I watched her till she flitted from my sight,
Then slowly homeward turned my lingering steps.
I wrote my kinsman on the morrow morn,
And broached my project to a worthy man
Who kept an office and a case of books--
An honest lawyer. People called him learn'd,
But wanting tact and ready speech he failed.
The rest were pettifoggers--scurrilous rogues
Who plied the village justice with their lies,
And garbled law to suit the case in hand--
Mean, querulous, small-brained delvers in the mire
Of men's misfortunes--crafty, cunning knaves,
Versed in chicane and trickery that schemed
To keep the evil passions of weak men
In petty wars, and plied their tongues profane
With cunning words to argue honest fools
Into their spider-meshes to be fleeced.
I laid my case before him; took advice--
Well-meant advice--to leave my native town,
And study with my kinsman whom he knew.
A week rolled round and brought me a reply--
A frank and kindly letter--giving me
That which I needed most--encouragement.
But hard it was to fix my mind to go;
For in my heart an angel whispered 'Stay.'
It might be better for my after years,
And yet perhaps,'twere better to remain.
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