“None,” said Vincent, putting his arm in mine. As we passed up the Rue de la Paix, we met Sir Henry Millington, mounted on a bay horse, as stiff as himself, and cantering down the street as if he and his steed had been cut out of pasteboard together. “I wish,” said Vincent, (to borrow Luttrel’s quotation,) “that that master of arts would ‘cleanse his bosom of that perilous stuff.’ I should like to know in what recess of that immense mass now cantering round the corner is the real body of Sir Henry Millington. I could fancy the poor snug little thing shrinking within, like a guilty conscience. Ah, well says Juvenal, “‘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. C--me, 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. C--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!”