An illustration of that dismal3 proverb which tells us how poverty makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows, this poor old shaking body has to lay herself down every night in her workhouse bed by the side of some other old woman with whom she may or may not agree. She herself can’t be a very pleasant bed-fellow, poor thing! with her shaking old limbs and cold feet. She lies awake a deal of the night, to be sure, not thinking of happy old times, for hers never were happy; but sleepless4 with aches, and agues, and rheumatism5 of old age. “The gentleman gave me brandy-and-water,” she said, her old voice shaking with rapture6 at the thought. I never had a great love for Queen Charlotte, but I like her better now from what this old lady told me. The Queen, who loved snuff herself, has left a legacy7 of snuff to certain poorhouses; and, in her watchful8 nights, this old woman takes a pinch of Queen Charlotte’s snuff, “and it do comfort me, sir, that it do!” Pulveris exigui munus. Here is a forlorn aged9 creature, shaking with palsy, with no soul among the great struggling multitude of mankind to care for her, not quite trampled10 out of life, but past and forgotten in the rush, made a little happy, and soothed11 in her hours of unrest by this penny legacy. Let me think as I write. (The next month’s sermon, thank goodness! is safe to press.) This discourse12 will appear at the season when I have read that wassail-bowls make their appearance; at the season of pantomime, turkey and sausages, plum-puddings, jollifications for schoolboys; Christmas bills, and reminiscences more or less sad and sweet for elders. If we oldsters are not merry, we shall be having a semblance13 of merriment. We shall see the young folks laughing round the holly-bush. We shall pass the bottle round cosily14 as we sit by the fire. That old thing will have a sort of festival too. Beef, beer, and pudding will be served to her for that day also. Christmas falls on a Thursday. Friday is the workhouse day for coming out. Mary, remember that old Goody Twoshoes has her invitation for Friday, 26th December! Ninety is she, poor old soul? Ah! what a bonny face to catch under a mistletoe! “Yes, ninety, sir,” she says, “and my mother was a hundred, and my grandmother was a hundred and two.”
Herself ninety, her mother a hundred, her grandmother a hundred and two? What a queer calculation!
Ninety! Very good, granny: you were born, then, in 1772.
Your mother, we will say, was twenty-seven when you were born, and was born therefore in 1745.
Your grandmother was thirty when her daughter was born, and was born therefore in 1715.
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 chambers15 in Brick Court, and he gave you some sugar-candy, for the doctor was always good to children. That gentleman who wellnigh smothered16 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 perused17. That tipsy Scotch18 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 lodgings19; 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 Majesty20, whom you recollect21 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 authentic22 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 embark23, and your father may have carried a musket24 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 toad25 lived who was in the coal at the defunct26 Exhibition? — and yet he was not a bit better informed than toads27 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.”
To me there is something very touching28 in the notion of that little pinch of comfort doled30 out to granny, and gratefully inhaled31 by her in the darkness. Don’t you remember what traditions there used to be of chests of plate, bulses of diamonds, laces of inestimable value, sent out of the country privately32 by the old Queen, to enrich certain relations in M-ckl-nb-rg Str-l-tz? Not all the treasure went. Non omnis moritur. A poor old palsied thing at midnight is made happy sometimes as she lifts her shaking old hand to her nose. Gliding33 noiselessly among the beds where lie the poor creatures huddled34 in their cheerless dormitory, I fancy an old ghost with a snuff-box that does not creak. “There, Goody, take of my rappee. You will not sneeze, and I shall not say ‘God bless you.’ But you will think kindly35 of old Queen Charlotte, won’t you? Ah! I had a many troubles, a many troubles. I was a prisoner almost so much as you are. I had to eat boiled mutton every day: entre nous, I abominated36 it. But I never complained. I swallowed it. I made the best of a hard life. We have all our burdens to bear. But hark! I hear the cock-crow, and snuff the morning air.” And with this the royal ghost vanishes up the chimney — if there be a chimney in that dismal harem, where poor old Twoshoes and her companions pass their nights — their dreary37 nights, their restless nights, their cold long nights, shared in what glum38 companionship, illumined by what a feeble taper39!
“Did I understand you, my good Twoshoes, to say that, your mother was seven-and-twenty years old when you were born, and that she married your esteemed40 father when she herself was twenty-five? 1745, then, was the date of your dear mother’s birth. I dare say her father was absent in the Low Countries, with his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, under whom he had the honor of carrying a halberd at the famous engagement of Fontenoy — or if not there, he may have been at Preston Pans, under General Sir John Cope, when the wild highlanders broke through all the laws of discipline and the English lines; and, being on the spot, did he see the famous ghost which didn’t appear to Colonel Gardiner of the Dragoons? My good creature, is it possible you don’t remember that Doctor Swift, Sir Robert Walpole (my Lord Orford, as you justly say), old Sarah Marlborough, and little Mr. Pope, of Twitnam, died in the year of your birth? What a wretched memory you have! What? haven’t they a library, and the commonest books of reference at the old convent of Saint Lazarus, where you dwell?”
