It is now high time to introduce more particularly to our readers the Hon. Philip Martindale. He has been glancing and flitting before our eyes; but he has not stayed long enough to be fairly seen and understood. He did not appear to great advantage at the assizes, where he sat laughing or sneering at the progress of his own cause; nor would he have made a very imposing figure, had we opened upon him on the evening of the day of the trial, when, on his return home, the trusty Oliver announced to him the arrival of two gentlemen, calling themselves sheriffs’ officers. To delay any longer to introduce our honorable acquaintance to our readers, would be intruding upon their patience beyond reason.

The Hon. Philip Martindale finding that it would not be possible to get rid of this encumbrance by any other means than by discharging the debt, and knowing that the debt could not be discharged without money, and knowing that money was not at that emergency to be obtained but by the medium of the people of Israel, sent his trusty Oliver to the Red Lion to provide a chaise to carry him on his way to London. It would be more agreeable to us, if it were possible, to bring our readers to an acquaintance with the honorable gentleman lolling in his own chariot, for that would be more befitting his rank in society, than to see him travelling in so plebeian a vehicle as a hired chaise, drawn by a pair of hack horses. But though the Hon. Philip Martindale was a man of high rank, and somewhat proud of the station which he held in society, he was not altogether unable or unwilling to condescend; and though the Denvers, the Flints, the Prices, and all the other gentry, thought him a very proud and haughty man, yet there were many in Brigland, many in Newmarket, and many in London and its vicinity, who could bear testimony to his condescension.

To describe a journey to London in a post-chaise, along thirty or forty miles of turnpike-road, bounded on the right hand by hedges and ditches, and on the left by ditches and hedges, requires powers of description and imagination to which we are too humble to make pretension. As we are not presuming to descant on the history of the journey, we may as well say a word or two concerning the person who took the said journey. We are perfectly aware that it would be more artist-like and effective, to let our characters speak for themselves, and by their own acts or words develope their own peculiarities; but this is not altogether possible to be done effectually; for the same words from different lips have a different meaning; and there is a peculiarity of tone and accent and look which does much towards rendering the character intelligible. These matters may be imitated in the drama on the stage, but they cannot be well transfused into plainly-written dialogue.

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.

But when his circumstances changed, all other things changed too; he renounced the middle of society for the two extremes. It was new for him to have expensive horses; and it was pleasant for him to talk knowingly about what he knew imperfectly; and coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, could talk best upon a topic which was a favorite with him; and as he had never before been so flattered by homage and deference, he thought that coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, were most delightful companions; and his acquaintance with them extended and increased accordingly. Then it was that he began to feel the pleasures of high rank. Nobody can enjoy the pleasures of high station who associates only with his equals; it is when he looks into the depths below that he can feel his elevation. The ring and the cockpit are most admirable contrivances to bring men of high rank to a full sense of their dignity. The Hon. Philip Martindale used them abundantly, and doubtless with great advantage. As he descended, so also did he ascend; and from association with black legs, he became qualified to claim acquaintance with the highest ranks in society. The cockpit and the betting-table are very appropriate vestibules to Almack’s; and the slang of the stable is a very suitable accomplishment for a legislator. Farther particulars concerning the Hon. Philip Martindale may be learned from his history, as herein recorded.

As soon as the honorable gentleman arrived in London, he proceeded forthwith to his accommodating friends in the city, from whom he procured the means of ridding the Abbey of its unwelcome guests; and it was his intention to return immediately to dismiss the disagreeable ones in person. But so full of accident and event is human life, that this intention was not put into immediate effect. Just as our young gentleman had left the door of a banking-house in Lombard Street, close behind him, he saw on the opposite side of the way an old, or more properly speaking a new acquaintance, who was as familiar as an old one. The personage in question wore a scarlet coat, white hat, yellow silk handkerchief, and crimson face mottled with purple. Without bending his body, or moving a muscle, he touched his hat to the Hon. Philip Martindale, who most graciously acknowledged the salute, and made a movement to cross the way towards him; whereupon he of the crimson face and scarlet coat hastened to anticipate his honorable friend; and the parties met in the middle of the street, even as Napoleon Bonaparte and the Emperor of Russia met in the middle of the river.

When the high-contracting parties were thus met, the Hon. Philip Martindale commenced the discourse by inquiring of his friend, who was in the guards, that is, was guard to a mail-coach, and who was addressed by the name of Stephen, if he had succeeded in the commission with which he had been intrusted: this commission was the purchasing of a dog for fighting. Stephen expressed his great concern that this important affair had not been concluded; but he was happy to have it in his power to say, that he had heard of a capital bull-terrier to be disposed of at Finchley; and as price was no object, he hoped to bring him up next journey. In the mean time, he was very glad to inform his honour that he had that very morning brought up a couple of game-cocks in very high condition; and if Mr. Martindale would condescend to go as far as Tothill Street, he might see them that very afternoon.

This was too strong a temptation for the legislator to resist. Having therefore made arrangements for remitting to Brigland the means of discharging the claims upon him which were most urgent, he resolved to remain in town for that night at least, and leave it to Oliver’s ingenuity to account for his absence, if there should be any occasion to account for it at all. He appointed, therefore, to meet his friend Stephen in Tothill Street at five o’clock; and in the mean time, betook himself to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross to fill up the interval.

