CHAPTER 2 The Carpet-Bag

Istuffedashirtortwointomyoldcarpet-bag,tuckeditundermyarm,andstartedforCapeHornandthePacific.QuittingthegoodcityofoldManhatto,IdulyarrivedinNewBedford.ItwasaSaturdaynightinDecember.MuchwasIdisappointeduponlearningthatthelittlepacketforNantuckethadalreadysailed,andthatnowayofreachingthatplacewouldoffer,tillthefollowingMonday.

AsmostyoungcandidatesforthepainsandpenaltiesofwhalingstopatthissameNewBedford,thencetoembarkontheirvoyage,itmayaswellberelatedthatI,forone,hadnoideaofsodoing.FormymindwasmadeuptosailinnootherthanaNantucketcraft,becausetherewasafine,boisteroussomethingabouteverythingconnectedwiththatfamousoldisland,whichamazinglypleasedme.BesidesthoughNewBedfordhasoflatebeengraduallymonopolisingthebusinessofwhaling,andthoughinthismatterpooroldNantucketisnowmuchbehindher,yetNantucketwashergreatoriginal—theTyreofthisCarthage;—theplacewherethefirstdeadAmericanwhalewasstranded.WhereelsebutfromNantucketdidthoseaboriginalwhalemen,theRed-Men,firstsallyoutincanoestogivechasetotheLeviathan?AndwherebutfromNantucket,too,didthatfirstadventurouslittlesloopputforth,partlyladenwithimportedcobblestones—sogoesthestory—tothrowatthewhales,inordertodiscoverwhentheywerenighenoughtoriskaharpoonfromthebowsprit?

Nowhavinganight,aday,andstillanothernightfollowingbeforemeinNewBedford,ereIcouldembarkformydestinedport,itbecameamatterofconcernmentwhereIwastoeatandsleepmeanwhile.Itwasaverydubious-looking,nay,averydarkanddismalnight,bitinglycoldandcheerless.Iknewnooneintheplace.WithanxiousgrapnelsIhadsoundedmypocket,andonlybroughtupafewpiecesofsilver,—So,whereveryougo,Ishmael,saidItomyself,asIstoodinthemiddleofadrearystreetshoulderingmybag,andcomparingthegloomtowardsthenorthwiththedarknesstowardsthesouth—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,"and"TheSword-Fish?"—this,thenmustneedsbethesignof"TheTrap."However,Ipickedmyselfupandhearingaloudvoicewithin,pushedonandopenedasecond,interiordoor.

ItseemedthegreatBlackParliamentsittinginTophet.Ahundredblackfacesturnedroundintheirrowstopeer;andbeyond,ablackAngelofDoomwasbeatingabookinapulpit.Itwasanegrochurch;andthepreacher'stextwasabouttheblacknessofdarkness,andtheweepingandwailingandteethgnashingthere.Ha,Ishmael,mutteredI,backingout,Wretchedentertainmentatthesignof'TheTrap!'

Movingon,Iatlastcametoadimsortoflightnotfarfromthedocks,andheardaforlorncreakingintheair;andlookingup,sawaswingingsignoverthedoorwithawhitepaintinguponit,faintlyrepresentingatallstraightjetofmistyspray,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."InjudgingofthattempestuouswindcalledEuroclydon,"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,andputacorncobintohismouth,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.