The life of Adoniram Judson

by Edward Judson

After a voyage of five days they and their two children arrived in Rangoon. Mr. Judson had previously made a visit there alone, in order “to ascertain the state of things in Burmah more definitely before making an attempt to settle there.” He had on that occasion hired, for fifty rupees[^[67]] a month, the upper part of a large brick house, which Mrs. Judson subsequently named “Bat Castle.” He describes it as—

“A place dreary indeed, and destitute of almost all outward comforts, but one which will afford an opportunity of building up the feeble church by private efforts, and of seizing the first opening for more public efforts that God in His providence may present, in answer to the prayers of His people in beloved, far-distant America.”

Before engaging the house he wrote to Mrs. Judson: “The place looks as gloomy as a prison.... I shrink at taking you and the children into such a den, and fear you would pine and die in it.” It was into this forbidding abode that Mr. Judson introduced the lady to whom he had been so recently married. He wrote:

“We have had a grand bat hunt yesterday and to-day—bagged two hundred and fifty, and calculate to make up a round thousand before we have done. We find that, in hiring the upper story of this den, we secured the lower moiety only, the upper moiety thereof being preoccupied by a thriving colony of vagabonds, who flare up through the night with a vengeance, and the sound of their wings is as the sound of many waters, yea, as the sound of your boasted Yankee Niagara; so that sleep departs from your eyes, and slumber from our eyelids. But we are reading them some lessons which we hope will be profitable to all parties concerned.”

But we are indebted to Mrs. Judson’s pen, in a letter to her younger sister, for a still more vivid portraiture of “Bat Castle”:

“Bat Castle (Rangoon), March 15, 1847.

“Dear Kitty: I write you from walls as massive as any you read of in old stories and a great deal uglier—the very eyeball and heart-core of an old white-bearded Mussulman. Think of me in an immense brick house with rooms as large as the entire ‘loggery’ (our centre room is twice as large, and has no window), and only one small window apiece. When I speak of windows, do not think I make any allusion to glass—of course not. The windows (holes) are closed by means of heavy board or plank shutters, tinned over on the outside, as a preventive of fire. The bamboo houses of the natives here are like flax or tinder, and the foreigners, who have more than the one cloth which Burmans wrap about the body, and the mat they sleep on, dare live in nothing but brick. Imagine us, then, on the second floor of this immense den, with nine rooms at our command, the smallest of which (bathing-room and a kind of pantry) are, I think, quite as large as your dining-room, and the rest very much larger. Part of the floors are of brick, and part of boards; but old ‘Green Turban’ whitewashed them all, with the walls, before we came, because the Doctor told him, when he was over here, that he must ‘make the house shine for madam.’ He did make it shine with a vengeance, between whitewashing and greasing. They oil furniture in this country, as Americans do mahogany; but all his doors and other woodwork were fairly dripping, and we have not got rid of the smell yet; nor, with all our rubbing, is it quite safe to hold too long on the door. The partitions are all of brick, and very thick, and the door-sills are built up, so that I go over them at three or four steps, Henry mounts and falls off, and Edward gets on all-fours, and accomplishes the pass with more safety. The floor overhead is quite low, and the beams, which are frequent, afford shelter to thousands and thousands of bats, that disturb us in the daytime only by a little cricket-like music, but in the night—oh, if you could only hear them carouse! The mosquito curtains are our only safeguard; and getting up is horrible. The other night I awoke faint, with a feeling of suffocation; and without waiting to think jumped out on the floor. You would have thought ‘Old Nick’ himself had come after you, for, of course, you believe these firm friends of the ladies of the broomstick incipient imps. If there is nothing wickeder about them than about the little sparrows that come in immense swarms to the same beams, pray what do they do all through the hours of darkness, and why do they circle and whizz about a poor mortal’s head, flap their villainous wings in one’s face, and then whisk away, as if snickering at the annoyance? We have had men at work nearly a week trying to thin them out, and have killed a great many hundreds; but I suppose their little demoniac souls come back, each with an attendant, for I am sure there are twice as many as at first. Everything, walls, tables, chairs, etc., are stained by them. Besides the bats, we are blessed with our full share of cockroaches, beetles, spiders, lizards, rats, ants, mosquitoes, and bed-bugs. With the last the woodwork is all alive, and the ants troop over the house in great droves, though there are scattering ones beside. Perhaps twenty have crossed my paper since I have been writing. Only one cockroach has paid me a visit, but the neglect of these gentlemen has been fully made up by a company of black bugs about the size of the end of your little finger—nameless adventurers.”...

The Judsons were scarcely settled in these forbidding quarters when they learned that the house in Maulmain, where they had deposited their best clothing and most valuable goods—many of them presents from dear friends whom they were to see no more—had taken fire and had been burned to the ground with all its contents. They had brought but a few articles with them, not being willing to trust the most valuable part of their personal effects to the rapacious Government at Rangoon. They had thought it best to draw their supplies from Maulmain, and now the precious consignment of articles which they had brought with them from their dear native land had been consumed in the flames. But Mr. Judson had long since mastered the science of contentment. He had been instructed both “to be full and to be hungry; both to abound and to suffer need.” He wrote to the Rev. E. A. Stevens, a beloved fellow-sufferer in this calamity:

“Rangoon, March 2, 1847.

“‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ My heart overflows with gratitude, and my eyes with tears, as I pen these precious inspired words. There are some other lines, quaint in garb, but rich in core, that are worth more than all your house and contents: