The Book of Snobs CHAPTER IX. ON SOME MILITARY SNOBS
by William Makepeace Thackeray
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veteran officer he superseded has slunk into shabby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 goating 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.
