On leaving Mme. de S. we paid another visit. From the greatest woman we went to see our greatest man in Paris, Sir Charles Stuart,[42] to whom Lord Sheffield had given me a letter of introduction. This had been sent the day before, and of course I now went to see the effect. After waiting in the Anti-chamber of the great man for about half an hour, and seeing divers and sundry faces pass and repass in review, we were summoned to an audience. We found a little, vulgar-looking man, whom I should have mistaken for the great man's butler if he had not first given a hint that he was bonâ fide the great man himself. I think the conversation was nearly thus: E. S.: "Pray, Sir, are the Marshalls in Paris, and if so is it easy to see them?" Sir C. S.: "Upon my soul I don't know." E. S.: "Pray, Sir, is there anything interesting to a stranger like myself likely to take place in the course of the next fortnight?" Sir C. S.: "Upon my soul I don't know." E. S.: "Pray, Sir, is the interior of the Thuilleries worth seeing, and could we easily see the apartments?" Sir C. S.: "Upon my soul I don't know." This, I do assure you, was the cream of the conversation. Now certainly a great man ought to look wise and say he does not know so and so, when in fact he knows all about it, but somehow or other I could not help thinking that Sir Charles spoke the truth, for if I may draw any inference from Physiognomy, I never saw a face upon which the character of "upon my soul I don't know" was more visibly stamped. I left my card, bowed, and retired....