SCENE—Chaffing Crib in Corinthian House.—Table, Boxing Gloves, Chairs, Foils, &c., &c.
Enter TOM and JERRY, as just arrived.
Tom. Ya! hip! come along, Jerry; here we are safe arrived, my boy. Welcome, my dear Jerry, to Corinthian Hall—to my snug chaffing crib—where, I hope, we shall have many a rare bit of gig together.
Jerry. Chaffing crib! I’m at fault, coz, can’t follow.
Tom. My prattling parlour—my head quarters, coz—where I unbend with my pals. You are now in London the bang-up spot of the world for fun, frolic, and out-and-out-ing. Here it shall be my care, Jerry, to introduce you to all sorts of life—from the flowers of society, the roses, pinks, and tulips, of one court, to the mechanical tag-rag and bobtail—vegetables—bunches of turnips—and strings of ing-ens, of another: for without a proper introduction, London, gay, bustling, various, as it is, would be no more than an immense wilderness.
Jerry. I suppose not. I’ll do as much for you another time.
Tom. We must make the best use of our time; I have seen a great deal of life myself; still I have a great deal yet to see. But let me give you a caution or two before we set out; never be too confident—rather at all times plead ignorance than show it; never disgrace the character of a friend, in that family where you are introduced as a friend; let the honour of the husband and the peace of the father be preserved inviolable; and never have the once friendly door be shut against you, either as a seducer—a hypocrite—or a scoundrel. But I say, my dear fellow, what do you call all this?—this toggery of yours will never fit—you must have a new rig-out.
Jerry. Eh! oh! I understand. You think the cut of my clothes rather too rustic—eh?
Tom. Exactly; dress is the order of the day. A man must have the look of a gentleman, if he has nothing else. We must assume a style if we have it not. This, what do you call it?—this cover-me-decently, was all very well at Hawthorn Hall, I dare say; but here, among the pinks in Rotten-row, the ladybirds in the Saloon, the angelics at Almack’s, the-top-of-the-tree heroes, the legs and levanters at Tattersall’s, nay, even among the millers at the Fives, it would be taken for nothing less than the index of a complete flat.
Jerry. I suppose not—what’s to be done?