DOI Heft:
July to December, 1846
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16543#0089
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
81
THE SNOBS OF ENGLAND.
by one of themselves.
CHAPTER XXV.—PARTY-GIVING SNOBS.
Oor selection of Snobs for the past few weeks has been too exclu-
sively of a political character. " Give us private Snobs," cry the
dear ladies. (I have before me the letter of one fair correspondent at
the fishing village of Brighthehnstone in Sussex ; and could her com-
mands ever be disobeyed ?) " Tell us more, dear Mr. Snob, about
your experience of Snobs in society." Heaven bless the dear souls !—
they are accustomed to the word now—the odious, vulgar, horrid, un-
pronounceable word slips out of their hps with the prettiest glibness
possible. 1 should not wonder if it were used at Court amongst the
Maids of Honour. In the very best society I know it is. And why
not ? Snobbishness is vulgar—the mere words are not that which
we call a Snob, by any other name would still be Snobbish.
Well. then. As the season is drawing to a close ; as many hun-
dreds of kind souls, snobbish or otherwise, have quitted London ; as
many hospitable carpets are taken up; and window-blinds are piti-
lessly papered with the Morning Herald ; and mansions once inhabited
by cheerful owners are now consigned to the care of the housekeeper'3
dreary locum tenens—some mouldy old woman, who, in reply to the
hopeless clanging of the bell, peers at you for a moment from the area,
and then slowly unbolting the great hall door, informs you that my
lady has left town, or that "the family's in the country," or "gone up ,ca11 ' .the §leam °f gems' the odour of Perfames> the blaze of countless
the Rind," or what not—as the season and parties are over ; why not | lamPs ~a scrubby-looking, yellow-faced foreigner, with cleaned gloves,
kiss her for the world. Why the deuce do I grin when I see her, as if
I was delighted ? Am I ? I don't care a straw for Mrs. Botibol.
1 know what she thinks about me. I know what she said about my
last volume of poems (1 had it from a dear mutual friend). Why, I
say in a word, are we going on ogling and telegraphing each other in
this insane way ?—Because we are both performing the ceremonies
demanded by the Great Snob Society : whose dictates we all of us obey.
Well ; the recognition is over—my jaws have returned to their
usual English expression of subdued agony and intense gloom, and
the Botibol is grinning and kissing her fingers to somebody else, who
is squeezing through the aperture by which we have just entered. It is
Lady Ann Cltjtterbcck, who has her Friday evenings, as Botibol
(Botty, we call her) has her Wednesdays. That is Miss Clementina
Clcttekbuck, the cadaverous young woman in green, with florid
auburn hair, who has published her volume of poems (" the Death-
Shriek ; " " Damien ; " " the Faggot of Joan of Arc ; " and "Trans-
lations from the German" — of course) — the conversazione women
salute each other, calling each other, " My dear Lady Ann,"
and " My dear good Eliza," and hating each other, as women hate
who give parties on Wednesdays and Fridays. With inexpressible
pain dear good Eliza sees Ann go up and coax and wheedle Abou
Gosh, who has just arrived from Syria, and beg him to patronise her
Fridays.
All this while, amidst the crowd and the scuffle, and a perpetual
buzz and chatter, and the flare of the wax candles, and an intolerable
smell of musk—what the poor Snobs who write fashionable romances
consider Party-giving Snobs for a while, and review the conduct of
some of those individuals who have quitted the town for six months ?
Some of those worthy Snobs are making-believe to go yachting, and,
dressed in telescopes and pea-jackets, are passing their time between
Cherbourg and Cowes ; some living higgledy-piggledy in dismal little
huts in Scotland, provisioned with canisters of portable soup, and
fricandeaux hermetically sealed in tin, are passing their days
is warbling inaudibly in a corner, to the accompaniment of another,
" The Great Cacafogo," Mrs. Botibol whispers, as she passes you by
—"A great creature, Thumpenstrumpff, is at the instrument—the
Hetman Platoff's Pianist, you know."