This interval was exceedingly tedious. There were many newspapers in the room, but there was nothing in them. There was a clock, but it did not seem to go; at least so he thought, but after looking at it for a very long time he found it did go, but it went very slowly. Then he looked at his watch, and that went as slow as the clock. Then he took up the newspapers again one after the other very deliberately. He read the sporting intelligence and the fashionable news. But he did not read very attentively, as he afterwards discovered. Then he looked at the clock again, and was almost angry at the imperturbable monotony of its face. Then he took out his pocket-book to amuse himself by reading his memorandums, but they were very few and very unintelligible. Then he rose up from his seat, and went to the window, and looked at the people in the street; he thought they looked very stupid, and wondered what they could all find to do with themselves. He looked at the carriages, and saw none with coronets, except now and then a hackney-coach. Then he began to pick his teeth, and that reminded him of eating; and then he rang the bell, which presently brought a waiter; and he took that opportunity of drawling out the word “waiter” in such lengthened tone, as if resolved to make one word last as long as possible.

While he was occupied bodily with his sandwich, he was also mentally engaged in reflections on days that were gone; and he could not but think that his hours were not so heavy when he was toiling at the study of law, as now when his rank was higher, and when his residence was one of the most splendid seats in the kingdom. He thought it was very hard that he should stand in awe of an old humorist, and he had for a moment thoughts of emancipating himself from trammels, and assuming to himself the direction of his own actions; but then, on the other hand, he also considered that without the assistance of the old gentleman, he should not be able to clear off the encumbrances with which his own hereditary estate had been burdened by his anticipations. His only resource was an advantageous match; but the difficulty was how to accomplish that object, and to preserve his dignity.

In the same street in which Lord Martindale, his father, lived, there was an heiress, but not altogether unobjectionable. Her origin was plebeian; her wealth was commercial; her connexions decidedly vulgar, notwithstanding all her pains to keep them select, and to curtail the number of her cousins; her manners awkward, and her taste in dress most execrable. Whenever Philip Martindale felt impatient of controul, he thought of Miss Celestina Sampson, and of the many thousands which her industrious father had accumulated by the manufacturing of soap; and by thinking much on the subject, he had been gradually led to consider the match as not altogether intolerable. He thought of many other persons of as high rank as himself, and even higher, who had not disdained to gild their coronets with city gold. There was nothing glaringly or hideously vulgar in Miss Sampson’s manners, though she was not the most graceful of her sex. Then her person was rather agreeable than otherwise, especially when she was not over-dressed; and as for her cousins, they might be easily cut.

In truth, these meditations had so frequently occupied the young gentleman’s mind, that there began to be actually some talk on the subject among the friends of the parties. These thoughts were by some fatality passing in his mind while he was waiting for the arrival of the hour for which his engagement was made; and by a very singular coincidence he was reminded of Miss Celestina: for while he was wishing the time to move more rapidly, there entered into the coffee-room two young gentlemen, who very noisily manifested their importance. They lounged up to the table on which the papers were lying, and each helped himself to one; then they sat down at separate and distant tables, each spreading his paper before him, and lolling with his elbows on the table, and his feet stretched out to the widest possible extent, as if begging to have his toes trod on; and they ever and anon laughed aloud, and called out the one to the other at any piece of intelligence which excited their astonishment, or gave occasion to witty remark. Among other announcements which they thus communicated to each other, was a short paragraph in the fashionable intelligence which had altogether escaped the notice of Philip Martindale; and as its announcement was preceded by a very loud laugh, his attention was especially drawn to it, and it was as follows:

“It is currently reported that the Hon. Philip Martindale of Brigland Abbey, eldest son of Lord Martindale, is about to lead to the hymeneal altar the accomplished and beautiful daughter and heiress of Sir Gilbert Sampson.”

“There, Smart,” said the reader of the above paragraph, “you have lost your chance for ever. What a pity it is you did not make a better use of your time. By the way, do you know any thing of the Hon. Philip Martindale?”

“I know nothing about him, except that I have been told he is one of the proudest men that ever lived; and I can never suppose that he would condescend to marry the daughter of a soap-boiler.”

“There is no answering for that,” responded the other; “necessity has no law. Brigland Abbey cannot be kept up for a trifle; and if I am not misinformed, this same Philip Martindale has been rather hard run on settling-days.”

At hearing this conversation, the young gentleman was greatly annoyed; and in order to avoid any farther intelligence concerning himself, he took his departure, for the hour appointed for meeting his friend Stephen was now very near at hand. He was in very ill-humour with what he had heard, and was quite shocked at the liberties which common people took with the names and affairs of persons of rank. He had composed in his own mind, and was uttering with his mind’s voice, a most eloquent philippic against the daring insolence of plebeian animals, who presumed to canvass the conduct of their superiors; and he was dwelling upon the enviable privacy of more humble life, which was not so watched and advertised in all its movements, till it occurred to him that this publicity was one of the distinctions of high life, and that even calumnious reports concerning the great were but a manifestation of the interest which the world took in their movements. It also came into his mind that many of those actions which seem otherwise unaccountable and ridiculous, owe their being to a love of notoriety; and he thought it not unlikely that some of the great might play fools’ tricks for the sake of being talked of by the little. So his anger abated, and he more than forgave the impertinent one who had made free with his name in a newspaper.

It has been said that we live in a strange world. We deny this position altogether. Nothing is less strange than this world and its contents. But if we will voluntarily and wilfully keep our eyes closed, and form an imaginary world of our own, and only occasionally awake and take a transient glance of reality, and then go back to our dreamings, the world may well enough be strange to us.