This morning wet and surly.  Sallied, however, by the assistance of a hired coach, and left cards for Count Pozzo di Borgo, Lord Granville, our ambassador, and M. Gallois, author of the History of Venice.[382] Found no one at home, not even the old pirate Galignani,[383] at whose den I ventured to call.  Showed my companion the Louvre (which was closed, unluckily), the front of the palace with its courts, and all that splendid quarter which the fame of Paris rests upon in security.  We can never do the like in Britain.  Royal magnificence can only be displayed by despotic power.  In England, were the most splendid street or public building to be erected, the matter must be discussed in Parliament, or perhaps some sturdy cobbler holds out, and refuses to part with his stall, and the whole plan is disconcerted.  Long may such impediments exist!  But then we should conform to circumstances, and assume in our public works a certain sober simplicity of character, which should point out that they were dictated by utility rather than show.  The affectation of an expensive style only places us at a disadvantageous contrast with other nations, and our substitute of brick and plaster for freestone resembles the mean ambition which displays Bristol stones in default of diamonds.

We went to theatre in the evening—­Comedie Francaise the place, Rosemunde the piece.  It is the composition of a young man with a promising name—­Emile de Bonnechose; the story that of Fair Rosamond.  There were some good situations, and the actors in the French taste seemed to me admirable, particularly Mademoiselle Bourgoin.  It would be absurd to attempt to criticise what I only half understood; but the piece was well received, and produced a very strong effect.  Two or three ladies were carried out in hysterics; one next to our box was frightfully ill.  A Monsieur a belles moustaches—­the husband, I trust, though it is likely they were en partie fine—­was extremely and affectionately assiduous.  She was well worthy of the trouble, being very pretty indeed; the face beautiful, even amidst the involuntary convulsions.  The afterpiece was Femme Juge et Partie, with which I was less amused than I had expected, because I found I understood the language less than I did ten or eleven years since.  Well, well, I am past the age of mending.

Some of our friends in London had pretended that at Paris I might stand some chance of being encountered by the same sort of tumultuary reception which I met in Ireland; but for this I see no ground.  It is a point on which I am totally indifferent.  As a literary man I cannot affect to despise public applause; as a private gentleman I have always been embarrassed and displeased with popular clamours, even when in my favour.  I know very well the breath of which such shouts are composed, and am sensible those who applaud me to-day would be as ready to toss me to-morrow; and I would not have them think that I put such a value