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of bearing the news of salvation to the poor heathen." In due time she got all she wished for. But as there seemed to be no prospect of her doing this, she sought grace that, whilst praying for deluded idolaters, and for those who labor among them, she might be content to do what her hands found to do for Christ nearer home. Meanwhile she grew to be a pious, intelligent young lady. In the humble privacy of her home and church the cheering light of her piety shone upon others.
Now and then a poem of hers would appear in some magazine or paper. Her themes were all of a religious character. Some of them pleaded the cause of the poor heathen, and applauded those who gave their life for their good. Among others, she wrote an elegy on the missionary Colman. These lines met the eye of Rev. George Dana Boardman, a young unmarried minister of the Baptist Church, who was about leaving his native land as a foreign missionary to India. This poem was written by a young lady. Who is she? One who feels and writes thus must be eager to live and labor for the poor heathen; has perhaps special aptitudes for such a mission. Thus thought the young missionary. But few very few young ladies, however pious and intelligent, are suited as pastors of foreign missionaries. Very few otherwise suited are willing to devote their life to such a work. The two met, loved, and mated. But not without a struggle. Sixty years ago it was a more serious thing for a person— and especially for a young lady—to part from parents, home, and all the comforts of civilized life, and cast one's lot among the low, barbarous peoples of India. Ralph and Abiah Hall were now getting old. Never had parents a more affectionate, devoted and obedient child than Sarah was to them. Henceforth their hearts and home will need her more than ever. How can they give her up for life, never to see her again this side of heaven, as never they did! Her heart was set on India, not simply for George Dana Boardman's sake, but for the sake of the poor heathen. Her parents she loved with increasing tenderness. But she must goShe pleaded and praye d with the dear parents. Their consciences and judg
ments assented, but for a while their hearts said no. The time for parting came. She had given the last farewell kiss to her parents. Seated aside of her husband in the stage-coach that was to bear them to the ship, she felt as if Bhe could not place continents and seas between herself and her parents with barely their reluctant consent. Once more she looked out of the coach window and said: "Father, are you willing? Say, father, that you are willing I should go."
"Yes, my child, I am willing."
"Now I can go joyfully," she exclaimed, and went on her way with cheerful composure.
Afterwards ehe wrote: "My mother embraced me tenderly, when she whispered, "Sarah, I hope I am willing." One month before she had wildly said: "Oh 1 I can not part with you I
She was concerned that her family should not associate her future home and work with gloomy ideas. They must think of her as supremely happy in her voluntary exile for the dusky Indians whom Christ died to save. From Philadelphia she wrote home once more: "Give my love to the dear children. Tell them in a cheerful manner that sister Sarah has gone to teach the poor little Burmans. I hope they will not be taught to associate sad ideas with my leaving them."
The Boardmans were to have taken charge of a mission field in Burmah— but as the Burmese were then at war with the British Government in India, they had to go elsewhere. At length they began their work in the Tavoy district. The missionary's wife applied herself to the study of the language. As in all she undertook, she thoroughly mastered it, but meanwhile grieved that she had to spend so much time in learning the language, and could do so little for the perishing Burmese, who were daily carried to the grave without a knowledge of ChrUt.
Their work, as usual with foreign missionaries, began with the little children. She gathered a group of a Sunday for religious instruction, and on week days she taught them in other matters. She gathered the degraded heathen women in groups around her, to speak to them as a woman to women about woman's best and greatest Friend, Jesus Christ. With great tenderness she prayed with them and for them, and soon they learned to pray themselves. Under her affectionate teaching their coarse, low habits and instincts were changed. Among the Kaien and Tavoy converts were many women who shone like "gems of brightest ray serene." At that time England had the millions of India less under her control than now. A large part of the country was unsettled and rebellious, under the guidance of native kings. Missionaries were in constant danger. At one time a revolt suddenly took place. The missionary family, with their little ones, sought shelter in a Government building. Mrs. Boardman crouched down in a wooden shed, and clasped her pale, sick child in her arms as the bullets of the rebels hailed around her, and their cannon balls whizzed overhead. The houses of the town were set on fire. Through five days they endured this horror of impending death, amid the hideous yells of savages. God sent a shower of rain to quench the flames— and one morning at sunrise a little cloud like smoke was seen on the distant horizon of the sea. It proved to be a Government steamer with means and men for their rescue.
