Without farther apology, then, we proceed to speak of the Hon. Philip Martindale somewhat more particularly. We speak of this person in the first place, for that was a first consideration with himself. He was tall, but not thin; rather clumsily formed about the shoulders; his gait was rather swaggering than stately; his features were not unhandsome, but they wanted expression; his manner of speaking was not remarkable for its beauty, for he had a habit of drawling which seemed to strangers a piece of affectation; his style of dress was plain, somewhat approaching to that of the driver of a coach, but any one might see in a moment that he was a man of some consequence. As to his mind, he was by no means a blockhead or a simpleton; nor was he to be considered as ill-humored. He was of an easy disposition; and had he been placed in a situation which required the exercise of his mental powers to gain a living, he would have passed for a man of very good understanding. But there is one kind of capacity required to gain a fortune, and another to spend it. Philip Martindale possessed the former, but he wanted the latter. Our readers are already aware that the young gentleman had for a short time assayed a professional life, and had given promise of fair success; but when he found that a title was awaiting him, and that a dependence was offered him, he renounced his profession, and gave up an independence for a dependence. Now ever since he had changed his style of life, he had changed his habits of social intercourse. While he had chambers in the Temple, he had for companions men of literary acquirements and taste; and all he knew of the prowess and powers of the celebrated dog Billy, or of the no less celebrated heroes of the ring, was from the interesting and beautiful reports which grace the columns of our newspapers: he was then acquainted with no other coachman than the driver of his father’s carriage, and he was not very intimate with him: at that time he was as ignorant of the highest as he was of the lowest ranks; and if he occasionally spent an evening at the Opera, he had nothing to do but to attend to the performance.