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Istuffedashirtortwointomyoldcarpet-bag,tuckeditundermyarm,andstartedforCapeHornandthePacific.
QuittingthegoodcityofoldManhatto,IdulyarrivedinNewBedford.ItwasaSaturdaynightinDecember.
MuchwasIdisappointeduponlearningthatthelittlepacketforNantuckethadalreadysailed,andthatnowayofreachingthatplacewouldoffer,tillthefollowingMonday.
AsmostyoungcandidatesforthepainsandpenaltiesofwhalingstopatthissameNewBedford,thencetoembarkontheirvoyage,itmayaswellberelatedthatI,forone,hadnoideaofsodoing.
FormymindwasmadeuptosailinnootherthanaNantucketcraft,becausetherewasafine,boisteroussomethingabouteverythingconnectedwiththatfamousoldisland,whichamazinglypleasedme.
BesidesthoughNewBedfordhasoflatebeengraduallymonopolizingthebusinessofwhaling,andthoughinthismatterpooroldNantucketisnowmuchbehindher,yetNantucketwashergreatoriginal-theTyreofthisCarthage;-theplacewherethefirstdeadAmericanwhalewasstranded.
WhereelsebutfromNantucketdidthoseaboriginalwhalemen,theRed-Men,firstsallyoutincanoestogivechasetotheLeviathan?
AndwherebutfromNantucket,too,didthatfirstadventurouslittlesloopputforth,partlyladenwithimportedcobblestones-sogoesthestory-tothrowatthewhales,inordertodiscoverwhentheywerenighenoughtoriskaharpoonfromthebowsprit?
Nowhavinganight,aday,andstillanothernightfollowingbeforemeinNewBedford,erecouldembarkformydestinedport,itbecameamatterofconcernmentwhereIwastoeatandsleepmeanwhile.
Itwasaverydubious-looking,nay,averydarkanddismalnight,bitinglycoldandcheerless.Iknewnooneintheplace.
WithanxiousgrapnelsIhadsoundedmypocket,andonlybroughtupafewpiecesofsilver,-So,whereveryougo,Ishmael,saidItomyself,asIstoodinthemiddleofadrearystreetshoulderingmybag,andcomparingthetowardsthenorthwiththedarknesstowardsthesouth-whereverinyourwisdomyoumayconcludetolodgeforthenight,mydearIshmael,besuretoinquiretheprice,anddon’tbetooparticular.
WithhaltingstepsIpacedthestreets,andpassedthesignof“TheCrossedHarpoons”-butitlookedtooexpensiveandjollythere.
Furtheron,fromthebrightredwindowsofthe“Sword-FishInn,”therecamesuchferventrays,thatitseemedtohavemeltedthepackedsnowandicefrombeforethehouse,foreverywhereelsethecongealedfrostlayteninchesthickinahard,asphalticpavement,-ratherwearyforme,whenIstruckmyfootagainsttheflintyprojections,becausefromhard,remorselessservicethesolesofmybootswereinamostmiserableplight.
Tooexpensiveandjolly,againthoughtI,pausingonemomenttowatchthebroadglareinthestreet,andhearthesoundsofthetinklingglasseswithin.
Butgoon,Ishmael,saidIatlast;don’tyouhear?
getawayfrombeforethedoor;yourpatchedbootsarestoppingtheway.SoonIwent.
Inowbyinstinctfollowedthestreetsthattookmewaterward,forthere,doubtless,werethecheapest,ifnotthecheeriestinns.
Suchdrearystreets!blocksofblackness,nothouses,oneitherhand,andhereandthereacandle,likeacandlemovingaboutinatomb.
Atthishourofthenight,ofthelastdayoftheweek,thatquarterofthetownprovedallbutdeserted.
ButpresentlyIcametoasmokylightproceedingfromalow,widebuilding,thedoorofwhichstoodinvitinglyopen.
Ithadacarelesslook,asifitweremeantfortheusesofthepublic;so,entering,thefirstthingIdidwastostumbleoveranash-boxintheporch.Ha!
thoughtI,ha,astheflyingparticlesalmostchokedme,aretheseashesfromthatdestroyedcity,Gomorrah?
But“TheCrossedHarpoons,”andthe“TheSword-Fish?”
-this,thenmustneedsbethesignof“TheTrap.”
