changed to admiration.

During Dr. Judson's visit to America, in 1845, while riding in a public
conveyance with Mr. G., who was escorting him to his home in
Philadelphia, a story written by "Fanny Forrester," fell into the hands
of Dr. J. He read it with satisfaction, remarking that he should like to
know its author. "You will soon have that pleasure," said Mr. G., "for
she is now visiting at my house." An acquaintance then commenced between
them, which, notwithstanding the disparity in their years, soon ripened
into a warm attachment, and after a severe struggle, she broke, as she
says, the innumerable ties that bound her to the fascinating worldly
life she had adopted, and consented to become, what in her early
religious zeal she had so longed to be--a missionary.

And now the spell of worldliness was indeed broken. With mingled shame
and penitence she reviewed her spiritual declensions, and with an
humbled, self-distrusting spirit renewed her neglected covenant with the
God and guide of her youth. In Dr. Judson, to whom she was married on
the 2d of June, 1846, she found a wise and faithful friend and
counsellor, as well as a devoted husband. In his tried and experienced
piety, she gained the support and encouragement she needed in her
Christian life. Conscious that she had given to the world's service too
many of her noble gifts, she commenced a work of an exclusively
religious character and tendency, the biography of her predecessor, the
second Mrs. Judson. In one year it was completed, and in speaking of it
in a letter from India, whither she had accompanied Dr. J. immediately
after their marriage, she playfully remarked that her husband was
pleased with it, and she cared little whether any one else liked it or
not.

On her passage to India, Mrs. Judson passed in sight of that island
which must ever attract the gaze of men of every clime and nation,--the
rocky prison and tomb of the conqueror of nations, Napoleon Bonaparte.
But to her the island had more tender associations; awakened more
touching recollections. It was as the grave of Sarah Judson, that her
successor gazed long and tearfully on the Isle of St. Helena; and she
thus embodied her feelings in song.

LINES WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.

Blow softly, gales! a tender sigh
Is flung upon your wing;
Lose not the treasure as ye fly,
Bear it where love and beauty lie,
Silent and withering.

Flow gently, waves! a tear is laid