We fancied we smelled it when we go into the town and did the last quarter of a mile in three minutes.We rushed upstairs, and washed ourselves, and changed our clothes, and came down, and pulled our chairs up to the table, and sat and rubbed our hands while the landlady removed the covers, when I seized the knife and fork and started to carve.
It seemed to want a lot of carving.I struggled with it for about five minutes without making the slightest impression, and then Joe, who had been eating potatoes, wanted to know if it wouldn't be better for some oneto do the job that understood carving.I took no notice of his foolish remark, but attacked the bird again; and so vigorously this time that the animal left the dish and took refuge in the fender.
We soon had it out of that, though, and I was prepared to make another effort.But Joe was getting unpleasant.He said that if he had thought we were to have a game of blind hockey with the dinner he would have got a bit of bread and cheese outside.
I was too exhausted to argue.I laid down the knife and fork with dignity and took a side seat and Joe went for the wretched creature.He worked away in silence for awhile, and then he muttered "Damn the duck" and took his coat off.
We did break the thing up at length with the aid of a chisel, but it was perfectly impossible to eat it, and we had to make a dinner off the vegetables and an apple tart.We tried a mouthful of the duck, but it was like eating India-rubber.
It was a wicked sin to kill that drake.But there! there's no respect for old institutions in this country.
I started this paper with the idea of writing about eating and drinking, but I seem to have confined my remarks entirely to eating as yet.Well, you see, drinking is one of those subjects with which it is inadvisable to appear too well acquainted.The days are gone by when it was considered manly to go to bed intoxicated every night, and a clear head and a firm hand no longer draw down upon their owner the reproach of effeminacy.On the contrary, in these sadly degenerate days an evil-smelling breath, a blotchy face, a reeling gait, and a husky voice are regarded as the hall marks of the cad rather than or the gentleman.
Even nowadays, though, the thirstiness of mankind is something supernatural.We are forever drinking on one excuse or another.A man never feels comfortable unless he has a glass before him.We drink before meals, and with meals, and after meals.We drink when we meet a friend, also when we part from a friend.We drink when we are talking, when we are reading, and when we are thinking.We drink one another's healths and spoil our own.We drink the queen, and the army, and the ladies, and everybody else that is drinkable; and I believe if the supply ran short weshould drink our mothers-in-law.
By the way, we never eat anybody's health, always drink it.Why should we not stand up now and then and eat a tart to somebody's success?
To me, I confess the constant necessity of drinking under which the majority of men labor is quite unaccountable.I can understand people drinking to drown care or to drive away maddening thoughts well enough.I can understand the ignorant masses loving to soak themselves in drink-- oh, yes, it's very shocking that they should, of course--very shocking to us who live in cozy homes, with all the graces and pleasures of life around us, that the dwellers in damp cellars and windy attics should creep from their dens of misery into the warmth and glare of the public-house bar, and seek to float for a brief space away from their dull world upon a Lethe stream of gin.
But think, before you hold up your hands in horror at their ill-living, what "life" for these wretched creatures really means.Picture the squalid misery of their brutish existence, dragged on from year to year in the narrow, noisome room where, huddled like vermin in sewers, they welter, and sicken, and sleep; where dirt-grimed children scream and fight and sluttish, shrill-voiced women cuff, and curse, and nag; where the street outside teems with roaring filth and the house around is a bedlam of riot and stench.
Think what a sapless stick this fair flower of life must be to them, devoid of mind and soul.The horse in his stall scents the sweet hay and munches the ripe corn contentedly.The watch-dog in his kennel blinks at the grateful sun, dreams of a glorious chase over the dewy fields, and wakes with a yelp of gladness to greet a caressing hand.But the clod-like life of these human logs never knows one ray of light.From the hour when they crawl from their comfortless bed to the hour when they lounge back into it again they never live one moment of real life.Recreation, amusement, companionship, they know not the meaning of.Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, love, friendship, longing, despair, are idle words to them.From the day when their baby eyes first look out upon their sordid world to the day when, with an oath, they close them forever and their bones are shoveled out of sight, they never warm to one touch of human sympathy,never thrill to a single thought, never start to a single hope.In the name of the God of mercy; let them pour the maddening liquor down their throats and feel for one brief moment that they live!
Ah! we may talk sentiment as much as we like, but the stomach is the real seat of happiness in this world.The kitchen is the chief temple wherein we worship, its roaring fire is our vestal flame, and the cook is our great high-priest.He is a mighty magician and a kindly one.He soothes away all sorrow and care.He drives forth all enmity, gladdens all love.Our God is great and the cook is his prophet.Let us eat, drink, and be merry.
