We will begin with the present granny first.  My good old creature, you can’t of course remember, but that little gentleman for whom your mother was laundress in the Temple was the ingenious Mr. Goldsmith, author of a “History of England,” the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and many diverting pieces.  You were brought almost an infant to his chambers in Brick Court, and he gave you some sugar-candy, for the doctor was always good to children.  That gentleman who wellnigh smothered you by sitting down on you as you lay in a chair asleep was the learned Mr. S. Johnson, whose history of “Rasselas” you have never read, my poor soul; and whose tragedy of “Irene” I don’t believe any man in these kingdoms ever perused.  That tipsy Scotch gentleman who used to come to the chambers sometimes, and at whom everybody laughed, wrote a more amusing book than any of the scholars, your Mr. Burke and your Mr. Johnson, and your Doctor Goldsmith.  Your father often took him home in a chair to his lodgings; and has done as much for Parson Sterne in Bond Street, the famous wit.  Of course, my good creature, you remember the Gordon Riots, and crying No Popery before Mr. Langdale’s house, the Popish distiller’s, and, that bonny fire of my Lord Mansfield’s books in Bloomsbury Square?  Bless us, what a heap of illuminations you have seen!  For the glorious victory over the Americans at Breed’s Hill; for the peace in 1814, and the beautiful Chinese bridge in St. James’s Park; for the coronation of his Majesty, whom you recollect as Prince of Wales, Goody, don’t you?  Yes; and you went in a procession of laundresses to pay your respects to his good lady, the injured Queen of England, at Brandenburg House; and you remember your mother told you how she was taken to see the Scotch lords executed at the Tower.  And as for your grandmother, she was born five years after the battle of Malplaquet, she was; where her poor father was killed, fighting like a bold Briton for the Queen.  With the help of a “Wade’s Chronology,” I can make out ever so queer a history for you, my poor old body, and a pedigree as authentic as many in the peerage-books.

Peerage-books and pedigrees?  What does she know about them?  Battles and victories, treasons, kings, and beheadings, literary gentlemen, and the like, what have they ever been to her?  Granny, did you ever hear of General Wolfe?  Your mother may have seen him embark, and your father may have carried a musket under him.  Your grandmother may have cried huzza for Marlborough but what is the Prince Duke to you, and did you ever, so much as hear tell of his name?  How many hundred or thousand of years had that toad lived who was in the coal at the defunct Exhibition?—­and yet he was not a bit better informed than toads seven or eight hundred years younger.

“Don’t talk to me your nonsense about Exhibitions, and Prince Dukes, and toads in coals, or coals in toads, or what is it?” says granny.  “I know there was a good Queen Charlotte, for she left me snuff; and it comforts me of a night when I lie awake.”