An illustration of that dismal 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 sleepless with aches, and agues, and rheumatism of old age.  “The gentleman gave me brandy-and-water,” she said, her old voice shaking with rapture 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 legacy of snuff to certain poorhouses; and, in her watchful 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 aged creature, shaking with palsy, with no soul among the great struggling multitude of mankind to care for her, not quite trampled out of life, but past and forgotten in the rush, made a little happy, and soothed 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 discourse 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 semblance of merriment.  We shall see the young folks laughing round the holly-bush.  We shall pass the bottle round cosily 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.