I entered my name in the office of a gentleman of rather retired habits. He had an excellent library, both of law books and miscellaneous reading, and read much himself; but he was considered by the people as rather an oddity, and a book-worm. He rarely appeared in court, and clients never came to his office; yet he had made a fortune by his profession. I will venture to swear that he made his money with clean hands and a quiet conscience. He was rarely seen off of his own territory, and never attended a public meeting in his life, except to hear a sermon. His history is somewhat singular. He was a shoe-maker, until thirty years of age, and then studied law, and supported himself, for the first years of his practice, by making shoes in his garret, as it is said. A man of few words, he never spoke first to any one, but always listened more than he talked, even in the company of a fool. With the coarsest features and roughest skin I ever saw, and the ugliest face, he had the most benevolent smile in the world. He never killed a fly, or trod upon a worm, though a lawyer. He was much respected by the older and better sort of people, and by those of his profession, who were glad to find their opinions supported by his. Himself and wife constituted his family, and they lived as quietly as two mice. Every thing was kept as neat as wax. The house, and office contiguous, stood upon a slight elevation, opposite the village church and tavern, shaded by umbrageous trees. A stray stick or stone never remained long within ten rods of the place. He was the pattern of order, and neatness, and regularity, in every thing he did or possessed. I never saw an unpleasing expression upon the face of this gentleman, except when some one of the choir got out of key in church; and then his countenance would suddenly be drawn up into knots, that, it would seem, could never be unravelled; for with a coarse body, he possessed the most susceptible soul, and refined tastes in the arts. Retirement and self-examination had made him appear diffident; yet it was far from being an ungraceful kind of bashfulness, but rather that drawing back, as if he mistrusted your power fully to enter into his feelings. But to return. I commenced the task of study, and stuck to it for a short time; but the feeling that follows the discharge of a duty soon became no novelty, and I began to be quite sick of being so very good. Every thing was too smooth. I always loved contrast; and here are some verses that I wrote, the first week I spent in the country: