HARK! twelve o’clock is proclaimed by old St. Dunstan’s church, and scarcely have the sounds done echoing throughout the neighbourhood, and scarce has the clock of Lincoln’s Inn done chiming in its announcement of the same hour when Bell-yard, Temple Bar, becomes a scene of commotion.
What a scampering of feet is there, what a laughing and talking, what a jostling to be first; and what an immense number of manoeuvres are resorted to by some of the strong to distance others!
And mostly from Lincoln’s Inn come these persons, young and old, but most certainly a majority of the former, although from neighbouring legal establishments likewise there came not a few; the Temple contributes its numbers, and from the more distant Gray’s Inn came a goodly lot.
Is it a fire? is it a fight? or anything else sufficiently alarming or extraordinary, to excite the junior members of the legal profession to such a species of madness? No, it is none of these, nor is there a fat cause to be run for, which in the hands of some clever practitioner might become a vested interest. No, the enjoyment is purely one of a physical character, and all the pacing and racing–all this turmoil and trouble–all this pushing, jostling, laughing, and shouting, is to see who will get first at Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop.
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