Probably no observant person ever reaches even middle age without being conscious of those changes of manners and modes which, taking place apparently but slowly, do yet, in the course of a decade or two, bring about silent social revolutions. It is for this reason that the recollections of any truth-loving, truth-telling individual who has passed the allotted threescore years and ten of life, mixing in the society of a great metropolis, ought to be worth recording. Swiftly the seasons pass by; old men and women drop into their graves, taking with them memories of the past which would be precious to historians and artists; and the young spring up to mount with measured steps or rapid strides to the world's high places, or to glide into the ranks of obscure workers.

The young at all times have been a little too apt to think the world was made for them, and that they, “the heirs of all the ages,” have a monopoly of wisdom. It can never do them harm to listen to the words of one who can recollect the scenes in which their fathers played a part, and the times which have made history.

It may be said that at upwards of seventy years of age the memory becomes feeble and confused. In my own case only in a very limited degree am I conscious that this is true; but, because I felt the years were passing fast away, so long back as 1865, I began making memoranda of facts, and dates, and circumstances that appeared to me worth noting down.