1 It is a well-known fact, that a person of the name of Tiffin announced himself to the world under this very seductive title, which, doubtless, had the effect of bringing him considerable custom from the loyal subjects of his great patron.
CHAPTER XVII
“Here fashion and folly still go hand in hand, With the Blades of the East, and the Bucks of the Strand; The Bloods of the Park, and paraders so gay, Who are lounging in Bond Street the most of the day— Who are foremost in all that is formed for delight, At greeking, or wenching, or drinking all night; For London is circled with unceasing joys: Then, East, West, North and South, let us hunt them, my boys.”
THE entrance to the house had attracted Tallyho's admiration as they proceeded; but the taste and elegance of the Coffee-room, fitted up with brilliant chandeliers, and presenting amidst a blaze of splendour every comfort and accommodation for its visitors, struck him with surprise; in which however he was not suffered to remain long, for Merrywell and Mortimer had laid their plans with some degree of depth and determination to carry into execution the proposed ramble of the evening, and had ordered a private room for the party; besides which, they had invited a friend to join them, who was introduced to Tom and Bob, under the title of Frank Harry. Frank Harry was a humorous sort of fellow, who could tell a tough story, sing a merry song, and was up to snuff, though he frequently got snuffy, singing,
“The bottle's the Sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine: We, planets never are able Without his beams to shine. Let mirth and glee abound, You'll soon grow bright With borrow'd light, And shine as he goes round.”
He was also a bit of a dabbler at Poetry, a writer of Songs, Epigrams, Epitaphs, &c.; and having been a long resident in the East, was thought to be a very useful guide on such an excursion, and proved himself a very pleasant sort of companion: he had a dawning pleasantry in his countenance, eradiated by an eye of vivacity, which seemed to indicate there was nothing which gave him so much gratification as a mirth-moving jest.
“What spirits were his, what wit and what whim, Now cracking a joke, and now breaking a limb.”