Walking in the Park yesterday with my young friend Tagg, and discoursing
with him upon the next number of the Snob, at the very nick of time
who should pass us but two very good specimens of Military Snobs,--the
Sporting Military Snob, Capt. Rag, and the 'lurking' or raffish Military
Snob, Ensign Famish. Indeed you are fully sure to meet them lounging
on horseback, about five o'clock, under the trees by the Serpentine,
examining critically the inmates of the flashy broughams which parade up
and down 'the Lady's Mile.'
Tagg and Rag are very well acquainted, and so the former, with that
candour inseparable from intimate friendship, told me his dear friend's
history. Captain Rag is a small dapper north-country man. He went when
quite a boy into a crack light cavalry regiment, and by the time he got
his troop, had cheated all his brother officers so completely, selling
them lame horses for sound ones, and winning their money by all manner
of strange and ingenious contrivances, that his Colonel advised him to
retire; which he did without much reluctance, accommodating a youngster,
who had just entered the regiment, with a glandered charger at an
uncommonly stiff figure.
He has since devoted his time to billiards, steeple-chasing, and the
turf. His head-quarters are 'Rummer's,' in Conduit Street, where
he keeps his kit; but he is ever on the move in the exercise of his
vocation as a gentleman-jockey and gentleman-leg.
According to BELL'S LIFE, he is an invariable attendant at all races,
and an actor in most of them. He rode the winner at Leamington; he was
left for dead in a ditch a fortnight ago at Harrow; and yet there he
was, last week, at the Croix de Berny, pale and determined as ever,
astonishing the BADAUDS of Paris by the elegance of his seat and the
neatness of his rig, as he took a preliminary gallop on that vicious
brute 'The Disowned,' before starting for 'the French Grand National.'
He is a regular attendant at the Corner, where he compiles a limited but
comfortable libretto. During season he rides often in the Park, mounted
on a clever well-bred pony. He is to be seen escorting celebrated
horsewoman, Fanny Highflyer, or in confidential converse with Lord
Thimblerig, the eminent handicapper.
He carefully avoids decent society, and would rather dine off a steak at
the 'One Tun' with Sam Snaffle the jockey, Captain O'Rourke, and two or
three other notorious turf robbers, than with the choicest company in
London. He likes to announce at 'Rummer's' that he is going to run down
and spend his Saturday and Sunday in a friendly way with Hocus, the leg,
at his little box near Epsom; where, if report speak true, many 'rummish
plants' are concocted.
He does not play billiards often, and never in public: but when he does
play, he always contrives to get hold of a good flat, and never leaves
him till he has done him uncommonly brown. He has lately been playing a
good deal with Famish.
When he makes his appearance in the drawing-room, which occasionally
happens at a hunt-meeting or a race-ball, he enjoys himself extremely.
His young friend is Ensign Famish, who is not a little pleased to be
seen with such a smart fellow as Rag, who bows to the best turf company
in the Park. Rag lets Famish accompany him to Tattersall's, and
sells him bargains in horse-flesh, and uses Famish's cab. That young
gentleman's regiment is in India, and he is at home on sick leave. He
recruits his health by being intoxicated every night, and fortifies his
lungs, which are weak, by smoking cigars all day. The policemen about
the Haymarket know the little creature, and the early cabmen salute him.
The closed doors of fish and lobster shops open after service, and vomit
out little Famish, who is either tipsy and quarrelsome--when he wants
to fight the cabmen; or drunk and helpless--when some kind friend (in
yellow satin) takes care of him. All the neighbourhood, the cabmen, the
police, the early potato-men, and the friends in yellow satin, know the
young fellow, and he is called Little Bobby by some of the very worst
reprobates in Europe.
His mother, Lady Fanny Famish, believes devoutly that Robert is in
London solely for the benefit of consulting the physician; is going to
have him exchanged into a dragoon regiment, which doesn't go to that
odious India; and has an idea that his chest is delicate, and that
he takes gruel every evening, when he puts his feet in hot water. Her
Ladyship resides at Cheltenham, and is of a serious turn.
Bobby frequents the 'Union Jack Club' of course; where he breakfasts on
pale ale and devilled kidneys at three o'clock; where beardless young
heroes of his own sort congregate, and make merry, and give each other
dinners; where you may see half-a-dozen of young rakes of the fourth
or fifth order lounging and smoking on the steps; where you behold
Slapper's long-tailed leggy mare in the custody of a red-jacket until
the Captain is primed for the Park with a glass of curacoa; and where
you see Hobby, of the Highland Buffs, driving up with Dobby, of the
Madras Fusiliers, in the great banging, swinging cab, which the latter
hires from Rumble of Bond Street.
In fact, Military Snobs are of such number and variety, that a hundred
weeks of PUNCH would not suffice to give an audience to them. There is,
besides the disreputable old Military Snob, who has seen service, the
respectable old Military Snob, who has seen none, and gives himself the
most prodigious Martinet airs. There is the Medical-Military Snob, who
is generally more outrageously military in his conversation than the
greatest SABREUR in the army. There is the Heavy-Dragoon Snob, whom
young ladies, admire with his great stupid pink face and yellow
moustaches--a vacuous, solemn, foolish, but brave and honourable Snob.
There is the Amateur-Military Snob who writes Captain on his card
because he is a Lieutenant in the Bungay Militia. There is the
Lady-killing Military Snob; and more, who need not be named.
But let no man, we repeat, charge MR. PUNCH with disrespect for the Army
in general--that gallant and judicious Army, every man of which, from
F.M. the Duke of Wellington, &c., downwards--(with the exception of
H.R.H. Field-Marshal Prince Albert, who, however, can hardly count as a
military man,)--reads PUNCH in every quarter of the globe.
Let those civilians who sneer at the acquirements of the army read Sir
Harry Smith's account of the Battle of Aliwal. A noble deed was never
told in nobler language. And you who doubt if chivalry exists, or the
age of heroism has passed by, think of Sir Henry Hardinge, with his son,
'dear little Arthur,' riding in front of the lines at Ferozeshah. I hope
no English painter will endeavour to illustrate that scene; for who is
there to do justice to it? The history of the world contains no more
brilliant and heroic picture. No, no; the men who perform these
deeds with such brilliant valour, and describe them with such modest
manliness--SUCH are not Snobs. Their country admires them, their
Sovereign rewards them, and PUNCH, the universal railer, takes off his
hat and, says, Heaven save them!