sunstroke—the sun could not find such as she; and so turned her from the door.
“Expressions of indignation burst from the lips of the listening officers; and, try to restrain them as they would, indignant glances did somewhat detract from that high tone of courtesy which it is an Englishman’s, and especially an English officer’s, pride, to preserve in all matters of hospitality. The poor Burman, conscience-taught, seemed to understand everything that was passing, and his features were distorted with fear; while his face, from which the perspiration oozed painfully, appeared, through his tawny skin, of a deathly paleness. It was not in a woman’s heart to do other than pity him; and Mrs. Judson remarked softly, in Burmese, that he had nothing to fear, and then repeated the remark to Sir Archibald. The conversation immediately became general, and every means was taken to reassure the timorous guests, but with little success. There sat the lady, whom all but one of them had personally treated with indignity, at the right hand of power, and her husband, just released from his chains, close beyond; and they doubtless felt conscious that if they and their lady wives were in such a position they would ask the heads of their enemies, and the request would be granted.