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- 5045
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- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.879Z
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- text
- day tantalising the wretched shanty with the sight of all the beauty,
rank, fashion, health, trunks, silver and gold, dry-goods and groceries,
brides and grooms, happy wives and husbands, flying by the lonely
door--no time to stop--flash! here they are--and there they go!--out of
sight at both ends--as if that part of the world were only made to fly
over, and not to settle upon. And this was about all the shanty saw of
what people call ‘life.’
Though puzzled somewhat, yet I knew the general direction where the
shanty lay, and on I trudged. As I advanced, I was surprised to hear the
mysterious cock crow with more and more distinctness. Is it possible,
thought I, that any gentleman owning a Shanghai can dwell in such a
lonesome, dreary region? Louder and louder, nigher and nigher, sounded
the glorious and defiant clarion. Though somehow I may be out of the
track to my wood-sawyer’s, I said to myself, yet, thank Heaven, I seem
to be on the way toward that extraordinary cock. I was delighted with
this auspicious accident. On I journeyed; while at intervals the crow
sounded most invitingly, and jocundly, and superbly; and the last crow
was ever nigher than the former one. At last, emerging from a thicket of
elders, straight before me I saw the most resplendent creature that ever
blessed the sight of man.
A cock, more like a golden eagle than a cock. A cock, more like a
field-marshal than a cock. A cock, more like Lord Nelson with all his
glittering arms on, standing on the _Vanguard’s_ quarter-deck going into
battle, than a cock. A cock, more like the Emperor Charlemagne in his
robes at Aix-la-Chapelle, than a cock.
Such a cock!
He was of a haughty size, stood haughtily on his haughty legs. His
colours were red, gold, and white. The red was on his crest alone, which
was a mighty and symmetric crest, like unto Hector’s helmet, as
delineated on antique shields. His plumage was snowy, traced with gold.
He walked in front of the shanty, like a peer of the realm; his crest
lifted, his chest heaved out, his embroidered trappings flashing in the
light. His pace was wonderful. He looked like some noble foreigner. He
looked like some Oriental king in some magnificent Italian opera.
Merrymusk advanced from the door.
‘Pray, is not that the Signor Beneventano?’
‘Sir!’
‘That’s the cock,’ said I, a little embarrassed. The truth was, my
enthusiasm had betrayed me into a rather silly inadvertence. I had made
a somewhat learned sort of allusion in the presence of an unlearned man.
Consequently, upon discovering it by his honest stare, I felt foolish;
but carried it off by declaring that _this was the cock_.
Now, during the preceding autumn I had been to the city, and had chanced
to be present at a performance of the Italian Opera. In that opera
figured in some royal character a certain Signor Beneventano--a man of a
tall, imposing person, clad in rich raiment, like to plumage, and with a
most remarkable, majestic, scornful stride. The Signor Beneventano
seemed on the point of tumbling over backward with exceeding
haughtiness. And, for all the world, the proud pace of the cock seemed
the very stage-pace of the Signor Beneventano.
Hark! Suddenly the cock paused, lifted his head still higher, ruffled
his plumes, seemed inspired, and sent forth a lusty crow. October
Mountain echoed it; other mountains sent it back; still others rebounded
it; it overran the country round. Now I plainly perceived how it was I
had chanced to hear the gladdening sound on my distant hill.
‘Good heavens! do you own the cock? Is that cock yours?’
‘Is it my cock!’ said Merrymusk, looking slyly gleeful out of the corner
of his long, solemn face.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It chipped the shell here. I raised it.’
‘You?’
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