From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

But at length a day of deliverance came. The English army had taken Rangoon and was advancing up the Irrawaddy. Then all was terror at Ava, and the tyrant that had thrown Judson into a dungeon, sent to bring him out and to beg him to go to the English camp to be his interpreter, and to sue for terms of peace. He went and was received with the honor due to his character and his sufferings. But the heroine of the camp was that noble American woman, whose devotion had saved, not only the life of her husband, but the lives of all the English prisoners. The commander-in-chief received her as if she had been an empress, and at a great dinner given to the Burmese ambassadors placed her at his right hand, in the presence of the very men to whom she had often been to beg for mercy, and had been often driven brutally from their doors. The tables were turned, and they were the ones to ask for mercy now. They sat uneasy, giving restless glances at the missionary's wife, as if fearing lest a sudden burst of womanly indignation should impel her to demand the punishment of those who had treated her with such cruelty. But they were quite safe. She would not touch a hair of their heads. Too happy in the release of the one she loved, her heart was overflowing with gratitude, and she felt no desire but to live among this people, and to do good to those from whom she had suffered so much. They removed to Amherst, at the mouth of the Maulmain River, and had built a pretty home, and were beginning to realize their dream of missionary life, when she was taken ill, and, broken by her former hardships, soon sank in death.

Probably "The Life of Judson" has interested American Christians in Burmah more than all the histories and geographical descriptions put together. General histories have never the interest of a personal narrative, and the picture of Judson in a dungeon, wearing manacles on his limbs, exposed to death in its most terrible forms, to be tortured or to be crucified, and finally saved by the devotion of his wife, has touched the hearts of the American people more than all the learned histories of Eastern Asia that ever were written.

And when I stood at a humble grave on Amherst Point, looking out upon the sea, and read upon the stone the name of Ann Hasseltine Judson, and thought of that gentle American wife, coming out from the peace and protection of her New England home to face such dangers, I felt that I had never bent over the dust of one more worthy of all the honors of womanhood and sainthood; tender and shrinking, but whom love made strong and brave; who walked among coarse and brutal men, armed only with her own native modesty and dignity: who by the sick-bed or in a prison cast light in a dark place by her sweet presence; and who united all that is noble in woman's love and courage and devotion.

Judson survived this first wife about a quarter of a century—a period full of labor, and in its later years, full of precious fruit. That was the golden autumn of his life. He that had gone forth weeping, bearing precious seed, came again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. I wish the Church in America could see what has been achieved by that well-spent life. Most of his fellow-laborers have gone to their rest, though Mr. and Mrs. Bennett at Rangoon, and Dr. and Mrs. Haswell at Maulmain, still live to tell of the trials and struggles of those early days.[11] And now appears the fruit of all those toilsome years. The mission that was weak has grown strong. In Rangoon there are a number of missionaries, who have not only established churches and Christian schools, but founded a College and a Theological Seminary. They have a Printing Press, under the charge of the veteran Mr. Bennett, who has been here forty-six years. In the interior are churches in great numbers. The early missionaries found a poor people—a sort of lower caste among the Burmese—the Karens. It may almost be said that they caught them in the woods and tamed them. They first reduced their language to writing; they gave them books and schools, and to-day there are twenty thousand of this people who are members of their churches. In the interior there are many Christian villages, with native churches and native pastors, supported by the people themselves, whose deep poverty abounds to their liberality in a way that recalls Apostolic times.

The field which has been the scene of such toils and sacrifices properly belongs to the denomination which has given such examples of Christian devotion. The Baptists were the first to enter the country, led by an apostle. The Mission in Burmah is the glory of the Baptist Church, as that of the Sandwich Islands is of the American Board. They have a sort of right to the land by reason of first occupancy—a right made sacred by these early and heroic memories; and I trust will be respected by other Christian bodies in the exercise of that comity which ought to exist between Churches as between States, in the possession of a field which they have cultivated with so much zeal, wisdom, and success.

