k 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