Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to the connubial state—on the contrary, he has a large share of the susceptibilities, and is always partially in love. But female beauty is so various. At one time Peleg is inclined to believe that perfection lies in queenly dignity—the majesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks down with disdain on little people. He calls them “squabs” in derogation. But anon, in a more domestic mood, he thinks of fireside happiness and quiet bliss, declining from the epic poetry of loveliness to the household wife, who might be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to darn the hole in his elbow. When in the tragic vein he fancies a brunette; and when the sunshine is on his soul, blue eyes are at a premium. Should woman possess the slightness of a sylph, or should her charms be of the more solid architecture? Ought her countenance to beam in smiles, or will habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Is sparkling brilliancy to be preferred to gentle sweetness? “If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be so bothered,” said Peleg; “or if they all looked alike, a man couldn’t help himself. But yesterday I wanted this one; to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow I’ll want t’other one; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or that, or t’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I really wanted? That’s the difficulty. It always happens so with me. When the lady’s most courted, and thinks I ought to speak out, then I begin to be skeered, for fear I’ve made a mistake, and have been thinking I loved her, when I didn’t. Maybe it’s not the right one—maybe she won’t suit—maybe I might do better—maybe I had better not venture at all. I wish there wasn’t so many ‘maybe’s’ about everything, especially in such affairs. I’ve got at least a dozen unfinished courtships on hand already.” But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg has gradually lost sight of his fancy for making an addition to his household. Not that he has concluded, even yet, to remain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at the bare mention of such an idea. He could not consent to be shelved in that decisive manner. But he has subsided from active “looking around” in pursuit of his object, into that calm, irresponsible submissiveness, characteristic of the somewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she may chance to present herself spontaneously, and “come along” of her own accord. “Some day—some day,” says Peleg; “it will happen some day or other. What’s the use of being in a hurry?” Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. His personal affairs are somewhat embarrassed by his lack of enterprise, and he hankers greatly for an office. But which side to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will purvey the loaf and fish? for whom shall Peleg shout?