1842-1846.—I can hardly believe that it is only seventy-three years since we first went to live in France. When I think of the immense changes that have taken place in that beloved country since then, it seems more like seven hundred. The upheavals of wars and revolutions, two Dynasties gone, toppled over like houses of cards, sovereigns lauded up to the skies one year, hounded out of existence the next, followed by the howls and execration of infuriated mobs; 1848 and the barricades—the _coup d’état_ of 1851—the Second Empire—the Crimean War—Mexico and the murder of Maximilian—the war of 1870 followed by the Commune—France shorn of two great provinces—Paris improved out of all its picturesqueness by the commonplace uniformity of Hausmannism—only here a nook and there a corner left—all these seem to be transformation scenes which would need centuries to carry out, and yet they have all taken place in my lifetime. But not in France alone; in Europe, Asia, America, Africa and Australia, the seventy-eight years of my life have witnessed more changes than any similar period in the world’s history. For four years we passed the winter and spring—the season in those days—in Paris—never twice in the same apartments, though we always remained in the neighbourhood of the Madeleine—a convenient quarter for our elders and for ourselves, for it was no great distance from the gardens of the Tuileries, where we used to play with a number of little French friends—I have forgotten the names of all of them save only one called Jules—I suppose he had a surname, but if he did I never knew it—he was always “le petit Jules.” He was of about my own age, very small, but of a quite demonic cleverness, and at marbles he was a hero. He broke us all, and many a time we went home with empty bags—not a bulge in ours—his bursting with wealth, and yet we loved him. I remember one tragic episode of a beautiful white alley with rosy pink veins, the pride of my soul. The little villain challenged me to play him, offering to stake a superb agate against it. In less time than it takes to write the tale the alley was his. My beautiful white alley! I was but seven years old and I wept bitterly. I wonder whether “le petit Jules,” if he is yet alive, remembers how he avenged Waterloo that day in his victory over the English boy. I don’t suppose that he often plays marbles now, but if he is yet alive, I feel sure that his many talents have led him to great successes in all his endeavours, whatever they may have been.