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THE OLD SOLDIER.


I have often occasion to pass through a village on the St. Alban's road,
at one end of which there is so tidy and convenient a public-house, that
I always give my horse his bait there, if I happen to be travelling in
my gig. I had frequently observed an old soldier, who having lost an
eye, a leg, and an arm in the service of his country, had pretty well
earned the privilege of idling away the rest of his life in a manner
particularly congenial with the habits of one of his calling. He would
sit on a bench, outside the door of this inn, with a pipe in his mouth,
and a can of beer by his side; and thus he would pass all the fine
months of the year. In winter, he merely changed his seat. He was
constant to his pipe and his can; he took both with him to the warm
chimney-corner: and thus he enjoyed his out-pension. During the hour of
baiting, I have often talked with this old man. He had served last in
the early part of the war on the Peninsula. He was loquacious enough on
other subjects; but if one questioned him concerning these last military
services, he became on the instant morose and uncommunicative, and one
could not but perceive, that the topic was disagreeable and painful
to him.

What most interested me about this man was his love for young children.
He was generally surrounded by a parcel of curly-headed urchins; and
often have I seen the mistress of the little inn consign her infant to
the protection of his one arm, when, by an arrival, she has been called
upon to attend to the business of the house. The old fellow never