It is not till one leaves Rangoon that he sees the beauty of Burmah. The banks of the Irrawaddy, like those of the Hoogly, are low and jungly; but as we glide from the river into the sea, and turn southward, the shores begin to rise, till after a few hours' sail we might be on the coast of Wales or of Scotland. The next morning found us at anchor off the mouth of the Salwen River. The steamers of the British India Company stop at all the principal ports, and we were now to pass up the river to Maulmain. But the Malda was too large to cross the bar except at very high tide, for which we should have to wait over a day. The prospect of resting here under a tropical sun, and in full sight of the shore, was not inviting, and we looked about for some way of escape. Fortunately we had on board Miss Haswell, of the well-known missionary family, who had gone up from Maulmain to Rangoon to see some friends off for America, and was now returning. With such an interpreter and guide, we determined to go on shore, and hailing a pilot-boat, went down the ship's ladder, and jumped on board. The captain thought us very rash, as the sea was rough, and the boat rose and plunged in waves; but the Malays are like seagulls on the water, and raising their sail, made of bamboo poles, and rush matting, we flew before the wind, and were soon landed at Amherst Point. This was holy ground, for here Judson had lived, and here his wife died and was buried. Her grave is on the sea-shore, but a few rods from the water, and we went straight to it. It is a low mound, with a plain headstone, around which an American sea captain had placed a wooden paling to guard the sacred spot. There she sleeps, with only the murmur of the waves, as they come rippling up the beach, to sing her requiem. But her name will not die, and in all the world, where love and heroism are remembered, what this woman hath done shall be told for a memorial of her. Her husband is not here, for (as the readers of his life will remember) his last years were spent at Maulmain, from which he was taken, when very ill, on board a vessel, bound for the Mauritius, in hope that a voyage might save him when all other means had failed, and died at sea when but four days out, and was committed to the deep in the Bay of Bengal. One cannot but regret that he did not die on land, that he might have been buried beside his wife in the soil of Burmah; but it is something that he is not far away, and the waters that roll over him kiss its beloved shores.

Miss Haswell led the way up the beach to the little house which Judson had built. It was unoccupied, but there was an old bedstead on which the apostle had slept, and I stretched myself upon it, feeling that I caught as much inspiration lying there as when I lay down in the sarcophagus of Cheops in the heart of the Great Pyramid. We found a rude table too, which we drew out upon the veranda, and a family of native Christians brought us rice and milk and eggs, with which we made a breakfast in native style. The family of Miss Haswell once occupied this mission house, and it was quite enlivening to hear, as we sat there quietly taking our rice and milk, how the tigers used to come around and make themselves at home, snuffing about the doors, and carrying off dogs from the veranda, and killing a buffalo in the front yard. They are not quite so familiar now along the coast, but in the interior one can hardly go through a forest without coming on their tracks. Only last year Miss Haswell, on her way to attend the meeting of an association, camped in the woods. She found the men were getting sleepy, and neglected the fire, and so she kept awake, and sat up to throw on the wood. It was well, for in the night suddenly all the cattle sprang up with every sign of terror, and there came on the air that strong smell which none who have perceived it can mistake, which shows that a tiger is near. Doubtless he was peering at them through the covert, and nothing but the blazing fire kept him away.

After our repast, we took a ride in native style. A pair of oxen was brought to the door, with a cart turned up at both ends, in such a manner that those riding in it were dumped into a heap; and thus well shaken together, we rode down to the shore, where we had engaged a boat to take us up the river. It was a long slender skiff, which, with its covering of bamboo bent over it, was in shape not unlike a gondola of Venice. The arch of its roof was of course not very lofty; we could not stand up, but we could sit or lie down, and here we stretched ourselves in glorious ease, and as a pleasant breeze came in from the sea, our little bark moved swiftly before it. The captain of our boat was a venerable-looking native, like some of the Arabs we saw on the Nile, with two boatmen for his "crew," stout fellows, whose brawny limbs were not confined by excess of clothing. In fact, they had on only a single garment, a kind of French blouse, which, by way of variety, they took off and washed in the river as we sailed along. However, they had another clout for a change, which they drew over them with great dexterity before they took off the first, so as not to offend us. Altogether the scene was not unlike what some of my readers may have witnessed on one of our Southern rivers; and if we could only have had the rich voices of the negro boatmen, singing

"Down on the Alabama,"