To hear this Cacafogo and Thumpenstrumpff, a hundred people
are gathered together—a bevy of dowagers, stout or scraggy ; a faint
sprinkling of misses ; six moody-looking lords, perfectly meek and
slaughtering grouse on "the moors ; some are dosing and bathing ! *°lemn ; wonderful foreign Counts, with bushy whiskers and yellow
away the effects of the season at Kissingeu, or watching the ingenious
game of Trente et qaarante at Hambourg and Ems. We can afford to be
very bitter upon them now they are all gone. Now there are no more
parties, let us have at the Party-giving Snobs. The dinner-giving,
the ball-giving, the dCjeuner-giving, the conversazione-giving Snobs—
Lord ! Lord ! what havoc might have been made amongst them had wre
attacked them during the plethora of the season ! I should have
been obliged to have a guard to defend me from fiddlers and pastry-
cooks, indignant at the abuse of their patrons. Already I'm told that,
from some flippant and unguarded expressions considered derogatory
to Baker Street and Harley Street, rents have fallen in these
respectable quarters ; and orders have been issued that at least
Ms. Snob shall be asked to parties there no more. Well, then—now
they are all away, let us frisk at our ease, and have at everything, like
the bull in the china-shop. They mayn't hear of what is going on in
their absence, and, if they do, they can't bear malice for six months.
We will begin to make it up with them about next February, and let
next year take care of itself. We shall have no more dinners from
the dinner-giving Snobs . no more balls from the ball-givers : no
more cmtersaziones (thank Mussy ! as Jeames says,) from the Con-
versazione Snob : and what is to prevent us from telling the truth ?
The Snobbishness of Conversazione Snobs is very soon disposed of,
as soon as that cup of washy bohea that is handed to you in the tea-
room ; or the muddy remnant of ice that you grasp in the suffocating
scuffle of the assembly up stairs.
Good Heavens I what do people mean by going there ? What is
done there, that everybody throngs into those three little rooms ? Was
the Black Hole considered to be an agreeable rtunion, that Britons
in the dog-days here -eek to imitate it ? After being rammed to a
jelly in a door-way (where you feel your feet going through Lady
Barbara Macbeth's lace flounces, and get a look from that haggard
and painted old harpy, compared to which the gaze of Ugolino is
quite cheerful;) after withdrawing your elbow out of poor gasping
Bob Gottleton's white waistcoat, from which cushion it was im-
possible to remove it, though you knew you were squeezing poor Bob
into an apoplexy—you find yourself at last in the reception-room, and
try to catch the eye of Mrs. Botibol, the concersazione-giver. When
you catch her eye. you are expected to grin, and she smiles too, for
the four hundredth time that night ; and, if she \s eery glad to see you,
waggles her little hand before her face as if to blow you a kiss, as the
phrase is.
Why the deuce should Mrs. Botibol blow me a kiss ? I wouldn't
faces, and a great deal of dubious jewellery ; young dandies with slim
Avaists and open necks, and self-satisfied simpers, and flowers in
their buttons ; the old, stiff, stout, bald-headed conversazione-routs,.
whom you meet everywhere—who never miss a night of this delicious
enjoyment ;. the three last-caught lions of the season—Higgs, the
traveller ; Biggs, the novelist ; and Toffey, who has come out so on
the sugar question ; Captain Flash, who is invited on account of his
pretty wife, and Lord Ogleby, who goes wherever she goes—que sais-
je ? Who are the owners of all those showy scarfs and white neck-
cloths ?—Ask little Tom Prig, who is there in all his glory, knows
everybody, has a story about every one ; and, as he trips home to
his lodgings, in Jermyn-street, with his Gibus-hat and his little glazed
pumps, thinks he is the fashionablest young fellow in town, and that
he really has passed a night of exquisite enjoyment.
You go up with (your usual easy elegance of manner) and talk to
Miss Smith in a "orner.
Mr. Snob ! I'm afraid you're sadly satirical.'
