Jerry. Why on London points I confess I am miserably ignorant. But for anything in the country, now—such as leaping a five-barred gate, jumping a ditch, trotting my pony against anything alive, wrestling, cudgelling, or kissing in the ring, depend on it, Tom, you’ll find me—fly.
Log. He’s a fine-spirited youth, and will soon make a tie of it with us—we’ll start first to the show shop of the metropolis, Hyde Park!—promenade it down the grand strut, take a ride with the pinks in Rotten Row, where dukes and dealers in queer—heavy plodders and operators—noblemen, and yokels—barber’s clerks, costard-mongers—swell coves, and rainbows, all jostle one another; then we’ll have a stroll through Burlington Arcade, peep in at Tattersal’s, and finish as fancy leads us.
Tom. Bravo! Hyde Park! Burlington Arcade! nothing can be better.
Log. No; Arcades are all the go now.
SONG.
Air.—“Carnival of Venice.”
Bazaars have long since had their day,
Are common grown and low;
And now, at powerful Fashion’s sway,
Arcades are all the go.
Then let’s to Piccadilly haste,
And wander through the shade;
And half an hour of pleasure taste,
In Burlington Arcade.
Tom. Now, my dear Jerry, to introduce you to another scene of Life in London;—you have taken a ride among the pinks in Rotten Row, have dipped into the Westminster pit, sported your blunt with the flue-fakers and gay tyke boys on the phenomenon monkey[31]—seen that gamest of all buffers, Rumpty-tum, with the rats; and now you can make assignation with some of our dashing straw-chippers and nob-thatchers in Burlington Arcade:—This is the very walk of Cupid and here——
[Jane slips the letter into his hand and runs off.
Tom. I say, you messenger of Cupid—hey, why zounds, she’s bolted!
Log. You’ll give chase, Tom?
Tom. To be sure I will, Bob.