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 glaudered 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!