That's all she says. If you say it's fine weather, she bursts ous
laughing ; or hint that it's very hot, she vows you are the droHesl
81
THE SNOBS OF ENGLAND.
by one of themselves.
CHAPTER XXV.—PARTY-GIVING SNOBS.
Oor selection of Snobs for the past few weeks has been too exclu-
sively of a political character. " Give us private Snobs," cry the
dear ladies. (I have before me the letter of one fair correspondent at
the fishing village of Brighthehnstone in Sussex ; and could her com-
mands ever be disobeyed ?) " Tell us more, dear Mr. Snob, about
your experience of Snobs in society." Heaven bless the dear souls !—
they are accustomed to the word now—the odious, vulgar, horrid, un-
pronounceable word slips out of their hps with the prettiest glibness
possible. 1 should not wonder if it were used at Court amongst the
Maids of Honour. In the very best society I know it is. And why
not ? Snobbishness is vulgar—the mere words are not that which
we call a Snob, by any other name would still be Snobbish.
Well. then. As the season is drawing to a close ; as many hun-
dreds of kind souls, snobbish or otherwise, have quitted London ; as
many hospitable carpets are taken up; and window-blinds are piti-
lessly papered with the Morning Herald ; and mansions once inhabited
by cheerful owners are now consigned to the care of the housekeeper'3
dreary locum tenens—some mouldy old woman, who, in reply to the
hopeless clanging of the bell, peers at you for a moment from the area,
and then slowly unbolting the great hall door, informs you that my
lady has left town, or that "the family's in the country," or "gone up ,ca11 ' .the §leam °f gems' the odour of Perfames> the blaze of countless
the Rind," or what not—as the season and parties are over ; why not | lamPs ~a scrubby-looking, yellow-faced foreigner, with cleaned gloves,
kiss her for the world. Why the deuce do I grin when I see her, as if
I was delighted ? Am I ? I don't care a straw for Mrs. Botibol.
1 know what she thinks about me. I know what she said about my
last volume of poems (1 had it from a dear mutual friend). Why, I
say in a word, are we going on ogling and telegraphing each other in
this insane way ?—Because we are both performing the ceremonies
demanded by the Great Snob Society : whose dictates we all of us obey.
Well ; the recognition is over—my jaws have returned to their
usual English expression of subdued agony and intense gloom, and
the Botibol is grinning and kissing her fingers to somebody else, who
is squeezing through the aperture by which we have just entered. It is
Lady Ann Cltjtterbcck, who has her Friday evenings, as Botibol
(Botty, we call her) has her Wednesdays. That is Miss Clementina
Clcttekbuck, the cadaverous young woman in green, with florid
auburn hair, who has published her volume of poems (" the Death-
Shriek ; " " Damien ; " " the Faggot of Joan of Arc ; " and "Trans-
lations from the German" — of course) — the conversazione women
salute each other, calling each other, " My dear Lady Ann,"
and " My dear good Eliza," and hating each other, as women hate
who give parties on Wednesdays and Fridays. With inexpressible
pain dear good Eliza sees Ann go up and coax and wheedle Abou
Gosh, who has just arrived from Syria, and beg him to patronise her
Fridays.
All this while, amidst the crowd and the scuffle, and a perpetual
buzz and chatter, and the flare of the wax candles, and an intolerable
smell of musk—what the poor Snobs who write fashionable romances
consider Party-giving Snobs for a while, and review the conduct of
some of those individuals who have quitted the town for six months ?
Some of those worthy Snobs are making-believe to go yachting, and,
dressed in telescopes and pea-jackets, are passing their time between
Cherbourg and Cowes ; some living higgledy-piggledy in dismal little
huts in Scotland, provisioned with canisters of portable soup, and
fricandeaux hermetically sealed in tin, are passing their days
is warbling inaudibly in a corner, to the accompaniment of another,
" The Great Cacafogo," Mrs. Botibol whispers, as she passes you by
—"A great creature, Thumpenstrumpff, is at the instrument—the
Hetman Platoff's Pianist, you know."
