Of all the virtues which grace and adorn the inhabitants of these
islands, I know of none which can in anywise be compared with the deep
and profound veneration we show to old age. Not content with paying it
that deference and respect so essentially its due, we go even further,
and by a courteous adulation would impose upon it the notion, that years
have not detracted from the gifts which were so conspicuous in youth,
and that the winter of life is as full of promise and performance, as
the most budding hours of spring-time.
Walk through the halls of Greenwich and Chelsea--or, if the excursion be
too far for you, as a Dubliner, stroll down to the Old Man's Hospital,
and cast your eyes on those venerable “fogies,” as they are sometimes
irreverently called, and look with what a critical and studious
politeness the state has invested every detail of their daily life. Not
fed, housed, or clothed like the “debris” of humanity, to whom the
mere necessaries of existence were meted out; but actually a species of
flattering illusion is woven around them, they are dressed in a uniform;
wear a strange, quaint military costume; are officered and inspected
like soldiers; mount guard; answer roll-call, and mess as of yore.
They are permitted, from time to time, to clean and burnish pieces of
ordnance, old, time-worn, and useless as themselves, and are marched
certain short and suitable distances to and from their dining-hall,
with all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” I like all
this. There is something of good and kindly feeling in perpetuating the
delusion that has lasted for so many years of life, and making the very
resting-place of their meritorious services recall to them the details
of those duties, for the performance of which they have reaped their
country's gratitude.
The same amiable feeling, the same grateful spirit of respect, would
seem, from time to time, to actuate the different governments that wield
our destinies, in their promotions to the upper house.
Some old, feeble, partizan of the ministry, who has worn himself to a
skeleton by late sittings; dried, like a potted herring, by committee
labour; hoarse with fifty years' cheering of his party, and deaf from
the cries of “divide” and “adjourn” that have been ringing in his ears
for the last cycle of his existence, is selected for promotion to the
peerage. He was eloquent in his day, too, perhaps; but that day is gone
by. His speech upon a great question was once a momentous event, but now
his vote is mumbled in tones scarce audible.--Gratefully mindful of his
“has been,” his party provide him with an asylum, where the residue of
his days may be passed in peace and pleasantness. Careful not to break
the spell that has bound him to life, they surround him with some
semblance of his former state, suited in all respects to his age, his
decrepitude, and his debility; they pour water upon the leaves of his
politics, and give him a weak and pleasant beverage, that can never
irritate his nerves, nor destroy his slumbers. Some insignificant
bills--some unimportant appeals--some stray fragments that fall from the
tables of sturdier politicians, are his daily diet; and he dozes away
the remainder of life, happy and contented in the simple and beautiful
delusion that he is legislating and ruling just as warrantable the
while, as his compeer of Chelsea, in deeming his mock parades the
forced marches of the Peninsula, and his Sunday guards the dispositions
for a Toulouse or a Waterloo.