After much earnest and prayerful work at Tavoy, a disturbance of the country broke up their prosperous schools aud congregation, and forced them to erect their tent elsewhere. Unlike later missionaries, such as Dr. Duff and others, Boardman began his labors among the lowest classes of India, especially among the Karens. These are a rude, migratory, mountain people.
They migrate in small parties, and when they have found a favorable spot, fire the underbrush, and erect a cluster of three or four huts on the ashes. In the intervals of procuring food, the men have frequent occasion to hew out a canoe or weave a basket; and the women manufacture a kind of cotton cloth, which furnishes material for the clothing of the family. There they remain until they have exhausted the resources of the surrounding forest, when they seek out another spot and repeat the same process. The Karens are a meek, peaceful race, simple and credulous, with many of the softer virtues, and few flagrant vices. Though greatly addicted to drunkenness, extremely filthy and indolent in their habits, their morals in other respects are superior to many civilized
races. Soon after the arrival of the first Burmese missionary in Rangoon, his attention was attracted by small parties of strange, wild-looking men, clad in unshapely garments, who, from time to time, straggled past his residence. He was told that they were called Karens, * * * and as untameable as the wild cows of the mountains. That they shrunk from association with other men, seldom entering a town, except on compulsion, and that therefore any attempt to bring them within the sphere of his influence would prove unsuccessful."
Whilst toiling with tender patience among these various heathen communities, the hand of sorrow was laid on this family. Children were born to them. The deadly Indian climate hurried a dear one to his early grave. Then the mother was taken sick; indeed was repeatedly brought to the brink of death. Her husband a health was shattered in the early period of hia usefulness. Through several years consumption did its slow but perceptible work. Hardships endured in open air village preaching, preaching tours made among the Karens, exposures during the hot days, chilly nights, added to the heavy rains of the inhospitable Indian climate, with miserable lodging most of the time, told rapidly on his already enfeebled constitution. "He used sometimes to walk twenty miles in a day, preaching and teaching as he went, and at night have no shelter but an open zayat (shed), no food at all calculated to sustain his failing nature, aud no bed but a straw mat spread on the cold, open bamboo floor." Wheu he could no longer walk, his affectionate, faithful Karens carried him from place to place, and when he could no longer speak audibly, his wife "sat on his sick couch and interpreted his feeble whispers" of the Word of Life to the people.
While in this state his wife was laid low. All missionary work was suspended in order that the afflicted husband could take care of her. She recovered again. In the winter of 1831 the little family went to the Karen wilderness. In three days a band of Karens carried him and his wife to their place of destination. More than fifty persons were baptized at this place by his assistant. There, however, he rapidly failed, and was brought home a corpse. Then followed the dark, forlorn season of bereavement, in the first fresh grief of widowhood, in a far-off heathen land. With a chastened, subdued, yet tearful sorrow, she bore her afflictions. Still she felt thankful that God had brought her to India to tell the poor idolaters of the Saviour of sinners. The grateful Karen women still crowded around her. From sunrise till ten o'clock in the evening she busily pointed them to Christ without pause. Well might she feel herself tenderly drawn towards the people for whom she labored. Pious Karen women mingled tears of true, sisterly sympathy with hers around the bier of her husband. They would hold prayermeetings in her room, and pray in Burmese and Karen with a devoutmss that would touch the hardest heart. The congregation had over a hundred members, who came a distance of forty and fifty miles across deserts and over almost impassable mountains, to worship God with this people. One woman sometimes forded swollen streams, when the water reached her chin. How the selfdenying zeal of these converted Karens puts to shame the ease-loving, spiritual inaction of many so-called Christians in more civilized countries!
Rev. Adoniram Judson entered upon the Foreign Missionary work in India about ten years before the Board mans. The death of his first wife, a very superior woman, left his heart and home desolate. He had then already become quite noted in his successful and self-denying labors, and was the author of a number of religious works, such as the translation of the Bible into the Burmese tongue. In January, 1834, he completed this greatest work of his useful career, and in the following April he took to himself Mrs. Boardman as his second wife. Thereafter her life was of a less roving and unsettled nature. She greatly assisted her husband in his literary and pastoral work, especially among the female population. After spending years in mastering the Burmese language, she found that the Feguan tongue would enable her to become more useful, and to the study of which she devoted years of unwearied effort. Thus she practically sacrificed the fruits of years of most difficult toil in order to do still more good. In addition to the writing of tracts and cate
chisms, she translated Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" in a style which native oriental scholars applauded with admiring wonder.
