No. 1.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAS JUST GOT HIS COMMISSION.
Do you see that young man at the top of the quadrille, dancing with that
pretty flaxen-haired girl? That's Arthur Bumpshus; he has just got his
commission; though one might guess as much, for he's paying more
attention to himself, as you perceive, than to his partner, and he holds
his coat by both of the lapels, so as to keep it off his shoulders,
while he puffs out his chest like a pouter pigeon. His hair too, you
observe, is cut very short behind, and frizzed out at the sides, and
stuck up at the top, with the true military effect; and whenever his
partner speaks to him he looks down on the floor, and, inclining his
head slightly on one side, listens with a haughty frown.
The quadrille is over, and now here he comes. Hark! he's talking to the
flaxen-haired girl about Chatham, and the Provisional Battalion, and the
Mess, larding his conversation with as many military technicalities as
he can possibly cram into it, though, between you and me, he has not yet
joined his regiment, and has dined only once—or twice at the outside—at
Chatham. He says, too, that it's deuced unpleasant being bottled up in
uniform this hot weather, though we know for a fact that his own
regimentals are not yet finished, and that he means "to let out at the
tailor above a bit" for disappointing him with his things for this
evening. When however a friend asks him how it is that he does not
appear _en militaire_, he replies, "Oh, when a man (rich that, for a boy
of eighteen!) is forced to wear uniform he naturally prefers being in
_Mufti_ whenever he can."
He walks across the room digging his heels down at every step with a
ferocity intended to inspire all beholders with a high idea of his
determination, and asks, when a person's name is mentioned, whether he's
in "the Service;" and, on being told to the contrary, speaks of him ever
afterwards as "a Civilian." And when the host's young nephew, who is
home for the holidays, accidentally treads on the toe of Mr. Arthur
Bumpshus's Patent Leather Boots, Mr. A. B. frowns in a way that makes
the poor youth in the jacket tremble again in his pumps; for the young
military gentleman is anxious to distinguish himself for his valour in
the eyes of his friends.
He will not allow the engraver to have any peace until he sends home Mr.
Arthur Bumpshus's cards, with the No. of his regiment printed upon them;
and, when he gets them, Mr. A. B. goes the whole round of his
acquaintance, and calls at the house of each of his friends at a time
when he hopes they are in the park, so that he may have an opportunity
of leaving them one of the bits of glazed pasteboard which announces
that he has got his Commission.
He also pays a visit to Laurie, for the purpose of ordering his saddle;
and hearing Major Splatterdash, of "the Heavies," swear at the saddler
for something which is not quite to the Major's satisfaction, the young
gentleman follows his brother-officer's example, and gets a not very
gentle hint from the tradesman, that unless he can behave himself he had
better leave the shop; for though Laurie may consider it worth his while
to pocket an insult from a Major of ten years' standing, it does not
exactly answer his purpose to do the like with a sucking ensign.
In short, the young military gentleman persists in making himself as
obnoxious as possible to all people, with the view of impressing them
with his importance, though he forgets that while he is endeavouring to
play the Lion, the Ass's bray continually betrays him.
No. 2.
THE YACHTING MAN.
"Beg your pardon! hope I've not hurt you; but you were right in the
gangway!" exclaims a light-haired, blue-coated specimen of humanity, as
he enters the ball-room, and treads on the feet, and grinds the head of
one of the guests against the door-post he fancies he is ornamenting;
and then he rushes violently up to the lady of the house, and shakes her
hand with a vehemence more cordial than "_comme-il-faut_;" and then,
turning to the host, apologizes for being so late, declaring that he had
carried away every stitch of canvas he could stagger under, and would
have made the house half-an-hour before, but he'd had a capsize in a
cab, and it took him some time to get under weigh again.
Then he mixes in the crowd, and on closer inspection, you perceive by
the bright buttons on his blue coat, which have a crown and anchor and
some inscription upon them, that he belongs to one of the Royal Yacht
Clubs; while the same bright buttons with the same crown and anchor,
&c., only a size smaller, adorning his white waistcoat, tell you that he
is not ashamed of it.
From his conversation we are made acquainted with the important fact
that there had been a match that day at Erith, and that his yacht must
have won only his gaff-topsail was carried away in a squall; and we
learn, moreover, that he fully sympathizes with Lord Freshwater, who
would have come in a good second had not a Hatch Boat run right into his
starboard-bow, and driven her bowsprit clean through his lordship's
balloon-jib. And then he tells the listeners a remarkably funny story of
a friend of his, who went for a cruise with him, and would persist in
calling "going on deck" "going upstairs;" whereat the yachting man
laughs immoderately, and takes care all the evening through to term
"going downstairs," "going below."
He does not dance much, but whenever he does stand up for a Quadrille he
talks very loud to his partner, saying, "Aye, aye," to all her
questions; and he rushes to the refreshment-room with her directly the
dance is over, where he does not restrict himself to negus and ices, but
attacks the port wine at once.
During the supper he does not do much until the ladies have left, and
then he falls to with surprising vigour, and calling the footman on one
side, inquires whether there is any malt to be had. When the beer
arrives he professes an intense contempt for champagne, and says that as
far as he is concerned a glass of two-water grog is better than all the
wine in the Docks, especially when one's on deck at night; all which
causes the younger men of the party to look upon him as a very dashing
sort of a fellow. And if by any chance he is asked for a song, he is
sure to squall "I'm afloat," or "A Life on the Ocean Wave," though his
knowledge of such a state of existence must be very limited, for he has
seldom been beyond the Nore, and at farthest to Ramsgate,—excepting,
by-the-by, once, when we believe he did get as far as the Isle of Wight,
during the Cowes Regatta. Nevertheless, a life in his father's
country-house would be more in character with his habits.
And when the party is breaking up the Yachting Man is seen in the Hall
putting on a very rough Pea-Jacket, with large horn buttons, and a cap
with a gold-lace band round it. He says something about it's being time
to turn in, as four bells have gone; and having lit a cigar at the
hall-lamp, he finally disappears, chanting—
"Good-night!—All's well."
[Illustration:
A GOOD PENNY-WORTH.
]
THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1848.