ERECTED TO THE MEMORY of ANN H. JUDSON, MISSIONARY of the Baptist General Convention, in the United States, to the BURMAN EMPIRE. She was born at Bradford, In the State of Massachusetts, North America, Dec. 22, 1789. She arrived with her husband at Rangoon, And there commenced those MISSIONARY TOILS, Which she sustained with such Christian fortitude, decision, and perseverance, Amid scenes of Civil commotion and personal affliction, As won for her Universal respect and affection. She died at Amherst, Oct. 24, 1826. belongs not to one sect or party, but to all who love our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Like her she went out when but few were ready to bid her " God speed," or bestow their money for her support. 66 On the record of American missions we find the name of no female who endured so much—who sacrificed so much—who accomplished so much. She fell not when the first notes of the great enterprise were ringing on her ears, but she made her grave amid the strife and confusion of the battle. She lived long enough to see the fruits of missions-to gaze upon the converts as they descended, one by one, into the baptismal wave-to see a door opened, wide enough to admit laborers from every department of the Christian church. She mourned not as did her sister-martyr, that she was cut down ere she had labored for God and seen the happy result. They were born within sight of each other, in pleasant valleys on the borders of the silvery stream. They met the companions of their missionary toils at the same time, and within a few days of each other decided to become the first heroines of the missionary church. Together they sailed-as precious a cargo as ever was tossed on the billowy sea. Together they landed on heathen soil, with high hopes of doing good. But though united in their lives, they were divided in their deaths. Mrs. Judson lived on more than a half score of useful years beyond her companion; and if life is to be measured, not by the number of days and years, but by what is accomplished in it, or what is suffered during its lapse, then she lived ages-aye, ages of suffering, ages of labor, ages of virtue and piety, after Mrs. Newell had descended to her grave. And where are they now? Go ask the angel throng, as they tune their harps to melodious songs on high, and they will point to two sister spirits, who day and night in company present themselves before God; and as one rank after another comes up from heathen lands to swell the chorus of the redeemed, and ascribe their conversion to the efforts of the early missionary laborers who under God were made. the humble instruments in the great work, meekly will be heard from the spirit lips of Harriet Newell and Ann H. Judson, the reply, "Not unto us, not unto us, but unto the Lamb who was slain, but who liveth forever." III. ESTHER BUTLER, OF CHEROKEE NATION. THE Indians of North America should possess, to those who occupy the soil which they once trod and called their own, a deep and peculiar interest. Would we could say that the conduct of the whites had been to them what from the nature of the case we should expect. But instead of that high and manly dealing which we have pursued toward other nations, and which they demand of us, the poor Indian has been deemed an outcast and a reproach -his name cast out as evil. The inroads of the white population have been constant, and often barbarous, and the Indians have been driven from place to place, the proud spirit of the race broken, and the former lofty bearing of the people lost. But this is not all. Before our fathers landed on these shores, the aboriginal inhabitants were free from many of the vices to which they afterward became addicted. The white man came with the "fire water" and the murderous powder. In his hands he bore the implements of death and destruction, and a single century changed the character of the Indian nations. They became what vice could make them, and rapidly disappeared before their more enlightened and civilized invaders. We tell of the times when around the infant settlements was heard the savage war-cry, and bursting from the ambush sprang the painted warriors, to murder, in cold blood, man, woman, and child. We tell of whole villages destroyed, whole settlements cut off, many murdered without mercy, and others carried away into dreadful slavery. We speak of it with trembling voice and tone, and deem it barbarism without mixture of mercy. But is it less barbarous to land on the shores of an independent people, and give, not their bodies to the sword, and their towns to the flame, but distribute among them the sure causes of misery and degradation? Is it less barbarous to make a nation of drunkards, and change the people from enterprising industry and peaceful pleasure, to lazy, idle, brutish, filthy vagabonds; to destroy the whole Indian population, and drive them out to the shores of the distant ocean? And they have gone. They have left their hunting grounds, and the homes of childhood, and the graves of their fathers, and are tracking their way towards the setting sun. And what return can our great nation make for the land we have taken? What restitution can we make |