It is a pity to find that there is not the conservative continuity in the line of waiters which should be found in such a place. They seem to come and go--go rather than come. They used to be all “in key,” as it were--had grown stout and old in the service. Latterly, time, in its whirligig changes, had brought round changes almost revolutionary, and we found strange, unsuitable beings in office. One was a dry, wiry man of despotic character, who administered on the new modern principles, unsuited to the easy-going manners of the place. He dealt with the customers in a prompt, almost harsh style. He knew and recognized no distinction between old frequenters and new. I fancy he was not popular. His place was really in the new “restaurants”; but here among the “boxes” and pews, and on the sanded floor, he was an anachronism. With the old habitués he was a perfect fly in the ointment. When he found himself unpopular, he adopted a strange device to recommend himself--the compounding a curious sauce, which he called “Pick-ant,” and which he invited guests to try. It did not much avail him, and death has since removed him to pay his own score. Mr. Mark Lemon, who had to pass the tavern every day on his road to the “Punch” office, lower down, has laid a scene in one of his novels at the little tavern. In early days, when the then unknown Tennyson dwelt in lofty chambers up behind the balustraded parapet of No. 57 Lincoln’s Inn Fields (west side), he used to resort to the “Cock” for his quiet five-o’clock dinner, where after a pint of the special port, he probably wrote the famous verses on Will. An American visitor was fortunate enough to see the poet engaged in discussing the favourite delicacies of the place:-- “I had the good fortune the other day to come upon Tennyson taking his chop and kidney at that house, some three doors above the old Temple Bar, which he has made famous, the ‘Cock.’ I had the curiosity to look for the ‘half pint of port’ in the poem, but I saw at the bard’s elbow no wine, fruity or crusted, but a plain pewter of stout, which the author of ‘Locksley Hall’ discussed like any northern farmer of them all. He is aged and worn, and bent in the back, with hollow chest; but I think these are rather the effects of a brooding habit of mind and body than the marks of physical debility, for he looked tough and muscular. Tennyson is not a beauty. There was the head-waiter at the ‘Cock,’ and it was fine to see him waiting on the Laureate. The man was tremendously conscious of his distinction, and kept watching guests out of the corner of his eye, to see if they were admiring him. His manner to Mr. Tennyson was delightful, at once respectful and friendly--just as if he felt himself a partner in the work which has given the ‘Cock’ a sort of literary reputation.” [Illustration: The Old Cock Tavern]