on their favour as would make me for an instant fear their displeasure.  Now all this disclamation is sincere, and yet it sounds affected.  It puts me in mind of an old woman who, when Carlisle was taken by the Highlanders in 1745, chose to be particularly apprehensive of personal violence, and shut herself up in a closet, in order that she might escape ravishment.  But no one came to disturb her solitude, and she began to be sensible that poor Donald was looking out for victuals, or seeking for some small plunder, without bestowing a thought on the fair sex; by and by she popped her head out of her place of refuge with the petty question, “Good folks, can you tell when the ravishing is going to begin?” I am sure I shall neither hide myself to avoid applause, which probably no one will think of conferring, nor have the meanness to do anything which can indicate any desire of ravishment.  I have seen, when the late Lord Erskine entered the Edinburgh theatre, papers distributed in the boxes to mendicate a round of applause—­the natural reward of a poor player.

October 31.—­At breakfast visited by M. Gallois, an elderly Frenchman (always the most agreeable class), full of information, courteous and communicative.  He had seen nearly, and remarked deeply, and spoke frankly, though with due caution.  He went with us to the Museum, where I think the Hall of Sculpture continues to be a fine thing; that of Pictures but tolerable, when we reflect upon 1815.  A number of great French daubs (comparatively), by David and Gerard, cover the walls once occupied by the Italian chefs-d’oeuvre.  Fiat justitia, ruat coelum.  We then visited Notre Dame and the Palace of Justice.  The latter is accounted the oldest building in Paris, being the work of St. Louis.  It is, however, in the interior, adapted to the taste of Louis XIV.  We drove over the Pont Neuf, and visited the fine quays, which was all we could make out to-day, as I was afraid to fatigue Anne.  When we returned home I found Count Pozzo di Borgo waiting for me, a personable man, inclined to be rather corpulent—­handsome features, with all the Corsican fire in his eye.  He was quite kind and communicative.  Lord Granville had also called, and sent Mr. Jones [his secretary] to invite us to dinner to-morrow.  In the evening at the Odeon, where we saw Ivanhoe.  It was superbly got up, the Norman soldiers wearing pointed helmets and what resembled much hauberks of mail, which looked very well.  The number of the attendants, and the skill with which they were moved and grouped on the stage, were well worthy of notice.  It was an opera, and of course the story greatly mangled, and the dialogue in a great part nonsense.  Yet it was strange to hear anything like the words which I (then in an agony of pain with spasms in my stomach) dictated to William Laidlaw at Abbotsford, now recited in a foreign tongue, and for the amusement of a strange people.  I little thought to have survived the completing of this novel.[384]