However successful foreign missionaries may be in their fields of labor, their surroundings are ill-suited for the training of their children. Those that can, send them to the schools of their native land. To be separated from their dear ones at this tender age is one of the most painful trials of their calling. If the child dies in a heathen land, it is "safe in the arms of Jesus," beyond the reach of pain or peril. But who can take a parent's place with the child while on earth, far away from home and from the thousand little and great blessings which that word implies. Mrs. Judson, after agony, prayer and tears, felt it her duty to send her only surviving child, her little son George, to America. She says in writing to another :—
* Yesterday he bade me a long farewell. Oh, my dear sister, my heart is full, and I long to disburden it by writing you whole pages; but my eyes are rolling down with tears, and I can scarcely hold my pen. Oh! I shall never forget bis looks as he stood by the door and gazed at me for the last time. His eyes were filled with tears, and his little face red with suppressed emotion. But he subdued his feelings, and it was not till he had turned away, and was going down the steps, that he burst into a flood of tears. I hurried to my room, and on my knees, with my whole heart, gave him up to God; and my bursting heart was comforted from above. I felt such a love to poor perishing souls as made me willing to give up all that I might aid in bringing ihese wretched heathen to Christ. My reason and my judgment tell me that the good of my child requires that he should be sent to America—and this of itself would support me in some little degree; but when I view it as a sacrifice, made for the sake of Jesus, it becomes a delightful privilege. I feel a great degree of confidence that George will be converted, and I cannot but hope he will one day return to Burmah, a missionary of the cross, as his dear father was. His dear papa took him down to Amherst in a boat. He held him in his arms all the way, and he says his conversation was very affectionate and intelligent. He saw his little bed prepared in the cabin, and every thing as comfortable and pleasant as possible, and then, as Georgie expressed it, returned to 'comfort mamma.' And much did I need the comfort; for this is in some respects the severest trial I have ever met with."
Georgie Boardman found many kind friends on his weary journey. The helpless, dreary lot of a child, far away from the fond embraces and tender care of his parents, on a long voyage across great seas, drew many kind people on shipboard towards him. From the officers down all were charmed with the little fellow, and vied with each other to caress and show him kindness. Many longed to know the mother of such a wonderful child; for extraordinary must the parent be who could train a little one in this fashion in degraded, heathen Burniah.
After changing ships at different ports, he is at length to enter the one bound for America. Two missionaries accompany him in a row boat to meet the vessel fifteen miles from shore. Three fierce-looking savages attack them. They grapple with the child's protectors, drag one of them overboard, and cut furiously, determined to kill them. Georgie, hid beneath a bench, sees every thrust. "His flesh creeps, and his blue eyes dilate and glitter until they assume an intense blackness." It was a fierce conflict. As he watched the blood flowing from the wounds of his friends, he little dreamed what a fate awaited him, in case he should fall into the hands of these savages; instead of becoming a missionary to the poor Burmese, to be carried away and sold into life-long slavery, never to see his dear parents again. God in mercy delivered them from the hand of the destroyer.
Despite the kindly care and sympathy of the ship's crew, Georgie shed many tears during the long and tedious voyage. After taking a great liking to a pet goat which had become his playmate, he one day saw the dear little thing-slaughtered. "With paled cheek and quivering lip he watched the deathagonies" of his favorite. Of a night his tears would wet his lonely pillow— as in wakeful love he thought of his far away mother. During the day he would sometimes get by himself, " lean his face upon his knees, and relieve his childish misery by unchecked sobbings." All this while the dear mother followed him with her loving prayers, and committed him to the Friend who by sea and by land takes care of His children.
Her second, like her first, husband could ill endure the climate of India.
