His young friend is Ensign Famish, who is not a little pleased to be seen with sucha 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!