However,Ipickedmyselfupandhearingaloudvoicewithin,pushedonandopenedasecond,interiordoor.
ItseemedthegreatBlackParliamentsittinginTophet.
Ahundredblackfacesturnedroundintheirrowstopeer;andbeyond,ablackAngelofDoomwasbeatingabookinapulpit.
Itwasanegrochurch;andthepreacher’stextwasabouttheblacknessofdarkness,andtheweepingandwailingandteeth-gnashingthere.
Ha,Ishmael,mutteredI,backingout,Wretchedentertainmentatthesignof‘TheTrap!’
Movingon,Iatlastcametoadimsortoflightnotfarfromthedocks,andheardaforlorncreakingintheair;andlookingup,sawaswingingsignoverthedoorwithawhitepaintinguponit,faintlyrepresentingtallstraightjetofmistyspray,andthesewordsunderneath-“TheSpouterInn:-PeterCoffin.”
Coffin?-Spouter?
-Ratherominousinthatparticularconnexion,thoughtI.
ButitisacommonnameinNantucket,theysay,andIsupposethisPeterhereisanemigrantfromthere.
Asthelightlookedsodim,andtheplace,forthetime,lookedquietenough,andthedilapidatedlittlewoodenhouseitselflookedasifitmighthavebeencartedherefromtheruinsofsomeburntdistrict,andastheswingingsignhadapoverty-strickensortofcreaktoit,Ithoughtthatherewastheveryspotforcheaplodgings,andthebestofpeacoffee.
Itwasaqueersortofplace-agable-endedoldhouse,onesidepalsiedasitwere,andleaningoversadly.
Itstoodonasharpbleakcorner,wherethattempestuouswindEuroclydonkeptupaworsehowlingthaneveritdidaboutpoorPaul’stossedcraft.
Euroclydon,nevertheless,isamightypleasantzephyrtoanyonein-doors,withhisfeetonthehobquietlytoastingforbed.
“InofthattempestuouswindcalledEuroclydon,”saysanoldwriter-ofwhoseworksIpossesstheonlycopyextant-“itmakethamarvellousdifference,whetherthoulookestoutatitfromaglasswindowwherethefrostisallontheoutside,orwhetherthouobservestitfromthatsashlesswindow,wherethefrostisonbothsides,andofwhichthewightDeathistheonlyglazier.”
Trueenough,thoughtI,asthispassageoccurredtomymind-oldblack-letter,thoureasonestwell.
Yes,theseeyesarewindows,andthisbodyofmineisthehouse.
Whatapitytheydidn’tstopupthechinksandthecranniesthough,andthrustinalittlelinthereandthere.
Butit’stoolatetomakeanyimprovementsnow.
Theuniverseisfinished;thecopestoneison,andthechipswerecartedoffamillionyearsago.
PoorLazarusthere,chatteringhisteethagainstthecurbstoneforhispillow,andshakingoffhistatterswithhisshiverings,hemightplugupbothearswithrags,andputacorn-cobintohismouth,andyetthatwouldnotkeepoutthetempestuousEuroclydon.Euroclydon!
saysoldDives,inhisredsilkenwrapper-(hehadaredderoneafterwards)pooh,pooh!
Whatafinefrostynight;howOrionglitters;whatnorthernlights!
Letthemtalkoftheirorientalsummerclimesofeverlastingconservatories;givemetheprivilegeofmakingmyownsummerwithmyowncoals.
ButwhatthinksLazarus?Canhewarmhisbluehandsbyholdingthemuptothegrandnorthernlights?
WouldnotLazarusratherbeinSumatrathanhere?
Wouldhenotfarratherlayhimdownlengthwisealongthelineoftheequator;yea,yegods!
godowntothefierypititself,inordertokeepoutthisfrost?
Now,thatLazarusshouldliestrandedthereonthecurbstonebeforethedoorofDives,thisismorewonderfulthanthatanicebergshouldbemooredtooneoftheMoluccas.
YetDiveshimself,hetooliveslikeaCzarinanicepalacemadeoffrozensighs,andbeingapresidentofatemperancesociety,heonlydrinksthetepidtearsoforphans.
Butnomoreofthisblubberingnow,wearegoinga-whaling,andthereisplentyofthatyettocome.Letusscrapetheicefromourfrostedfeet,andseewhatsortofaplacethis“Spouter”maybe.
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