As no society in the world is more agreeable than that of well-bred
and well-informed military gentlemen, so, likewise, none is more
insufferable than that of Military Snobs. They are to be found of all
grades, from the General Officer, whose padded old breast twinkles over
with a score of stars, clasps, and decorations, to the budding
cornet, who is shaving for a beard, and has just been appointed to the
Saxe-Coburg Lancers.
I have always admired that dispensation of rank in our country, which
sets up this last-named little creature (who was flogged only last week
because he could not spell) to command great whiskered warriors, who
have faced all dangers of climate and battle; which, because he has
money, to lodge at the agent's, will place him over the heads of men
who have a thousand times more experience and desert: and which, in the
course of time, will bring him all the honours of his profession, when
the veteran soldier he commanded has got no other reward for his bravery
than a berth in Chelsea Hospital, and the veteran officer he superseded
has slunk into shabby retirement, and ends his disappointed life on a
threadbare half-pay.
When I read in the GAZETTE such announcements as 'Lieutenant and Captain
Grig, from the Bombardier Guards, to be Captain, vice Grizzle, who
retires,' I know what becomes of the Peninsular Grizzle; I follow him in
spirit to the humble country town, where he takes up his quarters,
and occupies himself with the most desperate attempts to live like a
gentleman, on the stipend of half a tailor's foreman; and I picture to
myself little Grig rising from rank to rank, skipping from one regiment
to another, with an increased grade in each, avoiding disagreeable
foreign service, and ranking as a colonel at thirty;--all because he has
money, and Lord Grigsby is his father, who had the same luck before him.
Grig must blush at first to give his orders to old men in every way his
betters. And as it is very difficult for a spoiled child to escape being
selfish and arrogant, so it is a very hard task indeed for this spoiled
child of fortune not to be a Snob.
It must have often been a matter of wonder to the candid reader, that
the army, the most enormous job of all our political institutions,
should yet work so well in the field; and we must cheerfully give
Grig, and his like, the credit for courage which they display whenever
occasion calls for it. The Duke's dandy regiments fought as well as any
(they said better than any, but that is absurd). The great Duke himself
was a dandy once, and jobbed on, as Marlborough did before him. But
this only proves that dandies are brave as well as other Britons--as
all Britons. Let us concede that the high-born Grig rode into
the entrenchments at Sobraon as gallantly as Corporal Wallop, the
ex-ploughboy.
The times of war are more favourable to him than the periods of peace.
Think of Grig's life in the Bombardier Guards, or the Jack-boot Guards;
his marches from Windsor to London, from London to Windsor, from
Knightsbridge to Regent's Park; the idiotic services he has to perform,
which consist in inspecting the pipeclay of his company, or the horses
in the stable, or bellowing out 'Shoulder humps! Carry humps!' all which
duties the very smallest intellect that ever belonged to mortal man
would suffice to comprehend. The professional duties of a footman are
quite as difficult and various. The red-jackets who hold gentlemen's
horses in St. James's Street could do the work just as well as those
vacuous, good-natured, gentlemanlike, rickety little lieutenants, who
may be seen sauntering about Pall Mall, in high-heeled little boots, or
rallying round the standard of their regiment in the Palace Court, at
eleven o'clock, when the band plays. Did the beloved reader ever see
one of the young fellows staggering under the flag, or, above all, going
through the operation of saluting it? It is worth a walk to the Palace
to witness that magnificent piece of tomfoolery.
I have had the honour of meeting once or twice an old gentleman, whom I
look upon to be a specimen of army-training, and who has served in
crack regiments, or commanded them, all his life. I allude to
Lieutenant-General the Honourable Sir George Granby Tufto, K.C.B.,
K.T.S., K.H., K.S.W., &c. &c.. His manners are irreproachable generally;
in society he is a perfect gentleman, and a most thorough Snob.
A man can't help being a fool, be he ever so old, and Sir George is a
greater ass at sixty-eight than he was when he first entered the army at
fifteen. He distinguished himself everywhere: his name is mentioned
with praise in a score of Gazettes: he is the man, in fact, whose padded
breast, twinkling over with innumerable decorations, has already been
introduced to the reader. It is difficult to say what virtues this
prosperous gentleman possesses. He never read a book in his life, and,
with his purple, old gouty fingers, still writes a schoolboy hand. He
has reached old age and grey hairs without being the least venerable. He
dresses like an outrageously young man to the present moment, and laces
and pads his old carcass as if he were still handsome George Tufto of
1800. He is selfish, brutal, passionate, and a glutton. It is curious
to mark him at table, and see him heaving in his waistband, his little
bloodshot eyes gloating over his meal. He swears considerably in his
talk, and tells filthy garrison stories after dinner. On account of his
rank and his services, people pay the bestarred and betitled old brute
a sort of reverence; and he looks down upon you and me, and exhibits
his contempt for us, with a stupid and artless candour which is quite
amusing to watch. Perhaps, had he been bred to another profession, he
would not have been the disreputable old creature he now is. But what
other? He was fit for none; too incorrigibly idle and dull for any trade
but this, in which he has distinguished himself publicly as a good and
gallant officer, and privately for riding races, drinking port, fighting
duels, and seducing women. He believes himself to be one of the most
honourable and deserving beings in the world. About Waterloo Place,
of afternoons, you may see him tottering in his varnished boots, and
leering under the bonnets of the women who pass by. When he dies of
apoplexy, THE TIMES will have a quarter of a column about his services
and battles--four lines of print will be wanted to describe his titles
and orders alone--and the earth will cover one of the wickedest and
dullest old wretches that ever strutted over it.
Lest it should be imagined that I am of so obstinate a misanthropic
nature as to be satisfied with nothing, I beg (for the comfort of the
forces) to state my belief that the army is not composed of such persons
as the above. He has only been selected for the study of civilians and
the military, as a specimen of a prosperous and bloated Army Snob. No:
when epaulets are not sold; when corporal punishments are abolished, and
Corporal Smith has a chance to have his gallantry rewarded as well
as that of Lieutenant Grig; when there is no such rank as ensign and
lieutenant (the existence of which rank is an absurd anomaly, and an
insult upon all the rest of the army), and should there be no war, I
should not be disinclined to be a major-general myself.
I have a little sheaf of Army Snobs in my portfolio, but shall pause in
my attack upon the forces till next week.