THE infant sleeping on its mother's breast, Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile-- The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest, As spotless, and as free from earthly guile; The eye that weeps calamity to see, The hand that opens in its might to give; The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to be Bathed in His blood who died that it might live; The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul, The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven, Have each an Angel's spirit; and control The sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given. This is all felt--but Nature bids us trace The Angel in earth's glory--woman's face. WILSON CONWORTH. CHAPTER XII. I HAVE said, that owing to the aimless, reckless course of life which I pursued, after leaving college, I lost my place in society, and found myself without friends, and a marked man. This began my education. I began to look about me, and to think. What! my acquaintance slight me as unworthy their notice! What could be the cause of this? Could I live under such a ban? I resolved to reform. The effect upon me of this rule in society proves its excellence. I was at first staggered. I knew not that ruin was so near at hand. I was awakened from the trance of years. I determined to make a desperate effort. I collected the amount of my debts, and gave them in to my father, telling him, as coolly as I could, that I had determined to leave the city--to retire upon the smallest sum possible for the most secluded life. He paid my debts, enormous as they were. Without bidding adieu to any one, for I did not think myself of consequence enough to take leave formally, I, in a few days after my determination, was on my way to N----. I took with me a few books, and they were well chosen. I had Scott and Byron, Mackenzie's works, the British Essayists, Sterne, Shenstone's Essays, Bacon's Essays, Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, and Shakspeare. Yes! I took, too, Burns's poems and letters. His letters more than his poems I admired, or loved too read, for we feel more sympathy for Burns, on account of his hard struggles, than because he wrote 'Tam O'Shanter,' or the 'Twa Dogs.' These were all the books I took with me. I mention them with a feeling of pride, that my taste was so pure at so early a day, and in spite of my idleness and dissipated habits. If I were to select now from the whole field of literature--throwing in the old English prose writers by Young--I would not give up one of these books, supposing I could have no more in number.