THINKING of old times, before the beginning of the recollection of my contemporaries of to-day; comparing the events, the fashions, the manners of two sets of men and women, between whom rolls a century's tide of time; speculating on the modes and moods of intellectual and literary activity marking different generations of men of learning and letters-those whom it is my pleasure now to know, and those whom it is my pride to have known whose companionship for ever more is denied me in this world—the mind, and if not the mind, the heart, seeks relief from the contemplation of the things that come and pass away, in the reminiscences of scenes wherein there is no change in the moving on of the ages. You and I and all of us stop thinking sometimes, but yet the brain is not quiescent. What movement is that that passes gently along the lines of sensibility? Peace for a moment! Faint waves are washing upon the sand. The small pebbles that come up roll back a little. A barely perceptible line marks the top reach of the tide for the moment. It is the handwriting of the waters upon the shore. What a hastening is there, now up and now down, of tiny rivulets and fractions of foam! Unsolicited, unawakened, for aught that I can tell, by association, that which I have watched in listless half hours on the borders of this island and on the edges of continents comes back to me. Ah! then; it is perhaps because I so love the beautiful, wonderful sea, and I swear it new allegiance now in my advancing years, not for what it is only, but so much the more in that it returns to me thus, unbidden, in visions! Memory is, after all, the only true artist. Its pictures are the pictures with a spirit in them. The brain is a gallery filled with these inimitable works. Other men mix up a little of themselves with that which they fix upon the canvas, and leave out some of the soul of what they portray; but these reminiscences of ours are pure, and vital. To how many people does it occur to value life by the impressions the world has stamped upon the consciousness, which appear and disappear like the blue sky behind our atmosphere, but nevermore can be completely effaced once the images have been set? THE FALL OF PARIS. EDITORIAL NOTE. We have received a very sad explanation concerning the missing leaves of our "Diary of the Prussian Occupation of Versailles." Last month SYLVANUS URBAN expressed his regret that the third part of "The Fall of Paris" had not reached him. The writer, who resides in Paris, had met with a serious accident. This misfortune and the interruption of communication with the unhappy city were accepted as sufficient explanation of any delay in the despatch and receipt of his manuscript. The reader would gather from the first portion of the diary that the writer is a friend of the Times correspondent, Dr. Russell. Through this gentleman we now learn that our accomplished contributor has sustained a double misfortune. All our readers will have a tender recollection of Amélie. She was the heroine of the author's adventures. It was chiefly out of consideration for this amiable and generous lady that he left Paris, to avoid the siege, which he had originally made up his mind to witness. Amélie had a genuine sympathy for the French. She hated the Germans, except when they were brought in wounded and suffering; then all the kindness of her woman's nature warmed towards them. No matter to what nation you belong, if you be maimed and ill; affliction is a sure passport to woman's sympathy. There is a touching simplicity in one of the incidents of the occupation of Versailles related by the author. It was on Thursday, September 22. Amélie was uncomfortable; there was evidently something wrong. By and by she burst out, "I don't think it is right to be making music here; it is not time for any sort of joy; this abominable lodging is almost in the street. Those horrid princes are up and down below our windows all day long, and hear all we do. Not that I care about their opinion, but what must our own friends think of us when they hear our piano going, as if all France were happy? I say we ought to lock it up. And then there's Charles in the Army of the Loire; he may be killed already, for aught we know. We ought to lock it up." He felt that she was right. The sacrifice proposed was a great one. Music had grown almost as necessary as food to the exiles from British Resident" had lived for many years. He did not like to contradict so reasonable a proposal. Therefore, making a virtue of necessity, he replied, "Ma chère Amélie, that is exactly what I was going to suggest myself. I only hesitated for fear you might not like it. Since you desire it too, by all means let us do it." So the piano was locked, and Amélie went away with the key, rubbing her eyes. A minute afterwards he heard her sobbing in her room. Paris, where the Poor Amélie is dead. She was He will hear her sobbing no more. our author's sister-in-law and had charge of his children and household. When Paris was reopened after the German evacuation, our correspondent and his family hastened back to the city of their adoption. It turned out that they had only escaped from one siege to endure the perils and discomfort of another. During the first days of the second siege, our contributor was