After all, it was his intense piety that carried him into these extremes of self-denial. His was a great religious nature, wrestling for Christ-likeness. A small and weak nature always keeps within limit. Soil that is too thin for grain, never produces weeds. From the time that Mr. Judson gave his heart to God at Andover, he was possessed with a consuming zeal to be made holy. On this point, Mrs. E. C. Judson says: “I was first attracted by the freshness, the _originality_, if I may so call it, of his goodness.”... “His religion mingled in his letters generally, and in his conversation—a little silver thread that it is impossible to disentangle.” He was a man of prayer. His habit was to walk while engaged in private prayer. One who knew him most intimately says that “His best and freest time for meditation and prayer was while walking rapidly in the open air. He, however, attended to the duty in his room, and so well was this peculiarity understood that when the children heard a somewhat heavy, quick, but well-measured tread, up and down the room, they would say, ‘Papa is praying.’” “His was the life,” one writes, “of what the English would call ‘a good fellow,’ elevated and purified and beautified by religion.” Though he was a most brilliant and genial companion, yet, in his mind, every social relation was a tie by which men might be drawn heavenward. When Sir Archibald Campbell, the hero of the first Burman war, was on the eve of setting sail for his native land, crowned with the laurels of victory, he received from the lips of the humble and faithful ambassador of the cross, whom he had befriended, the following tender and solemn words of Christian admonition: “MAULMAIN, _January_ 8, 1829. “MY DEAR SIR: A few days ago I heard of your intention to leave this place on your return home. “When I reflect on your many kindnesses to me and my beloved wife, now, I trust, in heaven, from the time I first saw you at Yebbay to the present moment, and on the many pleasant interviews with which I have been honored, it is natural that I should feel a desire to express my gratitude for your goodness, and my regret at your departure. But, besides that desire, I have, for a few days, had an impression on my mind which I can not avoid, and dare not counteract. I would fain say a few words to you on a subject which you have probably never had a friend faithful enough to present plainly to your mind. I feel that I write under the influence of a higher power; and I beg that if my words offend you, you will still have the charity to believe that I am influenced by none other than the most disinterested, affectionate, and respectful sentiments. And though you should at first be displeased, I can not but hope that you will sometimes suffer the question to intrude on your most retired moments, whether the words I speak are not the words of eternal truth.