associate with myself, except that during the preceding two years I had
suffered many indignities without open resentment. That my right hand
with a pen should teach me terrible things--how to fight for reform--I
firmly believed.

"Thine arrows are sharp in the heart of the King's enemies, whereby the
people fall under thee," quoth the minister. Yes, my tongue could be as
sharp as an arrow, and I should be able to stand up against those who
should stand in the way of reform. Again: "Thou lovest righteousness,
and hatest wickedness. Therefore God, thy God, hath anointed thee with
the oil of gladness above thy fellows." The first sentence I did not
apply to myself; but being then, as I supposed, a man restored to
himself, it was easy to feel that I had been anointed with the oil of
gladness above my fellows. "Oil of gladness" is, in truth, an apt
phrase wherewith to describe elation.

The last two verses of the psalm corroborated the messages found in the
preceding verses: "I will make thy name to be remembered in all
generations:"--thus the minister. "Therefore shall the people praise
thee for ever and ever," was the response I read. That spelled immortal
fame for me, but only on condition that I should carry to a successful
conclusion the mission of reform--an obligation placed upon me by God
when He restored my reason.

When I set out upon a career of reform, I was impelled to do so by
motives in part like those which seem to have possessed Don Quixote
when he set forth, as Cervantes says, with the intention "of righting
every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger, from
which in the issue he would obtain eternal renown and fame." In
likening myself to Cervantes' mad hero my purpose is quite other than