thrown from his horse. He was confined to his room for several weeks. His injuries are still of a serious nature, and physical pain is augmented by distress of mind. Amélie was no imaginary heroine. A noble and high-minded woman, she was the sister of the author's wife, a second mother to his children. His house is within the range of the bombardment. We write these words at the last moment while the Magazine is going to press; and at the last moment get a few blurred lines from a note which the writer sends to his friend:-" I know it will grieve you to hear that my children have lost their second mother. Twice in ten months. Amélie died on Friday. This time there is no one left, and I don't know what to do about the children." Throughout the literature of the German campaign, there are no truer pictures of the effect of the war upon the social and domestic life of the middle and higher class families of Paris and Versailles than those which fill "A British Resident's" diary, begun in the March number of The Gentleman's Magazine. We are deeply grieved at the dénouement. We only know our correspondent by letter. Our knowledge of Amélie and the children was gleaned from the same source. We were, nevertheless, deeply interested in their adventures, and the death of the heroine comes upon us with the force of a personal loss. With this explanation we supplement for the present the unfinished "Diary" of our confrère. The interruption of the work will, we are sure, excite no other feeling than one of sympathy and sorrow for the author in his most sad and pitiful misfortunes. JOSEPH HATTON. THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE JULY, 1871. THE VALLEY OF POPPIES. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTOPHER KENRICK" AND "THE CHAPTER VII. THE PLEASURE OF POETIC PAINS. T HE charm of composition is not confined to the poet. The veriest prose writer enjoys with him an equal gladness. It is the sensation of describing thought that gives pleasure. The feeling is the same in a discourse as well as in an essay. The understanding is charmed at its own usefulness. The dissemination of what it has acquired is an intellec tual enjoyment. Nature has implanted in the mind a desire to give up the secret stores of thought and memory. It is not always that we yield to this instinct under an impression that what we have accumulated will be useful to others. We must give forth. It has been ordained by nature. This is the pleasure of poetic pains. The preacher has a higher enjoyment still, if he be a sincere and an VOL. VII., N.S. 1871. K earnest man; for then his ideas and the truths which he communicates have the stamp of usefulness upon them. The personal pleasure afforded to him is enhanced by the inner consciousness of the value of his discourse to others. He sees his words and the precepts of his Master falling upon holy soil and springing up into flowers that fill the soul with the odour of sanctity. as my My pleasures in this respect are a strange mixture of pedantry, egotism, and burnt-out passion. It is a soft, dreamy kind of happiness that comes to me in the pulpit, a drowsy, humming gladness, something entirely different to the sensations which thrill me pen wanders through these passages of my life. I rarely preach any doctrine in the pulpit, beyond that of the Redemption. I dwell upon the humanising features of Christ's religion. I continually place His image before my flock. It is comforting to them when I point out the simplicity of His teaching, and show them how little is really required of them by an all-wise and loving Creator. I have only one crotchet which disturbs the even tenour of their thoughts. They must love nothing over much. The mother thinks of her child, the lover of her who fills his heart, the miser of his gold; and they are disturbed. The anchor which they had cast down into the deep sands; they feel it slipping away. Seeing their sudden trouble in their faces, I try to help them back to the quiet repose of an implicit faith in His goodness and mercy and consideration. Why should I tell them to love nothing over much? I seem to be continually warning them against the chance of falling into the path of my own life. Yet when I analyse my own feelings I begin to see that I owe my present happiness to my misfortunes. Here in this somnolent valley, shut up with my own thoughts, I live a new life of quiet bliss. My former life was the blossom. The present is the fruit. The air is filled with tender voices. I see Ruth's dear face in the clouds. I mark her very thoughts in the flowers. I make a boat of my memory, and sail it down the river to the shady groves of Wulstan. I walk with her through the cloisters. I hear the organ pealing. I see her sweet face looking heavenwards, and my soul bows before her with its weight of happiness. What matter if at times the rush of memory is so great, so overwhelming, so real, that I seem to wake as from a dream, and find my valley changed into a desert? These bitter moments only give additional dulcitude to the return of religious calm and content of recollection. When the tide of despair has spent itself and the sea of thought is placid, swept by the gentle breezes of long past years, I can sit and half-believe the philosophy of Plato which conceives |