Scarcely had they been married a half a dozen years, when consumption marked him as its victim. A cessation of work and a sea voyage became necessary. The mother and children must see the enfeebled invalid enter upon his journey by himself. Their tearful eyes followed him as far as they could, then the mother and children knelt side by side in a room, and committed him to Israel's keeper. And the poor, gratefnl Burmese converts, she says, "praytd for you, for me, and for the children, in j ust such a manner as I wished them to pray. Mah Hlah and Mah Tee could scarce proceed for sobs and tears. Oh! who would not prefer the sincere, disinterested love of these simple, warm-hearted Christians to all the applause and adulation of the world, or even to the more refined but too often selfish regard of our equals in mental cultivation and religious knowledge! Ko Manboke says he has only one request to make, and that is, if you must die, he begs you will come back to Maulmain, and die in the midst of the disciples who love you so dearly."
The husband returned to his work with improved health. Both labored together for a while longer, amid alternations of joy and sorrow. Two more chi dren sickened and died. Three of their tight children they buried in India, buried them far apart, and no two at the same place. Mrs. Judson had been afflicted for years. Now her maladies g ew rapidly worse. Although greatly prostrated, her physicians insisted that nothing save a voyage to America could save her. She had not seen her friends and native land since her first departure from home, a period of twenty years. While rapidly wasting away, kind friends gave her the benefits of health exercises and short sea voyages. The prospect of again visiting Christian America "filled her with mingled feelings of pain and pleasure." How could she leave those for whom she had prayed and toiled so long, perhaps leave them forever! Rather tar die quietly in Burmab, than interrupt her husband's labors. Her heart sunk at parting for years, if not for life, "with the most helpless of her babes—the eldest of the three only four years of age." Fair and dusky faces, wet with tears, circled
around her, as strong arms, with tender care, bore her to the ship. For awhile she continued to improve amid her new surroundings. Again she hoped to recover. Her heart was with the poor Burmese. Could she. not make one more sacrifice? Although she herself could not now return to the missionary work in India, might not her husband? Is it not wrong thus to take him from them for her sake? She entreated him to go back to Burmah, and she with some of the children would voyage westward towards the home of her childhood. Thinking that this last self-forgetting wish of her life would be granted, she poured out her heart in the following lines—it was the "swan song" of her life:
"We part on this green islet, Love,
My heart is sad for thee, Love,
And oft thy tears will fall, Love,
The music of thy daughter's voice
Thou'lt miss for many a year; And the merry shout of thine elder boys
Thou'lt list in vain to hear.
When we knelt to see our Henry die,
Each wiped away the other's tears—
My tears fall fast for thee, Love;
How can I say farewell?
Thy heart's deep grief to quell!
Yet my spirit clings to thine, Love,
And oft we'll hold communion sweet
And who can paint our mutual joy,
We both shall clasp our infants three,
But higher shall our raptures glow
On yon celestial plain,
Meet, ne'er to part again.
Then gird thine armor on, Love,
Till Boodh shall fall, and Burmah's
Shall own Messiah's sway."
Her improvement was only seeming. After three weeks rest in the balmy isle of France, she grew worse. As they continued their voyage, she rapidly declined. For a few days her husband feared he would have to bury her in the deep sea. As their ship neared the rock-bound coast of St. Helena, her spirit neared heaven. In the evening her children received her last goodnight kiss; and whilst they sweetly slept, as only children can sleep, she fell gently asleep in Jesus. In the morning, for the first time, she heeded not the sobbings of her little ones, as they wept around her corpse. The kind people of the island gave her a grave in a beautiful, shady spot of their burying ground, near the grave of a Mrs. Chater, a missionary from Ceylon, who likewise died here on her way home. Here, on this bleak island, sleep these two heroines. Unknown to each other in the flesh, their mortal bodies sleep in neighborly silence, and their ransomed spirits have long ere this found each other in the home in "our Father's house."
While the weather-beaten ship paused with furled sails a few hours in the rockbound harbor, a little saddened band softly bore the remains of Sarah Boardman Judson to their last resting-place. On that lonely island, where the idolized Napoleon spent five years in sullen exile, and where his body lay buried for nineteen years, she found the grave she longed to reach in her native land. No sad knell throbbed out on the air from solemn church bells, as she was borne to her rest. No nation's tears were shed for the giving away of a life so blessed and so busy for others' good. The heart of the world did not beat with saddest pulses because the heart of this frail, slight woman had ceased its weary beating. A few sincere mourners with chastened sorrow dropped tears of love at her open grave; and away under the tropical sky of India dusky faces were wet with tears when they knew that she, their teacher, had parsed to that heaven of which she had first told them. But God does not let the