“But here is a man, who, during a period of eight years, held a public situation, the duties of which he performed satisfactorily to the last; and yet, on the abolition of the establishment, while the Principal retires in the full enjoyment of his ample salary, this senior Clerk and his fellows in calamity are cast adrift upon the world, to live or starve, and in the dearth of employment suitable to their habits and education, the unfortunate outcasts are left to perish, perhaps by the hand of famine in the streets, or that of despondency in a garret; or, what is worse than either, consigned to linger out their remaining wretched days under the “cold reluctant charity” of a parish workhouse.{1}
“When the principal of a Public-office has battened for many years on his liberal salary, and the sole duties required of him have been those of occasionally signing a few official papers, why not discontinue his salary on the abolition of the establishment, and partition it out in pensions to those disbanded Clerks by whose indefatigable exertions the business of the public has been satisfactorily conducted? These allowances, however inadequate to the purpose of substantiating all the comforts, might yet realise the necessaries of life, and, at least, would avert the dread of absolute destitution.”
A pause ensued—Dashall continued in silent rumination—a few moments brought our Heroes to the Horse Guards; and as the acquirement “devoutly to be wished” was a general knowledge of metropolitan manners, they proceeded to the observance of Real Life in a Suttling House.
Child's Suttling House at the Horse Guards is the almost exclusive resort of military men, who, availing themselves of the intervals between duty, drop in to enjoy a pipe and pint.
“To fight their battles o'er again, Thrice to conquer all their foes, And thrice to slay the slain.”
In the entrance on the left is a small apartment, bearing the dignified inscription, in legible characters on the door, of “The Non-Commissioned Officers' Room.” In front of the bar is a larger space, boxed off, and appropriated to the use of the more humble heroical aspirants, the private men; and passing through the bar, looking into Whitehall, is the Sanctum Sanctorum, for the reception of the more exalted rank, the golden-laced, three-striped, subordinate commandants, Serjeant-Majors and Serjeants, with the colour-clothed regimental appendants of Paymasters and Adjutants' Clerks, et cetera. Into this latter apartment our accomplished friends were ushered with becoming
1 “Swells then thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye O'er the deserted being, poor and old, Whom cold reluctant parish-charity Consigns to mingle with his kindred mold.” —Charlotte Smith.
respect to their superior appearance, at the moment when a warm debate was carrying on as to the respective merits of the deceased Napoleon and the hero of Waterloo.
The advocate of the former seemed unconnected with the army: the adherent to the latter appeared in the gaudy array of a Colour-Serjeant of the Foot Guards, and was decorated with a Waterloo medal, conspicuously suspended by a blue ribbon to the upper button of his jacket; and of this honourable badge the possessor seemed not less vain than if he had been adorned with the insignia of the most noble order of the Garter.
“I contend, and I defy the universe to prove the contrary,” exclaimed the pertinacious Serjeant in a tone of authoritative assertion, “that the Duke of Wellington is a greater man than ever did, does, or hereafter may exist!”