In the Calcutta Review of 1848, we find this noble tribute to her memory:  “Of Mrs. Judson little is known in the noisy world.  Few comparatively are acquainted with her name, few with her actions, but if any woman since the first arrival of the white strangers on the shores of India, has on that great theatre of war, stretching between the mouth of the Irrawady and the borders of the Hindoo Kush, rightly earned for herself the title of a heroine, Mrs. Judson has, by her doings and sufferings, fairly earned the distinction—­a distinction, be it said, which her true woman’s nature would have very little appreciated.  Still it is right that she should be honored by the world.  Her sufferings were far more unendurable, her heroism far more noble, than any which in more recent times have been so much pitied and so much applauded; but she was a simple missionary’s wife, an American by birth, and she told her tale with an artless modesty—­writing only what it became her to write, treating only of matters that became a woman.  Her captivity, if so it can be called, was voluntarily endured.  She of her own free will shared the sufferings of her husband, taking to herself no credit for anything she did; putting her trust in God, and praying to him to strengthen her human weakness.  She was spared to breathe once again the free air of liberty, but her troubles had done the work of death on her delicate frame, and she was soon translated to heaven.  She was the real heroine.  The annals in the East present us with no parallel.”

On the 26th of April, Mr. Judson writes, “My sweet little Maria lies by the side of her fond mother.  Her complaint proved incurable.  The work of death went forward, and after the usual process, excruciating to a parent’s feelings, she ceased to breathe on the 24th inst., at 3 o’clock P.M., aged 2 years and 3 months.  We then closed her faded eyes, and bound up her discolored lips, and folded her little hands—­the exact pattern of her mother’s—­on her cold breast.  The next morning we made her last bed, under the hope tree, (Hopia,) in the small enclosure which surrounds her mother’s lonely grave.”

Many months later he wrote; “You ask many questions about our sufferings at Ava, but how can I answer them now?  There would be some pleasure in reviewing those scenes if she were alive; now I can not.  The only reflection that assuages the anguish of retrospection is, that she now rests far away, where no spotted-faced executioner can fill her heart with terror; where no unfeeling magistrate can extort the scanty pittance which she had preserved through every risk to sustain her fettered husband and famishing babe; no more exposed to lie on a bed of languishment, stung with the uncertainty what would become of her poor husband and child when she was gone.  No, she has her little ones around her, I trust, and has taught them to praise the source whence their deliverance flowed.  Her little son, his soul enlarged to angel’s size, was perhaps