"What sort of a man is an opulent-looking man?" perhaps the reader may inquisitively ask, and particularly if he should happen to belong to that fraternity vulgarly called blacklegs. Why gentlemen, if you will take off your dreadful Thurtel-looking, white great-coats, and sit down quietly, and not frighten one, I will tell you. I generally guess to be opulent, a man who, being vulgar, and with the air and manners of low birth, appears not at all proud of a new coat, which he wears not well brushed, and a chain of value, which is not dragged too forward; and generally appears discontented with whatever poor men are most apt to admire. He likewise makes a particular sort of bow; putting on his hat always less ceremoniously than he had taken it off to salute you, as though, on second thoughts, it had scarcely been worth his while. All these, my favourite marks, had the man whom the thin old beau just now saluted with such profound respect. The supposed opulent man apparently, to the great surprise and delight of the poor one, made a full stop, and addressed him.--While they were conversing, the large, black, dirty dog, jumped on his hind legs, and began playing with the thin old beau, covering him with mud. Instead of driving the nasty animal away in anger as I fully expected, he caressed and patted him, as though quite enchanted. The opulent man, whose frightful dog I should imagine had never before been tolerated, appeared all gratitude and respect for him who saw his qualities with the same partial eyes that he did himself. "Love me, love my dog," said I to myself, and, trusting to providence for what was to follow, I put the words down in my manuscript. It is a very natural feeling, certainly, yet many carry it much too far. I have known men, and women too, who could love nothing for the life of them, however amiable, with whom everybody was not charmed! Some men quarrel with those who will not admire their mistress; others love her no longer than she happens to continue the fashion; if, indeed, one may dignify such selfish feelings of admiration as originate only in vanity by the appellation of love! Still it is perfectly natural to desire that our friends and those we respect should sanction our affections by partaking of our admiration. "It is sweet to do a great many things," Lord Byron said, and he might have added, how very sweet and pure is the delight we all experience at the genuine spontaneous praise bestowed on the object of our choice. Lord Ponsonby was certainly one of the most reserved and shy men in England, and, being a married man, was naturally, for reasons, desirous of concealing his affections when his wife was not their object. One day, during the time we were living together, I walked into the Green Park with my young brother George. We met Lord Ponsonby in a barouche, accompanied by his sister, Lady Howick.