"O friends regretted, scenes for ever dear!
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping she bends o'er pensive fancy's urn,
To trace the hours which never can return."

London:

Smith, Elder and Co., 65, Cornhill.

M.DCCC.LXII.




A FEW WORDS TO THE READER


It has been my lot to have lived through the greater part of one of
the most eventful centuries of England's history, and I have been thrown
amongst most of the remarkable men of my day; whether soldiers, statesman,
men of letters, theatrical people, or those whose birth and fortune
- rather, perhaps, than their virtues or talents - have caused them
to be conspicuous in society at home or abroad. Nature having endowed
me with a strong memory, I can recall with all their original vividness
scenes that took place fifty years ago, and distinctly recollect the
face, walk, and voice, as well as the dress and general manner, of everyone
whom I have known. I have frequently repeated to my friends what I have
seen and heard since the year that I joined the Guards (1813), and have