preparing the kitchen for the business of the
day. It was a busy place, that tavern—a
rushing, tumbling, bawling, maddening, busy
place—between the hours of twelve and four.
Every man in the City of London seemed to
run in there for luncheon, and to have no
time to eat it in. Digestion, and the
nourishment of the human body, were seemingly
considered to be things of very minor importance
by the side of office appointments,
transactions, operations, and the saving of a few
minutes of time. The marvel is, why they
came in at all—why they did not hurry along
the streets, cramming pieces of bread into
their mouths by the way, and washing them
down by drinking from a flask constructed
like a pocket-book. But no, they wanted
something, and they came into the tavern to
get it. When there, their individual tastes
were as various as the cut of their coats, or
the patterns of their waistcoats. If they had
all been content to feed out of a huge bowl,
and drink out of a huge mug, the kitchen of
the tavern—notwithstanding its large fire in the
heat of summer—would have been more
like Paradise, instead of its antipodes. But
the variety of food and drink, which they
called for, and which was supplied to them
with electric rapidity, was something
wonderful: while their combinations of
eatables were remarkable for ingenuity,
and originality.

The boy's employment at this period of the
day was to attend to the sliding shelves which
descended from the tavern floor to the kitchen,
filled with empty plates, and which ascended
from the kitchen to the tavern floor re-filled
with the various eatables. He had another, and
a more onerous duty to perform; his ear was
made the responsible repository of the crowd
of motley orders which raced with fearful
rapidity down a speaking tube. There was
no time for thought, no time for repose.
The powerful lungs of the master of the
establishment were incessantly in action, giving
out the mandates for endless food, in a bullying
tone, that he imagined to be absolutely
necessary to command attention. He was a
bully by nature, this tavern-keeper. Stout,
beetle-browed, and perspiring. Paid his way,
and did not care for brewer or distiller.
Why should he care for cooks, scullions, and
stout, active boys?

At twelve o'clock mid-day this stern, well-
to-do, determined tradesman took up his
position ready for anything. Orders were
shouted down the tube to be in readiness.
He felt like a General directing an army.
At the turn of the hour, the avalanche
of hunger came down upon the devoted
building. Clerks, merchants, stockbrokers
—no matter what their relative stations—
small balance at bankers, large balance, or
no balance—met in the temple of refreshment
as on common ground, for the general
craving for nourishment had made equals
of them all. It is a warm day, and the
occasion of the opening of a new Corn
Exchange. Woe upon the luckless boy in the
kitchen below. The tempest began with a
rump-steak pudding, rump-steak pudding
and French beans. Large plate of lamb and
new potatoes; small plate and old potatoes;
large plate again, and no potatoes—
cauliflower instead. Extra beans for the rump-
steak pudding. Now, the steam is up, and
cooks, scullions, and stout, active boy are in
fearful agitation, like the cranks and wheels
of a large engine, working to the top of their
bent. Stern, perspiring, excited tradesman
bawls down the pipe, and demands that his
words shall be repeated, to make sure that
the order is clearly understood.

"One sausage!"

A feeble echo of sausage comes from the
depths of the kitchen up the tube. Again
the boy repeats the word to the man presiding
over the gridiron: a glowing, dancing being,
who, with a long toasting-fork, keeps pricking,
goading, and turning small steaks, lamb
chops, mutton chops, kidneys, and sausages—
about sixty in number, all frizzling together
over the same fire. An incessant rumble is
caused by the sliding shelves going up and
down.

"Roast veal and ham: gooseberry tart;
small plate of cold beef and horseradish; a
roast fowl; large plate of boiled mutton, no
caper sauce; rhubarb tart; extra cauliflower;
large plate of roast beef, well done; small
plate of roast mutton, underdone, greens, and
new potatoes; small plate of veal, no ham;
currant and raspberry tart; two rump-steak
puddings; lamb chop and cauliflower; extra
potatoes, new; mutton chop; large steak and
greens; small plate of roast fowl;  basin of
oxtail; extra greens; two sausages; small of
boiled mutton and new;  kidney; four
rhubarb puddings; now then, that roast fowl;
small steak instead of oxtail; boiled mutton,
lean; extra greens; summer cabbage instead
of cauliflower with that lamb chop."

One after the other, these orders pour down
the pipe, coming up executed in half dozens
on the shelves. Perfect Babel and pantomimic
madness below—fully equalled by the
Babel and pantomimic madness above. No
one would suppose eating capable of
developing the latent talent for sleight of hand
which seems to exist amongst the frequenters
of this temple of refreshment. No one
would suppose that much benefit could be
derived from a luncheon or dinner taken
in a crowd such as assembles at the pit
doors of a theatre, when free admission is
given by order of Government on a great
public holiday. All standing up—reaching
over each others' heads—eating on the corners
of counters—tops of casks—balancing plates
in one hand, while carving with the other—
hustling and jostling—ten times worse than a
large rout in a small house in May Fair.
Shouting of orders, anxious glances at the
clock, goading of excited perspiring tradesman,