in a foreign clime. The literal application of the passage was warmly pressed: "He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me." "Not worthy of me! Not worthy of me!" rang like a dirge in my soul. But the surge of feeling subsided, and in deepened humility I decided that, without any worthiness whatsoever, I must cling to my Saviour's cross.
Sundry times, also, I came near being caught in the clerical net, but broke through. Fascinations of a more ambitious character had likewise their scope and sway. Still my slight bark was guided, though sometimes veering, to keep its pole-star in view. Those who would have steered it to some favoring haven, where
"The light-house looked lovely as hope,
That star on life's tremulous ocean,"
I remember with great respect and gratitude. Worth was theirs, and wealth, and mental culture, and the world's consideration. I was not insensible to their virtues; their kind attentions are embalmed in memory. I have regarded their success and happiness with satisfaction, and would fain have ever considered them as brothers or friends.
But the blind archer, though oft repulsed, and long held in subjection, bided his time. One might have supposed that, for me, this time had passed. A quiet school-dame, most happy with her scholars and
