intention of having a portico, but, stopping
short, conynomised the matter by overshadowing
the street door with a hideous excrescence
between a verandah, a " bulk," and a
porch. Contradictory, also, is the Green
Hog ; for it calls itself, over the door, the
Green Hog Tavern, over the window, a
Wine Vaults, and round the corner (in the
Mews), a Spirit Stores. The bar is
shamefaced, having run away to the end of a long
passage ; and even then, when you do get to
it, is more like a bow-window than like a
bar, and more like a butler's pantry than
either. Very few customers do you see standing
at the bar of the Green Hog ; yet does
its verdant porcinity considerable business
with Barclay Perkins.

The truth is, the Green Hog is one of
a class of publics, becoming rapidly extinct
in London. It is a tavern — one of the old,
orthodox, top-booted, sanded-floored taverns.
It does a good business, not by casual
beer-drinkers, but in " lunch, dinner, and supper
beers." A better business, perhaps, in wines
and dinners; for to the Green Hog resort
a goodly company of the customers of the " old
school," — men who yet adhere to the
traditional crown bowl of punch, and the historical
"rump and dozen," who take their bottle of
wine after dinner, and insist upon triangular
spittoons. They are behind the times,
perhaps, and the Green Hog is a little behind
them too. The Green Hog can't make out
competition, and new inventions, and fresh
blood, and new resources. " My father kept
this house afore me," says the Green Hog,
"and my son 'll keep it after me." So, within
his orthodox and time-honoured precincts, a
"go" of sherry is still called a bottle of sherry—
a glass of brandy-and-water is charged a shilling.
" Bell's Old Weekly Messenger" is taken in;
and the Green Hog goes to bed at midnight
—winter or summer — week-day or Sabbath.

The parlour (or common room) of the
Green Hog is a sight. The ceiling is low
and bulging, and covered with a quiet,
grey-patterned paper. There is a sanded floor, a
big fireplace, " settles" on either side thereof,
long substantial tables, and a chair on a dais
nailed against the wall. No newfangled
portraits hang on the walls, of race-horses,
Radical Members, of performers at the
Theatres-Royal. There is, however, Mr. Charles
Young, in mezzotint, Roman costume, and
toga. There is the best of monarchs in
jackboots and a pig-tail, reviewing two hundred
thousand volunteers in Hyde Park. There
is the next best of monarchs in his curliest
wig, smiling affably at the fur collar of his
surtout. There is the portrait of the late
landlord, and the portrait of the present one.
There is, finally, Queen Caroline, looking
deeply injured in an enormous hat and
feathers, and an aquatint view of the opening
of Blackfriars Bridge.

To this comfortable and old-fashioned
retreat come the comfortable and old-fashioned
customers, who "use" the Green Hog. Hither
comes Mr. Tuckard, a round old gentleman,
supposed to be employed in some capacity at the
Tower of London, but whether as a warder, an
artillery-man, or a gentleman jailer — deponent
sayeth not. He appears regularly at nine
o'clock every morning, eats a huge meat-and-beer
breakfast, orders his dinner, re-appears
at six o'clock precisely, eats a hearty dinner,
drinks a bottle of port, and smokes nine pipes
of tobacco, washed down by nine tumblers of
gin-and-water. He invariably finishes his
nine tumblers just as John the waiter (of
whom no man ever knew the surname, or saw
the bow to his neck-tie) brings in tumbler
of brandy-and-water, number four, for Mr.
Scrayles, the eminent corn-chandler (reported
to be worth a mint of money). The door
being opened, Mr. Tuckard rises, looks round,
nods, and without further parley, makes a
bolt through the door, and disappears. This,
with but few interruptions, he has done daily
and nightly for five-and-thirty years. He
rarely speaks but to intimate friends (with
whom he has had a nodding acquaintance for
twenty years, perhaps). He occasionally
condescends to impart, in a fat whisper, his
opinions about the funds and the weather. It is
reported that he cannot read, for he never was
known to take up a newspaper — that he
cannot write — that he never sleeps. No one
knows where he lives. He is Tuckard,
employed in the Tower of London; that is all.
Sometimes, on high days and holidays, he
hands round a portentous golden snuff-box,
purporting, from the engraving on its lid, to
have been presented to Thomas Tuckard,
Esquire, by his friends and admirers, members
of the " Cobb Club." Who was Cobb? and
what manner of Club was his ?

Besides the mysterious possessor of the
snuff-box, and the wealthy corn-chandler,
there are some score more grave and sedate
frequenters of the parlour, all " warm" men,
financially speaking, all quietly eloquent as to
the funds and the weather, and all fond of
their bottle of wine, and their tumbler of
grog. Time and weather, changes of ministry,
births, deaths, and marriage seem to have but
little effect on them, nor to ruffle, in any
sensible degree, the even tenour of their lives.
They will continue, I have no doubt, to " use"
the Green Hog as long as they are able to
use anything; and when the grog of life is
drained, and the pipe of existence is
extinguished, they will quietly give place to other
old codgers, who will do, doubtless, as they
did before them.

Don't suppose that Barclay and Perkins's
dray, or Barclay and Perkins's men have been
idle or unprofitably employed while I have been
poking about the parlour of the Green Hog.
No: theirs has been the task to raise the cellar-flap
on the pavement, and to lower, by means
of sundry chains and ropes, the mighty butts
of beer required for the lunches, dinners,
and suppers of the Green Hog's customers.