and have nothing to tell but that one day is like another; and
the history of friend Goody Twoshoes has not much more variety
than theirs. Hard labour, hard fare, hard bed, numbing cold all
night, and gnawing hunger most days. That is her lot. Is it
lawful in my prayers to say, "Thank heaven, I am not as one of
these"? If I were eighty, would I like to feel the hunger always
gnawing, gnawing? to have to get up and make a bow when Mr Bumble
the beadle entered the common room? to have to listen to Miss
Prim, who came to give me her ideas of the next world? If I were
eighty, I own I should not like to have to sleep with another
gentleman of my own age, gouty, a bad sleeper, kicking in his old
dreams, and snoring; to march down my vale of years at word of
command, accommodating my tottering old steps to those of the
other prisoners in my dingy, hopeless old gang; to hold out a
trembling hand for a sickly pittance of gruel, and say, "Thank
you, ma'am," to Miss Prim, when she has done reading her sermon.
John! when Goody Twoshoes comes next Friday, I desire she may not
be disturbed by theological controversies. You have a fair
voice, and I heard you and the maids singing a hymn very sweetly
the other night, and was thankful that our humble household
should be in such harmony. Poor old Twoshoes is so old and
toothless and quaky, that she can't sing a bit; but don't be
giving yourself airs over her, because she can't sing and you
can. Make her comfortable at our kitchen hearth. Set that old
kettle to sing by our hob. Warm her old stomach with nut-brown
ale and a toast laid in the fire. Be kind to the poor old
school-girl of ninety, who has had leave to come out for a day of
Christmas holiday. Shall there be many more Christmases for
thee? Think of the ninety she has seen already; the fourscore
and ten cold, cheerless, nipping New Years!