And future ages will honor them. When the names of Mary and Elizabeth,
of Joan of Arc with her wild enthusiasm, of De Stael and her literary
contemporaries, have all been lost, these will live as fresh as ever.

Ann H. Judson was born at Bradford, December 22, 1789. She was the daughter
of John and Rebecca Hasseltine, worthy inhabitants of that pleasant
village. Her childhood was passed within sight of the home which contained
the friends, and around which clustered the employments and pursuits, of
Harriet Newell. With only a narrow river rolling between them, these two
devoted servants of God passed through the period of youth, little thinking
how their names and fortunes were to be linked together in the holy cause
of human good. Like her beloved associate, Miss Hasseltine was early in
life a pupil at Bradford Academy, and made commendable progress in her
studies. There she was beloved by all. The teachers regarded her as an
industrious, dutiful, and talented scholar; her associates looked upon her
as a sincere, openhearted, cheerful companion. Unlike Mrs. Newell, who was
sedate and grave, exhibiting a seriousness almost beyond her years, Miss
Hasseltine was ardent, gay, and active. She loved amusement and pleasure,
and was found seeking enjoyment in all the avenues of virtuous life. One of
her schoolmates, speaking of her, says, "Where Ann is, no one can be
gloomy or unhappy. Her cheerful countenance, her sweet smile, her happy
disposition, her keen wit, her lively conduct, never rude nor boisterous,
will dispel the shades of care and hang the smiles of summer upon the
sorrows of the coldest heart." Her animation gave life to all around her,
and made her, at school, an unusual favorite; at home, the joy of her
father's dwelling. It was probably this cheerfulness of her natural
disposition which in after years enabled her to endure such protracted
sufferings, and, by the side of her missionary husband, smile amid clanking
fetters and gloomy dungeons. She loved to look upon the bright side of
every picture, and seldom spent an hour in tears over any imaginary sorrow.