“Convent of Saint Lazarus, Prince William, Dr. Swift, Atossa, and Mr. Pope, of Twitnam! What is the gentleman talking about?” says old Goody, with a “Ho! ho!” and a laugh like an old parrot — you know they live to be as old as Methuselah, parrots do, and a parrot of a hundred is comparatively young (ho! ho! ho!). Yes, and likewise carps live to an immense old age. Some which Frederick the Great fed at Sans Souci are there now, with great humps of blue mould on their old backs; and they could tell all sorts of queer stories, if they chose to speak — but they are very silent, carps are — of their nature peu communicatives. Oh! what has been thy long life, old Goody, but a dole29 of bread and water and a perch41 on a cage; a dreary swim round and round a Lethe of a pond? What are Rossbach or Jena to those mouldy ones, and do they know it is a grandchild of England who brings bread to feed them?
No! Those Sans Souci carps may live to be a thousand years old 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 labor, hard fare, hard bed, numbing42 cold all night, and gnawing43 hunger most days. That is her lot. Is it lawful44 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 Prim45, 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 sleeper46, kicking in his old dreams, and snoring; to march down my vale of years at word of command, accommodating my tottering48 old steps to those of the other prisoners in my dingy49, hopeless old gang; to hold out a trembling hand for a sicky pittance50 of gruel51, 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 controversies52. You have a very fair voice, and I heard you and the maids singing a hymn53 very sweetly the other night, and was thankful that our humble54 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 hearth55. 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 four-score and ten cold, cheerless, nipping New Years!
If you were in her place, would you like to have a remembrance of better early days, when you were young, and happy, and loving, perhaps; or would you prefer to have no past on which your mind could rest? About the year 1788, Goody, were your cheeks rosy56, and your eyes bright, and did some young fellow in powder and a pigtail look in them? We may grow old, but to us some stories never are old. On a sudden they rise up, not dead, but living — not forgotten, but freshly remembered. The eyes gleam on us as they used to do. The dear voice thrills in our hearts. The rapture of the meeting, the terrible, terrible parting, again and again the tragedy is acted over. Yesterday, in the street, I saw a pair of eyes so like two which used to brighten at my coming once, that the whole past came back as I walked lonely, in the rush of the Strand57, and I was young again in the midst of joys and sorrows, alike sweet and sad, alike sacred and fondly remembered.
If I tell a tale out of school, will any harm come to my old school-girl? Once, a lady gave her a half-sovereign, which was a source of great pain and anxiety to Goody Twoshoes. She sewed it away in her old stays somewhere, thinking here at least was a safe investment —(vestis — a vest — an investment — pardon me, thou poor old thing, but I cannot help the pleasantry). And what do you think? Another pensionnaire of the establishment cut the coin out of Goody’s stays — AN OLD WOMAN WHO WENT UPON TWO CRUTCHES58! Faugh, the old witch! What! Violence amongst these toothless, tottering, trembling, feeble ones? Robbery amongst the penniless? Dogs coming and snatching Lazarus’s crumbs60 out of his lap? Ah, how indignant Goody was as she told the story! To that pond at Potsdam where the carps live for hundreds of hundreds of years, with hunches61 of blue mould on their back, I dare say the little Prince and Princess of Preussen-Britannien come sometimes with crumbs and cakes to feed the mouldy ones. Those eyes may have goggled62 from beneath the weeds at Napoleon’s jack-boots: they have seen Frederick’s lean shanks reflected in their pool; and perhaps Monsieur de Voltaire has fed them — and now, for a crumb59 of biscuit they will fight, push, hustle63, rob, squabble, gobble, relapsing into their tranquillity64 when the ignoble65 struggle is over. Sans souci, indeed! It is mighty66 well writing “Sans souci” over the gate; but where is the gate through which Care has not slipped? She perches67 on the shoulders of the sentry68 in the sentry-box: she whispers the porter sleeping in his arm-chair: she glides69 up the staircase, and lies down between the king and queen in their bed-royal: this very night I dare say she will perch upon poor old Goody Twoshoes’s meagre bolster70, and whisper, “Will the gentleman and those ladies ask me again? No, no; they will forget poor old Twoshoes.” Goody! For shame of yourself! Do not be cynical71. Do not mistrust your fellow-creatures. What? Has the Christmas morning dawned upon thee ninety times? For four-score and ten years has it been thy lot to totter47 on this earth, hungry and obscure? Peace and good-will to thee, let us say at this Christmas season. Come, drink, eat, rest awhile at our hearth, thou poor old pilgrim! And of the bread which God’s bounty72 gives us, I pray, brother reader, we may not forget to set aside a part for those noble and silent poor, from whose innocent hands war has torn the means of labor. Enough! As I hope for beef at Christmas, I vow73 a note shall be sent to Saint Lazarus union House, in which Mr. Roundabout requests the honor of Mrs. Twoshoes’s company on Friday, 26th December.
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1
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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49
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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50
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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51
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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controversies
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| 争论 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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54
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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hunches
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| 预感，直觉( hunch的名词复数 ) | |
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goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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68
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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69
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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70
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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71
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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72
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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73
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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