ndi_
has made fools of several: this infatuated youth though not possessed
of a single requisite for the stage, no doubt flatters himself he is
a second Kean; and, regardless ~15~~of his birth and family, he will
continue his strolling life

Till the broad shame comes staring in his face,
And critics hoot the blockhead as he struts."

Having now reached the inn, and finding every thing adjusted for their
procedure, our heroes mounted their vehicle, and went in full gallop for
Real Life in London.

CHAPTER III

"Round, round, and round-about, they whiz, they fly,
With eager worrying, whirling here and there,
They know, nor whence, nor whither, where, nor why.
In utter hurry-scurry, going, coming,
Maddening the summer air with ceaseless humming."

~16~~OUR travellers now approached at a rapid rate, the desideratim
of their eager hopes and wishes: to one all was novel, wonderful, and
fascinating; to the other, it was the welcome return to an old and
beloved friend, the separation from whom had but increased the ardour
of attachment.--"We, now," says Dashall, "are approaching Hyde-Park,
and being Sunday, a scene will at once burst upon you, far surpassing
in reality any thing I have been able to pourtray, notwithstanding
the flattering compliments you have so often paid to my talents for
description."

[Illustration: page16 Hyde-Park]

They had scarcely entered the Park-gate, when Lady Jane Townley's
carriage crossed them, and Tom immediately approached it, to pay his
respects to an old acquaintance. Her lady-ship congratulated him on his
return to town, lamented the serious loss the _beau-monde_ had sustained
by his absence, and smiling archly at his young friend, was happy
to find he had not returned empty-handed, but with a recruit, whose
appearance promised a valuable accession to their select circle. "You
would not have seen me here," continued her ladyship, "but I vow and
protest it is utterly impossible to make a prisoner of one's self, such
a day as this, merely because it is Sunday--for my own part, I wish
there was no such thing as a Sunday in the whole year--there's no
knowing what to do with one's self. When fine, it draws out as many
insects as a hot sun and a shower of rain can produce in the middle of
June. The vulgar plebeians flock so, that you can scarcely get into your
barouche without being hustled by the men-milliners, linen-dra