XXVII.

PELEG W. PONDER;

OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE.*

IT is a curious thing-an unpleasant thinga very embarrassing sort of thing-but the truth must be told-if not at all times, at least sometimes ; and truth now compels the declaration, that Peleg W. Ponder, whose character is here pourtrayed, let him travel in any way, cannot arrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own. He scarcely knows a conclusion, even if he should chance to see one belonging to other people. And, as for reaching a result, he would never be able to

By J. C. Neal.

do it, if he could stretch like a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And his misfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother's name having been Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career came to an end while she was in dubitation as to which of the various physicians of the place should be called in. If there had been only one doctor in the town, Perplexity Ponder might have been saved. But there were many-and what could Perplexity Ponder do in such a case?

Ponder's father was run over by a waggon, as he stood debating with himself, in the middle of the road, whether he should escape forward or retreat backward. There were two methods of extrication, and between them both old Ponder became a victim. How then could their worthy son, Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? He never

does.

Yet, for one's general comfort and particular happiness, there does not appear to be any faculty more desirable than the power of "making up the mind." Right or wrong, it saves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents an infinite variety of trouble. Commend us to the individual who closes upon propositions like a nutcracker-whose promptness of will has a sledge-hammer way with it, and

VOL. II.

X

Genius may be

hits nails continually on the head. brilliant-talent commanding; but what is genius, or what is talent, if it lack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if it hesitates, veers, and flutters-suffers opportunity to pass, and stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, no doubt; but reason loses the race, if it sits in meditation on the fence when competiton rushes by.

Under the best of circumstances, something must be left to hazard. There is a chance in all things. No man can so calculate odds in the affairs of life as to insure a certainty. The screws and linchpins necessary to our purpose have not the inflexibility of a fate; yet they must be trusted at some degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puff of wind on the stairs, let it be sheltered ever so carefully. Betsy is a good cook, yet beefsteaks have been productive of strangulation. Does it then follow from this, that we are never to go to bed, except in the dark, and to abstain from breaking our fast until dinner is announced?

One may pause and reflect too much. There must be action, conclusion, result, or we are a failure, to all intents and purposes-a self-confessed failure-defunct from the beginning. And such was the case with Peleg W. Ponder, who never

arrived at a conclusion, or contrived to reach a result. Peleg is always "stumped" - he "don't know what to think"-he "can't tell what to say"

-an unfinished gentleman, with a mind like a dusty garret, full, as it were, of ricketty furniture, yet nothing serviceable-broken-backed chairs— three-legged tables-pitchers without a handle— cracked decanters and fractured looking-glasses— that museum of mutilations, in which housewifery rejoices, under the vague, but never-realized hope, that these things may eventually "come in play." Peleg's opinions lie about the workshop of his brain, in every stage of progress but the last-chips, sticks, and sawdust, enough but no article ready to send home.

Should you meet Peleg in the street, with "Good morning, Peleg-how do you find yourself to-day?"

"Well-I don't know exactly-I'm pretty-no, not very pray, how do you do, yourself?"

Now, if a man does not know exactly, or nearly, how he is, after being up for several hours, and having had abundant time to investigate the circumstances of his case, it is useless to propound questions of opinion to such an individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg.

"How do you do,"

puzzles him he is fearful of being too rash, and of making a reply which might not be fully justified by after-reflection. His head may be about to ache, and he has other suspicious feelings.

"People are always asking me how I do, and more than half the time I can't tell-there's a good many different sorts of ways of feeling betwixt and between Very sick, I thank you,' and 'Half dead, I'm obliged to you;' and people won't stop to hear you explain the matter. They want to know right smack, when you don't know right smack yourself. Sometimes you feel things acoming, and just after, you feel things a-going. And nobody's exactly prime all the while. I ain't, anyhow I'm kinder so just now, and I'm sorter t'other way just after. Then, some people tell you that you look very well, when you don't feel very well-how then ?"

At table, Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; and sits looking slowly up and down the board, deliberating what he would like, until the rest of the company have finished their repast, there being often nothing left which suits Peleg's hesitating appetite.

Peleg has never married-not that he is averse to the connubial state-on the contrary, he has a large