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- 2026-01-30T07:57:45.581Z
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- lustily in the beginning of the day. Their pluck ain't lasting, after
all. Yes, yes; even cocks have to succumb to the universal spell of
tribulation: jubilant in the beginning, but down in the mouth at the
end.
... "_Of fine mornings,
We fine lusty cocks begin our crows in gladness;
But when the eve does come we don't crow quite so much,
For then cometh despondency and madness._"
The poet had this very Shanghai in mind when he wrote that. But stop.
There he rings out again, ten times richer, fuller, longer, more
obstreperously exulting than before! In fact, that bell ought to be
taken down, and this Shanghai put in its place. Such a crow would
jollify all London, from Mile-End (which is no end) to Primrose Hill
(where there ain't any primroses), and scatter the fog.
Well, I have an appetite for my breakfast this morning, if I have not
had it for a week before. I meant to have only tea and toast; but I'll
have coffee and eggs--no, brown stout and a beefsteak. I want something
hearty. Ah, here comes the down-train: white cars, flashing through
the trees like a vein of silver. How cheerfully the steam-pipe chirps!
Gay are the passengers. There waves a handkerchief--going down to the
city to eat oysters, and see their friends, and drop in at the circus.
Look at the mist yonder; what soft curls and undulations round the
hills, and the sun weaving his rays among them. See the azure smoke of
the village, like the azure tester over a bridal-bed. How bright the
country looks there where the river overflowed the meadows. The old
grass has to knock under to the new. Well, I feel the better for this
walk. Home now, and walk into that steak and crack that bottle of brown
stout; and by the time that's drank--a quart of stout--by that time, I
shall feel about as stout as Samson. Come to think of it, that dun may
call, though. I'll just visit the woods and cut a club. I'll club him,
by Jove, if he duns me this day.
Hark! there goes Shanghai again. Shanghai says, "Bravo!" Shanghai says,
"Club him!"
Oh, brave cock!
I felt in rare spirits the whole morning. The dun called about eleven.
I had the boy Jake send the dun up. I was reading _Tristram Shandy_,
and could not go down under the circumstances. The lean rascal (a
lean farmer, too--think of that!) entered, and found me seated in an
armchair, with my feet on the table, and the second bottle of brown
stout handy, and the book under eye.
"Sit down," said I, "I'll finish this chapter, and then attend to you.
Fine morning. Ha! ha!--this is a fine joke about my Uncle Toby and the
Widow Wadman! Ha! ha! ha! let me read this to you."
"I have no time; I've got my noon _chores_ to do."
"To the deuce with your _chores_!" said I. "Don't drop your old tobacco
about here, or I'll turn you out."
"Sir!"
"Let me read you this about the Widow Wadman. Said the Widow Wadman--"
"There's my bill, sir."
"Very good. Just twist it up, will you--it's about my smoking-time; and
hand a coal, will you, from the hearth yonder!"
"My bill, sir!" said the rascal, turning pale with rage and amazement
at my unwonted air (formerly I had always dodged him with a pale face),
but too prudent as yet to betray the extremity of his astonishment. "My
bill, sir"--and he stiffly poked it at me.
"My friend," said I, "what a charming morning! How sweet the country
looks! Pray, did you hear that extraordinary cock-crow this morning?
Take a glass of my stout!"
"_Yours?_ First pay your debts before you offer folks _your_ stout!"
"You think, then, that, properly speaking, I have no _stout_," said I,
deliberately rising. "I'll undeceive you. I'll show you stout of a
superior brand to Barclay and Perkins."
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