We entered my salon with a roar, and set Bedos to work at the punch forthwith. Bedos, that Ganymede of a valet, had himself but just arrived, and was unlocking the door as we entered. We soon blew up a glorious fire, and our spirits brightened in proportion. Monsieur Jocko sate on Vincent's knee. Ne monstrum, as he classically termed it. One of our compotatores was playing with it. Jocko grew suddenly in earnest—a grin-a scratch and a bite, were the work of a moment.

"Ne-quid nimis-now," said Vincent, gravely, instead of endeavouring to soothe the afflicted party, who grew into a towering passion. Nothing but Jocko's absolute disgrace could indeed have saved his life from the vengeance of the sufferer.

"Where shall we banish him ?" said Vincent.

"Oh," I replied, "put him out in that back passage; the outer door is shut; he'll be quite safe;" and to the passage he was therefore immediately consigned.

It was in this place, the reader will remember, that the hapless Dame du Château was at that very instant in "durance vile." Bedos, who took the condemned monkey, opened the door, thrust Jocko in, and closed it again. Meanwhile we resumed our merriment.

"Nunc est bibendum," said Vincent, as Bedos placed the punch on the table. "Give us a toast, Dartmore."

Lord Dartmore was a young man, with tremendous spirits, which made up for wit. He was just about to reply, when a loud shriek was heard from Jocko's place of banishment; a sort of scramble. ensued, and the next moment the door was thrown violently open, and in rushed the terrified landlady, screaming like a sea-gull, and bearing Jocko aloft upon her shoulders, from which "bad eminence" he was grinning and chattering with the fury of fifty devils. She ran twice round the room, and then sunk on the floor in hysterics. We lost no time in hastening to her assistance; but the war

quotation,) "that that master of arts would 'cleanse his bosom of that perilous stuff." I should like to know in what recess of that im

mense mass now cantering round the corner is the real body of Sir Henry Millington. I could fancy the poor shug little thing shrinking within, like a guilty conscience. Ah, well says Juvenal,

i

"Mors sola fatetur

Quantula sint hominum corpuscula.'"

“ He has a superb head, though," I replied. I like to allow that other people are handsome now and then-it looks generous.

"Yes," said Vincent," for a barber's block: but here comes Mrs. Cme, and her beautiful daughter-those are people you ought to know,

if you wish to see human nature a little relieved from the frivolities which make it in

society so like a man milliner. Mrs. CERTAIN T

has considerable genius, combined with great

common sense."

"A rare union," said I.

By no means," replied Vincent. "It is a cant antithesis in opinion to oppose them to one another; but, so far as mere theoretical common sense is concerned, I would much sooner apply to a great poet or a great orator for advice on matter of business, than any dull plodder who has passed his whole life in a counting-house. Common sense is only a modification of talent-genius is an exaltation of it; the difference is, therefore, in the degree, not nature. But to return to Mrs. C ; she writes beautiful poetry-almost impromptu; draws excellent caricatures; possesses a laugh for whatever is ridiculous, but never loses a smile for whatever is good. Placed in very peculiar situations, she has passed through each with a grace and credit which make her best eulogium. If she possesses one quality higher than intellect, it is her kindness of heart; no, wonder, indeed, that she is

so really clever-those trees which are the soundest at the core produce the finest fruits, and the most beautiful blossoms."

Lord Vincent grows poetical, thought I—how very different he really is to that which he affects to be in the world: but so it is with every one -we are all like the ancient actors : let our faces be ever so beautiful, we must still wear a mask.

After an hour's walk, Vincent suddenly recollected that he had a commission of a very important nature in the Rue J. J. Rousseau. This was -to buy a monkey. "It is for Wormwood," said he, "who has written me a long letter, describing its qualities and qualifications. I suppose he wants it for some practical joke—some embodied bitterness-God forbid I should thwart him in so charitable a design!"

"Amen," said I; and we proceeded together to the monkey-fancier. After much deliberation we at last decided upon the most hideous animal I