I believe country-people are even more egotistic than the dwellers in cities.  I sometimes found myself at the most isolated farm-houses looking for my Rose.  The men I met there invariably thought they knew all about the weather and religion, politics and farming; the women were convinced they had every kind of knowledge worth having, and that what they did not know was “new-fangled” and not worth a pin; and their daughters believed that they were beauties, or would be if they had fine clothes to dress in.  How people can be so mistaken as to their capacity is a mystery to me.

During my stay I came to the conclusion that I would rather press a soft hand than a hard one; that I would rather see a tasty toilette than beauty unadorned; that shy manners are anything but graceful; that the useful and the beautiful are not likely to be found in the same person; and that girls, like articles de luxe, should be carefully kept.  I like to recall that well-bred, unconscious air of Miss Haughton; I remember Miss Darling as a model of deportment:  why, she could do the naughtiest things in a less objectionable manner than that of these girls when acting propriety.

I discovered some facts regarding wild roses.  Their petals are few and faded, and their thorns many and sharp.  Their scanty green foliage will always remind me of a calico gown.  Take my word for it, and don’t ever go to the trouble of seeking one.  Give me a full-blown damask rose.  What care I if it was nursed in a hot-house or if its beauty is due to the gardener’s care?  I thank the gardener and take the rose.  Or give me a half-open sulphira, with suggestive odors and soft curving leaves, passion-pale in tint, or a gorgeous amaryllis produced by artful development, clothed like a queen in state, bearing erect her magic beauty.  No more wild roses for me!

CHAPTER II.

I had been at Breezy Brook, that beautiful summer resort which you all know, about a month:  it was now July, and nothing had happened worth relating since my arrival.  During the past winter I had not been idle—­attending parties, balls and operas without number, but without success.  This summer I made up my mind to be tranquil and to let events take their course, for, as Fortune had given me every other good, she would no doubt in time provide me with a good wife.  I had therefore every reason to be patient.

I was in an unsociable mood one afternoon; so, taking a cigar and book, I sauntered up the mountain.  There is an arbor halfway to its top, and I have a lounging-place near by, where the roots of an old tree make a comfortable nest just above a steep precipice, and the place is hidden from intruders by rocks and foliage.  ’Tis a discovery of mine I pride myself upon, and I go there when I want to collect my thoughts and enjoy my own company.