November 2.—­Another gloomy day—­a pize upon it!—­and we have settled to go to Saint Cloud, and dine, if possible, with the Drummonds at Auteuil.  Besides, I expect poor W.R.  S[pencer] to breakfast.  There is another thought which depresses me.

Well—­but let us jot down a little politics, as my book has a pretty firm lock.  The Whigs may say what they please, but I think the Bourbons will stand.  Gallois, no great Royalist, says that the Duke of Orleans lives on the best terms with the reigning family, which is wise on his part, for the golden fruit may ripen and fall of itself, but it would be dangerous to

    “Lend the crowd his arm to shake the tree."[390]

The army, which was Bonaparte’s strength, is now very much changed by the gradual influence of time, which has removed many, and made invalids of many more.  The citizens are neutral, and if the King will govern according to the Charte, and, what is still more, according to the habits of the people, he will sit firm enough, and the constitution will gradually attain more and more reverence as age gives it authority, and distinguishes it from those temporary and ephemeral governments, which seemed only set up to be pulled down.  The most dangerous point in the present state of France is that of religion.  It is, no doubt, excellent in the Bourbons to desire to make France a religious country; but they begin, I think, at the wrong end.  To press the observances and ritual of religion on those who are not influenced by its doctrines is planting the growing tree with its head downwards.  Rites are sanctified by belief; but belief can never arise out of an enforced observance of ceremonies; it only makes men detest what is imposed on them by compulsion.  Then these Jesuits, who constitute emphatically an imperium in imperio, labouring first for the benefit of their own order, and next for that of the Roman See—­what is it but the introduction into France of a foreign influence, whose interest may often run counter to the general welfare of the kingdom?

We have enough of ravishment.  M. Meurice writes me that he is ready to hang himself that we did not find accommodation at his hotel; and Madame Mirbel came almost on her knees to have permission to take my portrait.  I was cruel; but, seeing her weeping-ripe, consented she should come to-morrow and work while I wrote.  A Russian Princess Galitzin, too, demands to see me in the heroic vein; “Elle vouloit traverser les mers pour aller voir S.W.S.,” and offers me a rendezvous at my hotel.  This is precious tomfoolery; however, it is better than being neglected like a fallen sky-rocket, which seemed like to be my fate last year.