  IN his "Diary," under February 19th, 1826, Sir Walter thus writes: "Being troubled with thick-coming fancies, and a slight palpitation of the heart, I have been reading the 'Chronicle of the Good Knight Messire Jacques de Lalain'-curious, but dull, from the constant repetition of the same species of combats in the same style and phrase. It is like washing bushels of sand for a grain of gold..... Still, things occur to one. Something might be made of a tale of chivalry-taken from the passage of arms, which Jacques de Lalain maintained for the first day of every month for a twelvemonth..... This would be light summer work." The suggestion thus obtained Scott did not carry out for some time. In the autumn of 1830, he commenced the romance of "Count Robert of Paris," which was published in November of the following year. During its composition, he gave decided indications of failing energies; his penmanship became shaky, and he misplaced words, but the composition itself presented no trace of decayed intelligence. In the first illustration is presented the Varangian, or English exile, asleep at the Golden Gate of Constantinople. While the exile lay wrapped in sleep, on the stone benches outside the arch of Theodosius, two women of the humbler class cast their eyes upon him: "Holy Maria!" said one, "if he does not put me in mind of the Eastern tale, how a genie brought a gallant young prince from his nuptial chamber in Egypt, and left him sleeping at the gate of Damascus! I will awake the poor lamb, lest he catch harm from the night-dew." "Harm!" replied the older and crosser-looking woman: "ay, such harm as the cold water of the Cydnus does to the wild swan. A lamb, forsooth! why, he is a wolf, or a bear, at least a Varangian, and no modest matron would exchange a word with such an unmannered barbarian."
The sketch of Brenhilda, Agelastes, and Sylvan, is from the pencil of Mr Cruikshank. Agelastes, after looking with surprise and horror at the figures in the glass, turned round his head to examine the substance, which produced so strange a reflection. The object, however, had disappeared behind the curtain, under which it had probably lain hid; and, after a minute or two, the half-gibing, half-growling countenance showed itself again in the same position in the mirror. "By the gods," exclaimed the philosopher, "it is Sylvan! that mockery of humanity, but who shrinks before a philosopher as ignorance before knowledge." So speaking, he struck the animal a heavy blow; which so enraged him, that he flew on the man of letters, clasped him round the throat, and compressed it until life was extinct.
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