By degrees, as years rolled on, the bright red spots in that moving picture died out; but it was a consoling reflection to those who turned their thoughts to the evidence thus afforded of the sure and silent work of death, that the ties of life had not been abruptly or prematurely torn asunder by the cold hands of centralizing economy. They who had served their country faithfully and loyally in their youth, were suffered to live out their full time, solaced by those attentions and sympathies, dearer far than the charity of dry rations, which public gratitude, aiding and giving effect to royal bounty, ungrudgingly secured for them.
But our new generation is wiser than to care for the feelings of men. The heart of this United Kingdom beats only and exclusively in the centre of its body; and thither all the lifeblood of the land must flow. It may one day be found out, when pulsation refuses to answer at the extremities, that it is possible to overgorge the ventricles of that huge organ. At present, however, it is resolved to “take in all,” regardless alike of charters, of rights, of common sense, and of common humanity. The Royal Hospital at Kilmainham is doomed to extinction.
It seems nothing that it was founded by royal charter, and by a rate levied upon the pay of soldiers serving in the army of Ireland, “to the end that such of the said army as have faithfully served their sovereign in the strength and vigour of their youth may, in the weakness and disaster that their old age, wounds, or other misfortunes may bring them into, find a comfortable retreat and a competent maintenance therein.” It was endowed with lands, by an instrument which provides that “within the precincts of those lands shall be from henceforth, and shall forever hereafter continue and be an hospital, in deed and name, for the receipt, abiding, and dwelling of such a number of poor, aged, maimed, and infirm soldiers, to be lodged, harboured, abide, and be relieved therein.” The charter by which Trinity College holds its estates is not more sacred, nor the perpetual uses to which they must be applied more distinctly defined. Yet the Queen’s government, upon its own mere motion and authority, has taken upon itself to root out this time-honoured foundation. The maimed and aged Irish soldier must henceforth find a “comfortable retreat” in Chelsea, where the voice of kinsman or friend will greet him no more. The sights and sounds, which bring back the days of youth with such a homefelt and soothing power to the memory of the aged, will be excluded from his eyes and ears, and he will die in cheerless exile, an unhappy and unthankful recipient of imperial alms.
It was well for the survivors of our National Artillery, that the faith of royal charters, and the kindly feelings of human nature were respected in their days. They had the satisfaction to feel, to their latest moment, that they possessed a country, and that their country had no disposition to disown them; so their end was peace.
Beside those who took service in the British army, or who retired for the remainder of their lives into the shelter provided for them in “the Hospital of King Charles the Second,” there were many who, laying aside the military character, merged in the general body of society, and occupied themselves variously in civil employments, according to their natural leanings or abilities. Some few, who had adorned the old brigade in its palmy estate, disdained to quit the scene of its renown, but lingered about the ancient haunts till, one by one, they dropped into the grave. There was General Bettesworth, and his orderly man John Norton. The general inhabited a pretty place, now sadly dismantled, by the river side, and John was his gatekeeper. It was a sight to see them both stepping out for the parish church at Christmas, and the other high festivals, in the full uniform of their respective ranks, powdered, pomatum’d, and bequeued, as if they were sallying forth to be reviewed by Frederick William of Prussia. If Corporal Trim left a representative after him, it was John Norton: stiff in opinion, erect in stature, simple and honest as a child, pious as a parson. His master had all the gentle parts of human nature blended with the same high courage which distinguished my Uncle Toby.
Is it not strange how many people claim relation to “Uncle Toby?” Nobody thinks of calling him Tristram Shandy’s uncle. He is “my uncle,” your uncle, everybody’s uncle. Sterne has managed to infuse that sweet touch into his nature, which makes the whole world kin to him, and proud to acknowledge it. But this by the by.
An anecdote may here be related which illustrates the character of those primitive soldiers, and of the discipline of the service at the close of the eighteenth century. It happened one morning that John Norton was late at parade, and, as men sometimes do when they are hurried, he had made a mistake in his equipments, having put on his cross-belts wrong.
“Why, John Norton,” said the general, “how is this? you have put on your belts the wrong way.”
The men began to laugh, and John’s ire was kindled; but he was too proud to look at his right hand or his left, to examine into the truth of the case.
“No, general,” said he, “I have not.”
“Oh but, indeed, John, you have.”
“By all that’s bad, general,” said John, who had
