"marriages would
be happier if they were all arranged by the Lord Chancellor."
Unfortunately, we have no Lord Chancellor to make this commutation of
our misery.

Shall a man then scour the country on a mule's back, like honest Gil
Blas of Santillane? or shall he make application to some such
intervening providence as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the Presse,
manages these matters to one's hand, for some five per cent on the
fortunes of the parties?

I have trouted when the brook was so low and the sky so hot that I
might as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike; and I have hunted
hare at noon, and woodcock in snowtime--never despairing, scarce
doubting; but for a poor hunter of his kind, without traps or snares,
or any aid of police or constabulary, to traverse the world, where are
swarming, on a moderate computation, some three hundred and odd
millions of unmarried women, for a single capture--irremediable,
unchangeable--and yet a capture which by strange metonymy, not laid
down in the books, is very apt to turn captor into captive and make
game of hunter--all this, surely, surely may make a man shrug with
doubt!

Then, again, there are the plaguy wife's relations. Who knows how many
third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at careless complimentary
intervals long after you had settled into the placid belief that all
congratulatory visits were at an end? How many twisted-headed brothers
will be putting in their advice, as a friend to Peggy?

How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two with their
"dear Peggy," and want to know every tea-time "if she isn't a dear love
of a wife?" Then, dear father-in-law will beg (taking dear Peggy's
hand in his) to give a little wholesome counsel; and will be very sure
to advise just the contrary of what you had determined to undertake.
And dear mamma-in-law must set her nose into Peggy's cupboard, and
insist upon having the key to your own private locker in the wainscot.

Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews who come
to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India sweetmeats; and who
are forever tramping over your head or raising the old Harry below,
while you are busy with your clients. Last, and worse, is some fidgety
old uncle, forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his
patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little Peggy!

That could be borne, however; for perhaps he has promised his fortune
to Peggy. Peggy