And if I don’t care about ancestors on canvas (for their pictures, of course, are all we have seen of them), I have good cause to be offended with them on paper.  My favourite biographies—­such as that of Walter Scott, for example—­are disfigured by them.  When men sit down to write a great man’s life, why should they weary us with an epitome of that of his grandfather and grandmother?  Of course, the book has to be a certain length.  No one is more sensible than myself of the difficulty of providing ‘copy’ sufficient for two octavo volumes; but I do think biographers should confine themselves to two generations.  For my part, I could do with one, but there is the favourite theory of a great man’s inheriting his greatness from the maternal parent, which I am well aware cannot be dispensed with.  It is like the white horse, or rather the grey mare, in Wouvermanns’s pictures; you can’t get rid of it any more than Mr. Dick could get Charles I. out of his memorial.  For my part, I always begin biographies at the fourteenth chapter (or thereabouts)—­’The subject of this memoir was born,’ etc.; and even so I find I get quite enough of them.  In novels the introduction of ancestry is absolutely intolerable.  When I see that hateful chapter headed ‘Retrospective,’ I pass over to the other side, like the Levite, only quicker.  What do I care whether our hero’s grandfather was Archbishop of Canterbury or a professional body-snatcher?  I don’t even care which of the two was my own personal friend’s grandfather, and how much less can I take an interest in this imaginary progenitor of the creation of an author’s brain?  The introduction of such a colourless shadow is, to my mind, the height of impertinence.  If I were Mr. Mudie, I would put my foot down resolutely and stamp out this literary plague.  As George III., who had an objection to commerce, is said to have observed, when asked to confer a baronetcy on one of the Broadwood family, ‘Are you sure there is not a piano in it?’ so should Mr. M. inquire of the publisher before taking copies of any novel, ’Are you sure there is not a grandfather in it?’

Again, what a nuisance is ancestry in our social life!  It cannot, unhappily, be done away with as a fact, but surely it need not be a topic.  How often have I been asked by some fair neighbour at a dinner-table, ’Is that Mr. Jones opposite one of the Joneses of Bedfordshire?’ One’s first impulse is naturally to ask, ’What on earth is that to you or me?’ But experience teaches prudence, and I reply with reverence, ‘Yes, of Bedfordshire,’ which, at all events, puts a stop to argument upon the matter.  Moreover, she seems to derive some sort of mysterious satisfaction from the information, and it is always well to give pleasure.

A well-known wit was once in company with one of the Cavendishes, who had lately been to America, and was recounting his experiences.  ’These Republican people have such funny names,’ he said.  ’I met there a man of the name of Birdseye.’  ’Well, and is not that just as good as Cavendish?’ replied the wit, who was also a smoker.  But the remark was not appreciated.