It is astonishing how a man may be deluded.  Knowing, as I did, just the facts in the case, regarding my face and figure, yet the last day of the year 1817 found me in the full belief that I was quite a good-looking and every way a desirable young man.  This was the third article in my creed.  The second was, that Eleanor Sherman loved me; and the first, that I loved her.  It is curious how I became settled in the third article by means of the second.

I had spent hours before my looking-glass, trying to make it give in that I was good-looking.  But never was a glass so set in its way.  In vain I used my best arguments, pleaded before it hour after hour, re-brushed my hair, re-tied my cravat, smiled, bowed, and so forth, and so forth.  “Ill-looking and awkward!” was my only response.  At last it went so far as to intimate that I had, with all the rest, a conceited look.  This was not to be borne, and I withdrew in disgust.  The argument should be carried on in my own heart.  Pure reasoning only was trustworthy.  Philosophers assured us that our senses were not to be trusted.  How easy and straightforward the mental process!  “Eleanor loves me; therefore I cannot look ill!”

It was on the last day of the year I have mentioned, that, just having, for the fortieth time, arrived at the above conclusion, I prepared to go forth upon the most delightful of all possible errands.  All day I had been dwelling upon it, wondering at what hour it would be most proper to go.  At three o’clock, I arrayed myself in my Sunday-clothes.  I gave a parting glance of triumph at my glass, and stepped briskly forth upon the crispy snow.  I met people well wrapped up, with mouth and nose covered, and saw men leave working to thrash their hands.  It must have been cold, therefore; but I felt none of it.

Her house was half a mile distant.  ’T was on a high bank a little back from the road, of one story in front, and two at the sides.  It was what was called a single house; the front showed only two windows, with a door near the corner.  The sides were painted yellow, the front white, with a green door.  There was an orchard behind, and two poplar-trees before it.  The pathway up the bank was sprinkled with ashes.  I had frequently been as far as the door with her, evenings when I waited upon her home; but I had never before approached the house by daylight,—­that is, any nearer than the road.  I had never said anything; it wasn’t time; but I had given her several little things, and had tried to be her beau every way that I knew.

Before I began to notice her, I had never been about much with the young folks,—­partly because I was bashful, and partly because I was so clumsy-looking.  I was more in earnest, therefore, than if I had been in the habit of running after the girls.  After I began to like her, I watched every motion,—­at church, at evening meetings, at singing-school; and a glance from her eye seemed to fall right upon my heart.  She had been very friendly and sociable with me, always thanked me very prettily for what little trifles I gave her, and never refused my company home.  She would put her hand within my arm without a moment’s hesitation, chatting all the while, never seeming in the least to suspect the shiver of joy which shot through my whole frame from the little hand upon my coat-sleeve.