To hear this Cacafogo and Thumpenstrumpff, a hundred people
are gathered together—a bevy of dowagers, stout or scraggy ; a faint
sprinkling of misses ; six moody-looking lords, perfectly meek and
slaughtering grouse on "the moors ; some are dosing and bathing ! *°lemn ; wonderful foreign Counts, with bushy whiskers and yellow
away the effects of the season at Kissingeu, or watching the ingenious
game of Trente et qaarante at Hambourg and Ems. We can afford to be
very bitter upon them now they are all gone. Now there are no more
parties, let us have at the Party-giving Snobs. The dinner-giving,
the ball-giving, the dCjeuner-giving, the conversazione-giving Snobs—
Lord ! Lord ! what havoc might have been made amongst them had wre
attacked them during the plethora of the season ! I should have
been obliged to have a guard to defend me from fiddlers and pastry-
cooks, indignant at the abuse of their patrons. Already I'm told that,
from some flippant and unguarded expressions considered derogatory
to Baker Street and Harley Street, rents have fallen in these
respectable quarters ; and orders have been issued that at least
Ms. Snob shall be asked to parties there no more. Well, then—now
they are all away, let us frisk at our ease, and have at everything, like
the bull in the china-shop. They mayn't hear of what is going on in
their absence, and, if they do, they can't bear malice for six months.
We will begin to make it up with them about next February, and let
next year take care of itself. We shall have no more dinners from
the dinner-giving Snobs . no more balls from the ball-givers : no
more cmtersaziones (thank Mussy ! as Jeames says,) from the Con-
versazione Snob : and what is to prevent us from telling the truth ?
The Snobbishness of Conversazione Snobs is very soon disposed of,
as soon as that cup of washy bohea that is handed to you in the tea-
room ; or the muddy remnant of ice that you grasp in the suffocating
scuffle of the assembly up stairs.
Good Heavens I what do people mean by going there ? What is
done there, that everybody throngs into those three little rooms ? Was
the Black Hole considered to be an agreeable rtunion, that Britons
in the dog-days here -eek to imitate it ? After being rammed to a
jelly in a door-way (where you feel your feet going through Lady
Barbara Macbeth's lace flounces, and get a look from that haggard
and painted old harpy, compared to which the gaze of Ugolino is
quite cheerful;) after withdrawing your elbow out of poor gasping
Bob Gottleton's white waistcoat, from which cushion it was im-
possible to remove it, though you knew you were squeezing poor Bob
into an apoplexy—you find yourself at last in the reception-room, and
try to catch the eye of Mrs. Botibol, the concersazione-giver. When
you catch her eye. you are expected to grin, and she smiles too, for
the four hundredth time that night ; and, if she \s eery glad to see you,
waggles her little hand before her face as if to blow you a kiss, as the
phrase is.
Why the deuce should Mrs. Botibol blow me a kiss ? I wouldn't
faces, and a great deal of dubious jewellery ; young dandies with slim
Avaists and open necks, and self-satisfied simpers, and flowers in
their buttons ; the old, stiff, stout, bald-headed conversazione-routs,.
whom you meet everywhere—who never miss a night of this delicious
enjoyment ;. the three last-caught lions of the season—Higgs, the
traveller ; Biggs, the novelist ; and Toffey, who has come out so on
the sugar question ; Captain Flash, who is invited on account of his
pretty wife, and Lord Ogleby, who goes wherever she goes—que sais-
je ? Who are the owners of all those showy scarfs and white neck-
cloths ?—Ask little Tom Prig, who is there in all his glory, knows
everybody, has a story about every one ; and, as he trips home to
his lodgings, in Jermyn-street, with his Gibus-hat and his little glazed
pumps, thinks he is the fashionablest young fellow in town, and that
he really has passed a night of exquisite enjoyment.
You go up with (your usual easy elegance of manner) and talk to
Miss Smith in a "orner.
Mr. Snob ! I'm afraid you're sadly satirical.'
That's all she says. If you say it's fine weather, she bursts ous
laughing ; or hint that it's very hot, she vows you are the droHesl