There were old rites and customs of service maintained according to tradition. Your good clay pipe was brought to you, and the twist of good and fragrant tobacco. An anchorite or Temperance League man would find it hard to resist the apparatus for mixing the “brew” of “hot drink” or “Scotch,” the little pewter “noggin,” the curling rind of lemon with the more juicy fragment of the interior, and the tiny glass holding a sufficiency of sugar, with the neat black jug filled from the copper kettle always boiling on the hob. Alas! we have now to lament the fate of the pleasant, social snug old “Cock.” In course of time the buildings around it fell into decay, or were demolished. The Law Courts were built and opened; the fish shop close by was taken down and removed to another district. To this state of things it came at last--that every house near it had gone, and there only remained a sort of little tunnel with the swinging glass door, with the gilt, defiant Cock above, while behind was the old tavern, standing solitary in its decay. People wondered at this vitality, and how in the general wreck and destruction the old hostel was not swept off. But the heroic Colnett kept his ground. The old liquor, the old pipe and “screws” were still supplied as of yore. The customers were staunch. But, what consternation, when, one morning it became known that the gilt presentment of the bird--the supposed “Grinling”--had disappeared, had been stolen in a vulgar way, much as the famous Gainsborough Duchess had been cut from her frame! Now it was felt indeed that the charm was gone; there was nothing to rally round. Still we clung to the old place. But, somehow, with the loss of the bird it was felt that a change had come over the place. But the last stroke came. One day it struck the visitor that the chop had lost the old succulent flavour. It was a good chop, but had not the aroma. So marked was this that inquiry was made. “The meat was good--_the best Spiers and Pond could supply_.” What! Had it come to this! Spiers and Pond! Yes, it was true--the eminent caterers had taken over the place--the “Cock” of the Plague, of Pepys, of Tennyson, and of the Templars! This was a sad business--the knell of the place was rung. As the bird was gone the nest might go too. After that blow I fled the place and never returned. The end was not long in coming. The eminent firm of caterers did not long pursue their venture. In a very short time hoardings began to be set up, the tunnel was invaded, and the “Cock” closed for ever. Farewell now to the dreaming, ruminating winter’s night, the mellow Scotch, the screw of Birdseye. The last incident connected with this destruction was, however, appropriate enough. One of the famous old tankards, adorned with a suitable inscription--“a pint pot neatly graven”--was sent to the Poet who, we say, had done so much for the place. The Laureate wrote gracefully:--