their residence. A voyage to
the Mauritius was recommended, and the alarming situation of three of
the children, as well as Mrs. Judson's feeble state, determined them to
try it. But before they embarked, it was her melancholy lot to lay one
of her darlings in the grave, and he, the very one about whose health
she had felt the least uneasiness. He sleeps, says his mother, in the
mission burial-ground, where moulders the dust of Carey, Marshman and
Ward. Her tears at his burial flowed not only for him that was dead, but
for another who she expected would soon follow him. To avert this
calamity she hastened her voyage, which though fearfully tempestuous,
proved beneficial to the sufferers, and after a short sojourn in the
soft climate of the Isle of France, the family returned to their home in
Maulmain, restored, with the exception of one son, to sound health. This
son, who bore the name of his father, was called by the natives Pwen,
which signifies "a flower," a name adopted by his parents. After a long
illness he too was restored to health.

Mrs. Judson's labors during the latter part of her life, are recorded by
her husband; and it may well excite the wonder of those women who
consider the care of their own families a sufficient task, that she
could find time and strength for such an amount of labor. It has been
said that her translation of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is a work worth
living for. Her husband says, "It is one of the best pieces of
composition we have published." She also translated a tract written by
her husband; edited a "Chapel hymn book," and furnished for it twenty of
its best hymns; and published four volumes of Scripture Questions for
use in the Sabbath Schools. When we consider that she was the mother of
a rapidly increasing family; and the head of an establishment, which
like all in the East require constant and vigilant superintendence; and
that she was exemplary in the discharge of her maternal and domestic
duties, we are led to fancy she must have possessed some secret charm by
which she could stay the hurrying feet of time; and "hold the fleet
angel fast until he blessed her." Such a secret was her untiring zeal,
which prompted an incessant industry. The sands of time are indeed
numerous, and when each is valued as a sparkling treasure, they form a
rich hoard, laid up where neither moth nor rust corrupt; but if we let
them escape unheeded, or sit and idly watch their flow, and even shake
the