The season commenced in London much as usual. New faces were prepared, and old ones repaired, for exhibition. All the world was weary of the country; the ocean was monotonous; and the game all killed. Equipages came in one after another. Saloons were lighted up; and every successive night the noise of wheels and brilliancy of town-mansions increased. Cards were handed about; and in the distribution our queer friend, old John Martindale, was not forgotten. Many a saucy, lace-bedizened lacquey sneered at the humble-looking residence of a man whom nobility of the first rank condescended to notice. The report was quickly spread abroad, that old Mr. Martindale had discovered a daughter of the day…
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