“Your fame,” said he, “MR. GEOFFREY BARBICAN, as a London Antiquary, is not unknown to me; and I have sometimes pleased myself with the thought, that you must be even a distant relation of my own, since tradition says, that the _Barbicans_ and the _Posterns_ originally received their names from having been gate-keepers in various parts of this fair city: but of that I will not positively speak. Howbeit, I am right glad of this fellowship, because I have some communications and reflections which I would fain make to you, touching the earlier days of that Bridge, under which the tide is now so rapidly running.” “My dear Mr. Postern,” said I, in rapture, “nothing could delight me more than an Antiquary’s stories of that famous edifice; but moralising I abominate, since I can do that for myself, even to admiration; so, my good friend Mr. Barnaby, as much description, and as many rich old sketches, as you please, but no reflections, my kinsman, no reflections.” “Well,” returned my visitor, “I will do my best to entertain you; but you very well know, that we old fellows, who have seen generations rise and decay, are apt to make prosing remarks:--However, we’ll start fairly, and taste of my tankard before we set out: trust me, it’s filled with that same beverage, which Sir John Falstaff used to drink o’nights in East Cheap; for the recipé for brewing it was found, written in a very ancient hand upon a piece of vellum, when the Boar’s Head was pulled down many a long year ago. Drink, then, worthy Mr. Barbican; drink, good Sir;--you’ll find it excellent beverage, and I’ll pledge you in kind.”