I have extremely little to tell you about its reception; it has made no ‘sensation,’ not so much as even the ‘fortified camps’ which his Grace is said to be devising for the defence of our own London. Indeed, ‘_Il a peur_’ is a very common remark (conceivable to everybody who knows ‘the Duke,’) and it would seem even a refreshing alleviation of their domestic sorrows. In fact, home politics are now _the_ topic; geography and the state of foreign institutions are not, indeed, the true Parisian line—but it has, in fine, been distinctly discovered that there are no _salons_ in Cayenne, which, once certain, the logical genius of the nation, with incredible swiftness, deduced the clear conclusion that it was better not to go there. Seriously, I fancy—for I have no data on which to found real knowledge of so delicate a point—the new Constitution is regarded merely as what Father Newman would call a ‘preservative addition’ or a ‘necessary development,’ essential to the ‘chronic continuance’ of the Napoleonic system; for the moment the mass of the people wish the President to govern them, but they don’t seem to me to care how. The political people, I suppose, hate it, because for some time it will enable him, if not shot, to govern effectually. I say, if not shot—for people are habitually recounting under their breath some new story of an attempt at assassination, which the papers suppress. I am inclined to think that these rumours are pure lies; but they show the feeling. You know, according to the Constitution of 1848, the President would now be a mere outlaw, and whoever finds him may slay him, if he can. It is true that the elaborate masterpiece of M. Marrast is already fallen into utter oblivion (it is no more remembered than yesterday’s _Times_, or the political institutions of Saxon Mercia); but nevertheless such, according to the antediluvian _régime_, would be the law, and it is possible that a mindful Montagnard may upon occasion recall even so insignificant a circumstance.