I do not think any less of the ladies for the ease of my conquests: I know how impossible it is for the poor dears to resist my charms; but oh the happiness of mediocrity! I was occupied for a whole season searching for the being whom I called my star. My fancy was so pleased with the idea of basking in her radiance, I had so fully persuaded myself to be guided by her light to all things great and high, I had learned to think of her with so much devotion, that I could not give up my hope of finding her somewhere. I went to all the popular summer-resorts in turn, meeting only disappointment. The star type of girls did not seem to be the mode that season: I could see no trace of her I came to find. Though saddened, I was too young to despair: in my usual clear and sensible manner I thought the matter over. After all, I reflected, I suppose I can find a woman worthy of me who is not a star. I doubt not the poets were sincere in their civility to persons of the other sex. The exaggeration arose from the absence of any really superior man with whom to compare them. They _seemed_ stars in contrast with the existing male species: _I_ had not yet appeared. Another summer found me renewing my search with unabated vigor, but this time on a different basis, having determined to lay romance aside--to seek for nothing above me--to be content with an equal. If with her I should not be ecstatically happy--if our _ménage_ would not quite rival that of Adam and Eve in the garden of Paradise--yet a certain amount of modern bliss might be extracted from the companionship of an agreeable woman who could appreciate and sympathize with my tastes and be my friend through life.