The high ambition written on that brow,
From its first dream of power and human fame,
Unto a task of seeming lowliness—
Yet God-like in his purpose.”[[4]]
It is a mistake to suppose that a dull and second-rate man is good enough for the heathen. The worst-off need the very best we have. God gave His best, even His only-begotten Son, in order to redeem a lost world. The most darkened and degraded souls need the best thinking. When our Blessed Lord was presenting His Gospel to a fallen Samaritan woman, He seems to have preserved His best thought for her; and in order to make a bad woman good, utters in her ears the most august philosophical thesis to be found in any tongue: “God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.” Missions have had their grandest successes when England’s best scholars, like Bishop Patteson and Bishop Selwyn, have devoted their splendid talents to the conversion of the fiercest and the lowest savages of Micronesia and New Zealand. It would be a sad day for American Christians if they should ever deserve Nehemiah’s reproach: “Their nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord.” Christianity will advance over the earth with long, swift strides when the churches are ready to send their best men, and the best men are ready to go.
Judson fully appreciated the dangers and hardships of a missionary life. He seems to have counted the cost. After one of the battles in the Franco-Prussian war, the German Emperor, William, had his attention drawn to one of the wounded soldiers on the field. The King held out his hand to the powder-stained private, and asked him what his trade was. The man said, “I am a Doctor of Philosophy, your Majesty.” “Well, you must have learned to bear your wounds philosophically,” said the King. “Yes,” replied the soldier, “that I had already made up my mind to.” Young Judson, before he had resolved to be a missionary, had made up his mind to the sufferings and privations which he well knew were in store for him. He thus wrote to Mr. Hasseltine, of Bradford, when asking for his daughter’s hand:
“I have now to ask whether you can consent to part with your daughter early next spring, to see her no more in this world? whether you can consent to her departure to a heathen land, and her subjection to the hardships and sufferings of a missionary life? whether you can consent to her exposure to the dangers of the ocean; to the fatal influence of the southern climate of India; to every kind of want and distress; to degradation, insult, persecution, and perhaps a violent death? Can you consent to all this, for the sake of Him who left His heavenly home and died for her and for you; for the sake of perishing, immortal souls; for the sake of Zion and the glory of God? Can you consent to all this, in hope of soon meeting your daughter in the world of glory, with a crown of righteousness brightened by the acclamations of praise which shall redound to her Saviour from heathens saved, through her means, from eternal woe and despair?”
These same anticipations of missionary sorrows pervade a pathetic letter written by him to Miss Ann Hasseltine, during the period of their betrothal:
“January 1, 1811. Tuesday Morn.
“It is with the utmost sincerity, and with my whole heart, that I wish you, my love, a happy new year. May it be a year in which your walk will be close with God; your frame calm and serene; and the road that leads you to the Lamb marked with purer light. May it be a year in which you will have more largely the spirit of Christ, be raised above sublunary things, and be willing to be disposed of in this world just as God shall please. As every moment of the year will bring you nearer the end of your pilgrimage, may it bring you nearer to God, and find you more prepared to hail the messenger of death as a deliverer and a friend. And now, since I have begun to wish, I will go on. May this be the year in which you will change your name; in which you will take a final leave of your relatives and native land; in which you will cross the wide ocean, and dwell on the other side of the world, among a heathen people. What a great change will this year probably effect in our lives! How very different will be our situation and employment! If our lives are preserved and our attempt prospered, we shall next new year’s day be in India, and perhaps wish each other a happy new year in the uncouth dialect of Hindostan or Burmah. We shall no more see our kind friends around us, or enjoy the conveniences of civilized life, or go to the house of God with those that keep holy day; but swarthy countenances will everywhere meet our eye, the jargon of an unknown tongue will assail our ears, and we shall witness the assembling of the heathen to celebrate the worship of idol gods. We shall be weary of the world, and wish for wings like a dove, that we may fly away and be at rest. We shall probably experience seasons when we shall be ‘exceeding sorrowful, even unto death.’ We shall see many dreary, disconsolate hours, and feel a sinking of spirits, anguish of mind, of which now we can form little conception. O, we shall wish to lie down and die. And that time may soon come. One of us may be unable to sustain the heat of the climate and the change of habits; and the other may say, with literal truth, over the grave—