I am the unhappy victim of a fate which in spiteful mood gifted me beyond my fellow-men. I might have had my share of enjoyment in the world, as mediocre people have, but my perfections are in my way at every turn, continually marring my prospects. A superficial observer might think that these advantages would have the contrary effect--that I should be more fortunate than others--but my story will prove my assertion. Take, for example, my difficulties as a "marrying man." I will relate my experience during the past three years, and you can judge for yourself. CHAPTER I. My good mother (may Heaven reward her!) often advised me to marry betimes. "Marry early in life, my dear Charles," she would say, "but marry a woman _worthy_ of you." In her solicitude my mother foresaw the difficulty of the task she had set before me. She had known and admired me from childhood, and of course appreciated my worth. I remember her sad but affectionate gaze as she spoke, and I, unconscious of the future, smiled to reassure her. With the simplicity inseparable from great natures, I did not value the treasures I possessed. I was as the poet before he has touched his lyre--as the sculptor ere he has found his marble. Since then the years have brought knowledge. My eyes have been opened by the actions of those around me--by the admiration I excite whenever I appear; by the respect with which I am listened to when I speak; by the warmth with which I am welcomed wherever I visit. I could produce many examples to illustrate my gradual awakening, but they would be irrelevant to my subject. I earnestly desired to fulfill my mother's wishes, and as soon as it seemed proper after her decease I set out on my quest as on a pilgrimage. The task which requires from most men some six weeks' or three months' time, perhaps a few moments snatched from business or a few evenings of ball-room devotion, has cost me three years' labor, and it is not yet accomplished. But I suppose it is easier for other men to find some one worthy of _them_. I had read the poets: I had conceived an ideal of a faultless creature, and with the enthusiasm of youth I sought for a woman to worship as a star--one whom I should adore--one far above me, from whom it would be honor to win a smile, and--and all that sort of thing. Alas! I found they smiled before I could make my first bow at an introduction. At first I blamed the poets--thought they had been mistaken--had not studied human nature; but the truth gradually dawned upon me. _The fault was mine_! The imagination of man had not been able to create a hero of fiction like myself: in fact, had authorship attained such a triumph, the most fastidious maiden would have been obliged to fall in love at first sight, thereby spoiling many a fine three-volumed romance and heroic cantos innumerable. How ruinous would the possession of perfection such as mine have been to the chivalry of the Middle Ages!